29 posts tagged “52 posts in 52 weeks”

My normally well-functioning Macintosh developed a small but vexing glitch this week. As I told the nice gentleman at the Apple Store's "Genius Bar," the letter "Y" simply ceased functioning. Everything else continued working fine, but no "Y." I neglected to mention that this curious glitch occurred shortly after I dumped a bottle of seltzer water on the keyboard, but I didn't want to overburden him with needless information.

As you can see from my relentless y'ing, the Apple people solved the problem by installing a brand new keyboard, free of charge, and I'm back to using the English language in all its adverb-heavy glory. But a couple times this week, when I was caught without a peripheral keyboard, I had to compose a couple work-related e-mails without using the letter "Y". As writing exercises go, you could do worse. Clearly if you were to choose a letter to do without, it'd probably be the "Z," or maybe the "X," but working without the "Y" presents a level of difficulty without being impossible. You wouldn't get far without the "E" for instance, but the "Y" can be worked around, albeit with difficulty.

In other news, my appointment with the Apple store coincided with the second day of the new phone and the sheep were lined up out the door, down the hall, past the Williams Sonoma, waiting patiently for their turn to plunk down $200 for the newest, bestest toy. Now I have an iPhone, and I like it very much, but I don't know what would possess someone to block off 3 hours of their Saturday to stand in line for the privilege of buying a phone. This isn't exactly government cheese we're talking about here. Apple is going to make a shit-ton of iPhones. In a couple days, you can have one delivered to the comfort of your home, so why would you choose to stand in a mall, in a line full of mouth-breathers just for the satisfaction of having it today? And to be honest, from the looks of the people in this line, many of them had no business forking out $200 for a new phone. I'd be surprised if many of them knew what an "eee-mail" was.

Maybe its the same thing that makes people go out to see fireworks.

I've lived more than two-thirds of my life inside the Capital Beltway. My first memories of Independence Day are of the National Mall, big crowds and loud, scary explosions. When Washington celebrates the birth of our country, it does it big. If you're going to grow up with a healthy respect for the 4th of July, this is the place to do it.

So I hope I've established my bona fides for the following statement: I hate the 4th of July.

I should say, rather, that I hate one specific aspect of the 4th. I quite like long weekends, potato salad, indolence, grilling with friends and playing frisbee in the park. I'm even mildly pro-fireworks, especially if they're illegal, and dangerous, and I'm setting them off myself while paying dubious attention to my own safety.

What I hate about the 4th is the compulsive drive it elicits amongst great segments of unwashed humanity to descend on public places typically used for other purposes, like driving. I will never, ever understand what motivates people to leave the comfort of their homes and friends to voluntarily join hundreds of thousands of strangers waiting in the mud for a colored light display. It is to me the most singularly perverse aspect of human nature, like the thousands of happy idiots in Times Square every New Years Eve, pretending they don't have to pee. Totally perplexing, and more than a little disheartening, for those of us who care about the future of the species.

What elevates this from a sad anthropological curiosity to something worthy of my burning hatred, is when I have to pass through this gauntlet of idiots to get somewhere enjoyable, like a small party with a few good friends. Washington goes into full-on terrorist lockdown mode on the 4th, leaving one path of egress out of the city, and giving the rest of it over to the throngs.

The only thing that made driving through it remotely palatable was the wholly predictable storm that had them all huddling under trees and canopies like refugees. Whoever poetically asked the rest of the world for their "huddled masses," never saw them hiding under a tree, trying to keep their fucking sparklers dry.

I will never think of Versailles the same way again.

After a bruising week of dawn-to-dusk meetings (and that's saying something in Paris, in June, where the sun sets at around 10:30ish) I finally got out for a little tourisime today. Save for the day I arrived -- when I had a chance to visit the Champs Elysees and poke around a few neighborhoods -- I've been buried in meeting rooms and working dinners all week. While some of the working dinners were quite nice -- the one at the Mayor's residence, la Hotel de Ville, comes to mind -- I was still working, which doesn't seem very Parisian. I honestly think I put in the hourly equivalent of three 35-hour workweeks over the past six days. Take that Sarkozy.

Anyway, today was the first of two days of freedom I have here in Paris, and I meant to make the most of it. My first order of business to visit Versailles, famed chateau of Louis XIV, Marie Antoinette, and all the other French biggies. About 40 minutes out of central Paris by train, Versailles was one of the big sites I missed on my previous visit here, and it was at the top of my list this time. After an overpriced omelet at "Le Select" one of the famous haunts of the Gertrude Stein in Montparnasse, where I'm staying, I hopped on the train and headed out to the former home of the Sun King.

Astute readers will recall that last week I mentioned that I had "never seen a larger collection of mouth-breathing fuckups" than I witnessed at the Iron Maiden show Hotrod and I attended. That statement still holds, but let me just say, if the mouth-breathing fuckups have a European guild, their annual conference must have been in Versailles this week. The press of drooling humanity was unbearable. I started thinking that the previous inhabitants of the Chateau had the right idea about the sweating masses. Let them eat cake indeed, preferably somewhere else.

By the time I got through the chambers (the famed Hall of Mirrors was impressive, from what I could see through the idiot throngs) I didn't really have the emotional energy left to continue wandering the meticulously manicured grounds for very long. I needed to get out of there, and get out of there I did, skipping the cottage of the headless one herself, which I'm told is a big draw.

Things started to turn around for me the moment I poked my head back above ground in Paris. After wandering past the Eiffel Tower, I made my way into the heart of the 15th Arrondissement, which my guidebook made a point of saying is notable for not being notable. No famous buildings; no museums; just a cool, moderately upscale Paris neighborhood. I had some falafel, hung out at a cafe for an hour or so, dithered in the Vespa store, and after a few hours of not seeing a single fanny-pack, I was feeling much better about life, the universe and everything.

To top things off, I capped off my tour of Paris by eating the single best thing I've had in Paris all week, a 3-euro Nutella-and-coconut crepe I bought from some guy on the street wearing a GI Joe t-shirt.

My experience this week has convinced me that I don't need to see the Louvre again. I'm going to stick to neighborhoods tomorrow. Maybe if I'm back here sometime when its cold and dismal and I can afford to bribe some gendarmes to shove people out of my way, I'll get back to the museums.

A couple of other observations:

• American money is worthless. Worthless. Everything costs $5. Coke? $5. Water? $5. Bucket of ice? Well, you get the idea.

• My hotel, Le Meridien Montparnasse, sucks ass. I've stayed in worse places, but from a price-to-value standpoint, it is the worst hovel I've ever seen. Suck it, Starwood. I'm just happy I'm not paying for it.

• The Champs Elysees was disappointing. The street itself was impressive enough, but I don't have much use for a European version of The Gap.

• The U.S. trade embargo with Cuba is stupid. If people can kill their pets with Chinese cat food, I should be able to buy Monte Cristos in my own country.

• The main English-language channel in my room is one that shows American baseball more-or-less constantly. I've seen more baseball games here this week than I will all year at home.

• Unpasteurized cheese tastes about a bazillion times better than pasteurized cheese. I'm willing to take the risk.

I just got home from watching Iron Maiden perform before 10,000 screaming troglodytes in a giant outdoor arena. It is quite possible the show -- some 40 miles away from my home -- is still blaring on as I type these words. I very much hope to write a more detailed review in cold light of morning, after my hearing has returned and I've had some time to reflect, but I thought I'd get down some of my visceral impressions before I toddled off to bed.

- I really am too old for heavy metal concerts. That one was it for me, unless my (as yet unconcieved) kids discover my old Judas Priest records and develop a taste for the stuff.

- The male-female ratio was about 15-to-1. That's a conservative estimate. It may have been closer to 20- or 30-to-1.

- On a scale 1 to 1,000, the level of ironic sentiment in the audience was about a 1.3.

- Budweiser, pot smoke, and body odor smell bad enough individually. I don't need to take them together.

- You don't want to spend too much time with your average 30-something Iron Maiden fan.

- The previous sentence would probably be more accurate if you removed the modifier "30-something."

- Iron Maiden apparently has a plane. Who knew?

- US Airways pilots support Iron Maiden. At least according to a sign I saw hoisted in the front row. Something to consider when you're making your next travel booking.

- For a guy with millions of dollars, legions of loyal fans and a plane, Bruce Dickenson is a little bitter about how the critics perceive his music. He told us so.

- After this show, I'm not so sure that musical "loyalty" is the virtue I always thought it was. It's probably not the best of signs if you're still listening to the same thing you were 20 years ago.

- They played all my favorite songs before I left, which was before the end of the main set.

- All that bitterness and head-banging is apparently quite healthy. The lads look rather slender and spry for 50-somethings.

Ok. Now I'm tired (see point one). More thoughts tomorrow.

So I inadvertently stumbled onto the best creation in the history of American television this week -- Fox's (natch) evil "Moment of Truth."

In case you may have missed this pop cultural gem, here's the premise: 1) find a "contestant" from the lower economic strata, who may have a skeleton or two in the old closet. 2) give the contestant a lie-detector test asking the most personal, prying questions imaginable 3) sit the contestant down in front of a studio audience, a national television audience and ...here's the kicker... their closest friends and family members. 4) Re-ask the lie detector questions. The more questions the contestant answers without lying, the more money they win, up to a total -- I believe -- of $500,000.

That's it. That's the whole premise. Make 20-odd consecutive true statements and take home $500,000. Sounds simple, right?

Here were a couple of the "easy" questions from the episode I watched:

1) "Is your girlfriend (sitting 5 feet away)  the most attractive girl you've ever dated" (answer: "no")
2) "Have you ever stolen something from a family member's (again, sitting five feet away) house?"
3) "Have you lost physical attraction to your husband (sitting...well, you get the idea).

The show is a sure sign of the coming of the apocalypse. I'm pretty sure that the fact I found it so amusing makes me a bad person on at least some level. Bravo Fox...Bra-vo.

In better television news, I also recently finished watching the first season of Flight of the Conchords. Zany New Zealand hilarity. And you don't feel like you need a wash after. Check it out.

I just watched a great movie. My girlfriend kinda forced me to watch it, but it ended up being super.

It was about a lot of things: an international city; career women relying on each other to get through tough times; and the distant, flawed men they love. It had everything you'd want -- fashionable clothes, relationship drama, lots of casual drinking. There was a really interesting subplot about the women deciding if they wanted to stay in the city, where things were really blowing up, or move to a safer spot in the country.

And how could anyone keep a dry eye as the plucky central heroine wrestled with her decision to stand beside her hard, distant, but interesting man, or go with a safer choice, away from the crossfire.

But mostly it was about female friendships.

By now, of course, you know I'm talking about "Downfall: The End of Hitler and the Third Reich." It's as good a thing as any to watch when you're hiding indoors and staying away from insipid, classist, consumerist drivel like "Sex in the City." 

In about an hour, Hotrod, Akaijen, Aussie Bob, CarrieNation and I are heading out to do what every self-respecting urban hipster does on a Sunday morning -- fire shotguns at brightly colored pieces of clay. Skeet shooting is the new brunch.

I realize that educated, lefty, vegetarian yoga-teaching professionals like myself are supposed to abhor firearms, but I've never been able to manage it. I heart guns. As long as I'm only using them to destroy inanimate objects, I think they are funner than the funnest thing ever. Shooting stuff is the best (note to my future offspring who dig this post up on a deep Internet search: shooting stuff is NOT the best).

And what's more, it turns out I'm pretty good at it. When Hotrod and I went off to the skeet-shooting range for the first time a year or so ago, I discovered that I have a certain affinity for blasting things out of the sky. Turns out that all that time I spent playing video games as a kid (and well, currently) actually prepared me well for the rigors of gunnery.

So, not the most enlightened pursuit, but maybe we'll listen to Dan Bejar on the way out there.

A moment ago, my girlfriend poked her head into the living room as I was watching reruns of "The First 48" and said "baby, blog, now." It was 10:57. It's now 10:59, and I'm well on the way to my closest finish yet in the 52 Posts in 52 Weeks Challenge. She's the best. I had completely forgotten. This whole Monday holiday thing has me all disoriented. It felt like Saturday. I'm glad I only have to dodge a couple more of these Monday holidays before I can collect my pie and enjoy Jodi's post extolling my many virtues.

One of the reasons for my blog delinquency (like I need a special one) has been my recent acquisition of Grand Theft Auto IV, otherwise known as the best-selling, best-reviewed most heavily hyped video game of all time. I'm here to tell you its pretty damn engrossing. I'm still a petty enforcer at this point, but I'm hopeful that I'll soon be a mid-level goon. I dream big.  My girlfriend left my place around 2 p.m. and returned around 6 p.m. to find me sitting in the exact same place she left me (I know, I'm a hell of a catch).

In other news I skipped the KRS-One show last night, even though I had tickets. I'm making kind of a habit out of it. I think I watched Flight of the Conchords on DVD instead. I'm making sort of a habit of buying concert tickets, thinking said concert sounds like a rip-snorting good time, and then bailing at the last minute. It's kind of an expensive hobby.

Alrighty, its 11:08, and my pie is safe, if only barely.

As an avowed grammar nerd, there are few things I like more than collective nouns. I love that they run from the whimsical -- a "charm" of hummingbirds -- to the morbid -- a "murder" of crows -- to the just plain strange -- a "rhumba" of rattlesnakes.

My question, which a five-second perusal of the Internets failed to answer, is who gets to decide when one of these things enters the lexicon? I mean they're already words, right? If I just start calling every group of car salesmen I see a  "cancer," and enough people pick up on it, does that get to be a collective noun? Or is there some secret society of English professors in a remote dungeon somewhere that approves these things? These are the sorts of questions that trouble men's souls.

Anyway, I've been pondering a few new ones, and once I figure out the process, I'll be submitting them to the collective noun tribunal, or whatever it is.

- a "Pabst" of hipsters
- a "shrill" of tweens
- a "Zima" of sorrority girls
- a "date rape" of frat boys
- a "Prius" of non-profit workers

I'm something of a one-trick-pony from a sporting standpoint. I love the National Football League, and specifically my Washington Redskins, but I've never been able to muster much in the way of interest in other sports. The way I typically explain this to people is by saying that the Redskins break my heart every year, and one abusive sporting relationship is already more than I can take,  but the reality is that I just don't find most other sports all that interesting. Baseball bores me so much I bring novels to the games, basketball is only interesting in the last five minutes of the game, and hockey is...well hockey. I quite like competitive martial arts, but try admitting to that in mixed company.

Anyway, all that changed last weekend when I had the opportunity to attend the DC Rollergirls Championship Bout between the DC Demon Cats and Scare Force One. I can say without exception that semi-professional roller derby is the second finest team sport being played in America today. It's got girls, skates, girls on skates, hip checks, shoulder checks, bad puns, good puns, noisemakers and creative bloodletting. If it doesn't replace hockey as America's fourth major sport in the next decade, there's something deeply wrong with people.

The night got started as my favorite team (decided the afternoon before after a glance at the Web site) The Secretaries of Hate tried to get their first-ever win against the Cherry Blossom Bombshells in the warm-up match. The Secretaries were game but undersized, and soon the Cherry Blossoms' blockers were able to impose their will with a series of vicious checks, winning going away in the second half. Apparently I choose roller derby teams about as well as I choose football teams, but whatever. We still we have the best name and the coolest banners. The victories can't be far behind.

In the finals, the unbeaten Scare Force One looked to defend their title against the tough-minded Demon Cats. Scare Force One has a player named Six-Five in Skates, and what was remarkable was not that she was tall, but that she was not all that much taller than the other players on the team. Tough, tough girls. The Demon Cats got off to an early lead, but they could hold off the Scare Force onslaught. Scare Force One pulled ahead in the second half and sealed their third-straight championship.

I'm buying season tickets (if that's possible) next year. If you live in DC and you don't you're dumb.