back in action, take 2

Well, I started the recent impromptu California trip post, I guess I might as well finish it, right?

So from SFO, where I was picked up by my sister, mom, and grandma, we went to P.F. Chang's in Pleasanton—across the street from where I used to work, incidentally—at which point I attempted to teach my mom and hers how to use chopsticks...

This endeavor would ultimately fail. No great surprise there.

back in action

It's weird to think that this was the start to my inaugural weekend: Cocktails at Halo, complete with red, white, and blue ambient lighting. Good friends, good drinks, followed by good food, followed by math jokes on chalkboards (integral of e to the power of x, anyone?)...

Sadly, the fun-filled weekend was destined to be short lived.

Actually, what I found while taking out trash pre-night-out-on-the-town should have clued me in to what was to eventually follow:

Yeah... Not a pretty picture by any stretch of the imagination. I only hope the little guy had expired before the gate closed (if that doesn't make sense, don't ask... trust me, you'll be better off).

At any rate, my fun night out on the town was on the happier side of a punctuating phone call I'd rather not go in to at the moment. Suffice it to say, that call led to a last-minute flight reservation, a 5 a.m. trek to the Dupont Circle Metro station...

...some quality reading time spent at a practically deserted gate...

...a window seat...

...which was awesome. The screaming baby sitting directly behind me? Not so much...

...some fantastic astronautically inspired artwork throughout SFO...

...complete with some bitching robots (I'm a sucker for robots (they're the new pirates, you know))...

...and that's all I really feel like getting in to at the moment. Maybe I'll talk about it more later on. Then again, maybe I won't.

Not like it really matters either way.

hasta la vista, hiatus

I'll take "Things 2009 Is Not" for $800, Alex...

Chalk it up to the broken mirror. Chalk it up to bad karma. Chalk it up to coincidence. Chalk it up to nothing at all.

Thus far, 2009 is turning out to be a shitty year in my world. But, like the song goes, "We've only just begun..." Right?

Then again, maybe I'm just supposed to be following the lunar calendar?


Gung hei fat choi, everybody.

fallen soldier, revisited

When first we met, our once proud street sign, which had raised high the roof beam of parking regulations for carpenters, Zone 2 District residents, and visitors alike, lay limp and ineffectual beside a small pile of busted brick—disrupted earth in the wake of a rude de-rooting of natural flora.

And now, joined by his disgarded xmas tree brethren. Scrap metal and firewood that will never realize their innate potential.

Triple sadness.

behold what obama hath wrought

It begins...

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for DC state rights, DC congressional representation, the DC quarter... and all things DC, really. I love this city. It's my home away from home.

Literally.

And I'm all for Obama and just as excited as the next guy. As far as I'm concerned, Jan. 20 can't get here quickly enough! It's the day I've spent the last 8 years waiting for.

But lately, things seem to be getting more than a little out of hand.

Could it be the $7,000 inaugural apartment rentals on craigslist? Or Pepsi's painfully transparent "Yes You Can" ads?

Nope. That's just capitalism at work. Greed, Opportunism, and Co-Opting = The American Way, right?

Is it the weekend gossip buzz surrounding our Commander in Chief-to-be and Mayor Adrian Fenty hitting up Ben's Chili Bowl on U Street?



Nah, that's just bad ass. Especially since the man paid for his hot dog (yes, DC residents, I'm well aware that it's called a half-smoke, or whatever, but a hot dog is a hot dog is a hot dog (except when it's a Polish sausage)).

The fact that all bridges connecting DC to Arlington will be shut down for vehicular traffic, and residential parking for much of the District is assured to be a 4-day horrorfest?

Well, yes, that undeniably sucks. But it's bureaucracy at its best (or evil worst (you say tomato...)), and therefore not at all surprising.

How about the Ikea mock Oval Office being set up in Union Station?

Hmm... not that strange, all things considered, but when you factor in the mock motorcade complete with furniture strapped to a limo and some Suburbans? Yeah, we're definitely getting warmer...

Oh, and on top of that, Inauguration Day is on Twitter and Facebook?!??

Yes. Most definitely out of hand.

arguing semantics

Ever notice that the only difference between "machismo" and "masochism" is an extra S?

Just throwing it out there...

on your knees

See the stick figure sticker on the door handle? I keep finding this guy everywhere. I first noticed him on the Thomas Circle street sign, back in September 2007:


Never really gave it much thought, other than the fact that it reminds me of some of the album art from OK Computer, so I like it.

But recently, it keeps popping up. Like out in front of the 7-11.


Radiohead resemblance aside, I don't get it.

What are you trying to tell me, stick figure man?

obey old school

It'd been an awfully long time since I'd seen an o.g. "Andre the Giant Has a Posse," and not one of the everybody-and-their-mother knock offs that have followed in its wake. While I'm more of a fan of Fairey's mixed media work, it's nice to remember his roots—especially now that he's got his Esquire cover.

As for Mad Decent, you can check it out here and here. Diplo's worth a listen. Besides, you have to love a fellow dinosaur lover.

fallen soldier

Sadness.

sea kittens & chips!

If there were even a shadow of doubt regarding the complete and utter lack of sanity at PETA headquarters, it's been completely obliterated with two simple—and staggeringly idiotic—words:

Sea kittens.

Yes, the latest brainchild to promote the ethical treatment of animals (worthy cause) is to alter the global lexicon and rename fish (baffling and pointless action)... to sea kittens (dumbest combination of words this side of the latest Bushism).

There's even an online children's book. Nevermind the fact that its Columbinesque contents could potentially traumatize your average kindergarten student (although personally I'm a fan of injecting a healthy dose of gritty realism into the standard K-12 fare), the most ridiculous thing about it is that I imagine it would prove infintely more effective if all the instances of the phrase "sea kitten" were replaced with the word "fish." Because we know what fish are. We get it. And that's a far easier place from which to start trying to instill feelings of empathy than someone's ill-advised PR stunt.

Besides the complete hassle of updating the world's dictionaries, we'd have to contend with the absurdist struggle of trying to wrap the minds of children around the idea that a sea kitten is not, in fact, a kitten of the sea (which is a fairly complex concept, when you think about it (learning the difference between cats and dogs and cats and catfish and that the existence of catfish does not necessitate the existence of dogfish is difficult enough)).

And what would be done about One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish?!?!??

So upon reading the most asinine news story of 2009 to date, I set out for dinner in its honor...


Sea kittens & chips. Mmm... Delicious.

But you know what would have made it even more delicious?


Some fancy ketchup, of course.

Seriously though. PETA is trying to take down Dr. Seuss. They must be stopped.

like eating glass

Another story start that eventually got scrapped...

Blink once if you can hear me.

No?

Nothing?

Okay then.

I don't know how it ended up this way. Maybe I had put you up on a pedestal that was too far out of reach without the thick layer of drool connecting cheek to pillow, dragging you back down to the muck and mire that is my level.

Or maybe you just need to be unconscious for me to get a word in edgewise.

Regardless of the cause, here we are: only able to communicate in one-sided conversations after the Ambien with a gin and tonic chaser kicks in.

It's almost comforting in a twisted sort of way. Maybe because, with your eyes closed, I can pretend that they could open and look at me the way they used to.

But we both know that's a lie.

If self delusion could be packaged and sold, it'd put heroin out of business by Tuesday.

There was a time—how long ago, I don't really remember—when I honestly thought we'd go the distance. Although maybe that's what this is: a protracted limp to the end of the line.

And of course, it's entirely possible that I brought this on myself. All those "I love you"s I heard might just have been "like"s if only I'd bothered to clean the sappy Cusackian romactic bullshit out of my ears and listen properly.

We all hear what we want to hear...

Why can't things just be clear-cut for once? I mean, why can't I just dust off the scientific method and diagnose our malady and its underlying root cause?

Symptom A: My voice makes you cringe when it used to make your breath catch in your throat. Not always, but it happens. Kind of a knee jerk startled-down-a-dark-alley gut reaction that you think I don't notice, but I do.

Symptom B: You stopped laughing at my jokes and started looking at me as if I were a troublesome child. Or just an idiot.

Symptom C: Whereas once my indecision was an obstacle we both struggled to maneuver around, now it's practically a blessing since every suggestion or bold assertion I make gets shot down without a second thought.

Symptom D: I'm baring my soul in between your snores.

Back in my college days, I convinced myself that all the love songs flooding the airwaves past and present were proof that romance was real. If they wrote it, they must have felt it at some point, right?

Wrong. Because for every song about passion and bliss, there's another about heart ache and anguish—a hormonal ebb and flow that's got zero to do with legitimate human connection.

Of course, that's all bullshit really. Cynic that I am, you know as well as I do that I'm still a hopeless romantic. Like an existential tragicomedy—I believe in true love, but I don't buy into the idea that it'll ever be reciprocated.

Not for me, at least.

Probably should've seen this coming. Can you give your heart to another for keeps before having tried, only to have it ripped out, pissed on, and left for dead? How can you grasp what it is to be in love before your heart's been broken?

"I'll always be there for you. I'll never hurt you."

How could I have been so naive to think that a love defined by hyperbole could last?

I dunno if it's any good. Probably not, but this is: