Day 178

It's been a packed week of SF and I've been quite the industrious little helper. I helped George run a few car errands, I bought blazing 150 watt light bulbs for her lamps so we can have enough light to read by (I hate wishy washy lights when reading, it makes me sleepy), I huffed and puffed a few things into Amy's new apartment, and I was Dann's little elf when did he ran his speed dating thing. Plus I set up Jaz with Twitter. Who's next?!

Clearly I've had not much to do this week so any group activities people suggest, I'm in for. It annoys George that I don't group reply, to which I answer, "I'm coming, it's a given. What else do I have to do?" When my days actually fill up with things to do that don't involve group hanging out or dinners and such, I'll be sure to hit that Reply All button. My general policy is to just email the person organizing and say I'm coming. I don't know why but it's similar to my anti-responding-to-Evite policy. I don't reply to Evites unless absolutely necessary, and sometimes not even then. I'm not sure why this is but I hope I have a good rational reason for it somewhere. Maybe not. It could be a totally annoying social faux pas actually.

If it is, maybe I need to Tact Papers myself. "Stop pretending like you're more important than other people and reply all/respond already. Asshole." Oh related news, Lilly and I's long talked about fun project just got off the ground. Tact Papers: When you don't know what to say, we'll say it for you! Please? It's still in beta, or maybe even alpha, but we're taking requests now.

I've also been trolling Meetup and Craigslist for activities and groups. I need to find a life fast and it begins with finding some fellow writers. So far I've sent out queries to a few writing groups that are meeting next week, I've signed up for an art history salon on Friday mornings (we'll see if I ever wake up for that one), I'm working up the courage to volunteer or workshop at 826 Valencia, and I'm hoping to check out a few writing organizations and maybe even take a class or two. And of course there's book clubs and board game nights to explore. I may have to introduce the Bay to Squabble, one handful of people at a time. I'm hoping to be the Johnny Appleseed of that movement.

Here's the thing I'm realizing about looking for other writers: I'm realizing that it's going to be unlikely that I can find a group that's predominantly 20s-30s unless I go ahead and start one -- which I'll try to do I think. Everyone I've contacted this week has seemed to be older than me, sometimes by a lot. While there's a lot to be said for a diverse range of age, experience, and interests, I guess I'm still stuck in this idea that the people I would like to talk books and writing with would be people I might also be friends with. I need to separate out those two things. Friends are friends and writers are writers. If the two should dovetail that would be awesome but by limiting myself to some idea of a similarly aged peer writing group, I'm probably closing off multiple avenues of exploration. I need to get over my age-ism, quick.

I read about this one semi-famous spot in SF where writers of all types gather every week and they just read aloud to one another. Bring in up to six pages of work, read it to the group, and then shut up while they critique it and offer opinions. How scary is that? I gotta do it one of these days. Gotta.

Two years ago I went to this planning retreat for an Asian-American arts showcase, to get some information about being involved for the fall exhibitions, but I couldn't follow through because I left the Bay soon afterwards. Now I'm hoping to jump in there again, and try to stick around for a few events and to work behind the scenes on something with other people. Bring some of that old college collaboration back. I miss things like that. If there's one thing I really think post-college life needs, it's a project to get involved with. It's something I wish you could do with just friends. Pick a hobby or a project and just sit around and do that with your free time. I love hang out time and social outings but there's also more too right? I like leaders, I like followers, I like group dynamics, I like unified goals, I like teams, I like accomplishment.

Dann was kind enough to give me the chance to watch him do his speed dating thing (there's a post about observing the actual event coming soon, it was quite fascinating and educational). He's started running some speed dating nights and it involves setting up the venue, hosting the event, and then all the post-organization stuff like logging matches, posting photos, etc. It's always fun times watching a friend be in charge. I like it when friends are in charge. It's a side of people you don't usually get to see -- unless you went to college or worked together -- and it totally reveals a new side of them.

Please invite me to come visit you at work or any activities where you're in charge. I'll be unobtrusive, I promise. Plus I take directions well and am an excellent helper. References available upon request.

Day 173

After gathering some words of wisdom and listening to people who recently moved to SF, I calculated that it would take at least two weeks to find housing. I started looking late last week and was discouraged by the response rate. For every ten emails I sent out, I'd get back one reply. Craigslist was kicking my ass. Actually one feature I'd love to see on CL would be for it to track how many people respond to an ad. I'd like to see the ticker go up and up since in my mind I envision a flurry of replies as soon as you post. I was told that the only sure way to insure a response was to get to an ad quickly. I had two stock emails at the ready -- one for subletting solo, one for subletting with roommates -- and refreshed CL constantly to get the jump.

I felt like I was combination job and date hunting. I was concerned that potential roommates would find me unsuitable, I was worried that my fantastic query emails would be rejected sight unseen. I was worried that I was going to get to SF and then stay on George's couch forever. Actually, I wasn't worried about that, but I'm sure George was.

By Tuesday I had only one solid lead and was thinking I might just sign for the place sight unseen. In my rush to find a simple month-to-month living situation, I figured anything would do. I was talked out of that hasty decision by George and Ameer as they pointed out that I was heading up in a few days anyway. I reluctantly decided to just wait until I could get to the Bay to pick a place.

Well, I hit the ground running, scheduling three places to check out even as I was at the airport on Thursday. I figured my criteria would be simple. If it was over $800 I wanted to live alone, if it was over $1300 I couldn't afford it. If it was a great deal for two people, I'd armbar Victor into living with me. I wanted to live somewhere within walking distance (defined as anything within a mile) to friends, because otherwise I'd just be out alone on an island, with only a crappy bus system to connect me. I needed to live close to food because otherwise I'd starve. Other than that I was pretty open.

So open that I was ready to take the first place I looked at, a tiny little studio in the Haight. It was just two long blocks up from the famed Haight-Ashbury corner, located on a wide quiet street, within my price range, and was the place I almost signed for blind. I found out that place was furnished, took one quick look around, and was ready to sign. I won't lie and say that living across the hall from someone who was in the Wicked musical (a fact I learned talking to the landlord) wasn't a big draw. I envisioned lazy afternoons laptopping and cruising the Haight while my nights were filled with a live Wicked performance in my building. It seemed like kismet.

The only thing that prevented me from taking the place was that the application was online and I couldn't finish it until I got home. An hour or so later, after a pit stop to try to fix George's mysteriously broken but not broken right brake light, I was handing over a security deposit for a studio in the Mission. I'm either a quick decision maker or easily swayed.

The place in the Mission was a bit larger, with two rooms instead of just one. It was located underneath a house and had a private gate entrance as well as a sizable shared garden. The owner of the building seemed so relaxed and genial that I was immediately swept up by his personality. He said that he and his partner had bought the worst house on the block a few years ago and fixed it up. The concrete stoop leading up to the house used to be known as the "crack steps." Now the building was painted a cheery green and orange and brightened up the block considerably.

I'm a terrible house looker I've decided. Because I knew my stay would be temporary and my needs pretty slight, I didn't even go into these lookings with much of a game plan. I walked out of the Haight studio not having even noted if there was a refrigerator. I forgot to ask about utilities and had to email the lady to ask afterwards. I didn't check for mold, turn on the shower, or poke around even a little bit. The only thing I did was take a short walk around, sniff a few times, and then proceed to start talking how I could take the place. I didn't improve much on my second attempt, remembering only to ask about laundry (none available on-site) and utilities (fully covered). It's been awhile since I've had to look for housing I guess.

Anyway, I found a place not twenty four hours after getting here and my mind is much more settled. I move in early or mid-March and will have a few weeks slumming in the Marina. Actually, I looked around at crime statistics on the Mission and am now a bit scared that I'll get destroyed with my obliviousness so really I have a few weeks to toughen up and become city aware again. The rough streets of suburban San Diego aren't exactly crime ridden. Actually, I don't think I've ever lived in an area where I had to watch my step all that much. Walking around in New York is an entirely different (gentle) beast and that was the only true city I've been near.

Maybe I'll just have to hole up in my little cave and emerge only when it's light out -- for the four hours of daylight I'm usually awake for. I'm excited about it all though because the Mission has great bookstores, a ton of food, and plenty of places to explore. While I love the Haight, I felt like I had explored a lot of it already and there seemed to be less chill hanging out places than the Mission. Another plus is that I'll be right around the corner from 826 Valencia and maybe I'll be able to finagle my way into volunteering there. My pirate accent sucks though so maybe they won't accept me. I wish it was the superhero version of 826, I could over-qualify for that one.

Day 170

Did you know that Jack Kerouac often ended up back at home, living with his mom, in-between his crazy adventures and cross country jaunts? When stuck in a hard place or needing some down time, little Jack would run on home to Mommy Dearest in Long Island. Towards the end of his life he never left her side, eventually passing away before her, when he was only forty seven. I mention this because somewhere in this tale marks my Mom's greatest fear. That I'll continue to run home whenever I need a place to stay. "But," I say, "Jack Kerouac lived with his mother until he was forty seven and look at what a great writer (arguably) he turned out to be." I leave out the dying part though.

I can't even say for certain that this is my up and out moment. I'm going to San Francisco "for reals" in two days but that may last only a few months or through the summer. I mean, the last time I left San Diego was two years ago and I eventually mosied my way back home after a brief stop in Orange County. My original deadline for moving out of San Diego was last September, or was it June? Now everything is up in the air again and who knows where I'll be in six months since it's contingent on so many things.

But shit's exciting that way. I like the unknown.

The only thing I really have to do in the next month or two is figure out what my next book will be about. My original fleshed out synopses were semi-rejected. I submitted them back in December and felt pretty good'em. However, I talked to my editor recently and while they like the two ideas I expanded on, they prefer I stick to a female protagonist. That's great because I'll write anything they want me to write but I'd really love to get away from celebrities, shopping, and the world I created the first time around. While they didn't ask for a direct sequel, they thought maybe something set in the same universe, perhaps using some side characters, that kind of thing, would be nice. In some ways, that's a grand suggestion and would be super easy to do but I'm not sure where to take a story that doesn't follow my original main character. Then again, isn't that what I'm getting paid and contracted to do? To be creative?

The best book I've read so far this year is "Special Topics in Calamity Physics" by Marisha Pessl. There was all this brouhaha about how her book got a lot of coverage because her author photo looked like this. Haters said that she was getting play just because she was a "drool worthy" new debut novelist. Then other people were upset that her author photo was too good looking, because in reality she looks more like this.

While I've always loved the title, the various debates about whether Pessl was hot or not made me decide it wasn't worth a read. How wrong I was. The book is fantastic and full of amazing passages, descriptions, and beautiful writing everywhere. I don't care what Pessl looks like, I think she's brilliant, and I haven't read a book that's made me want to copy down so many quotes in quite awhile. Here's a small selection:

(pg 97) "I'll admit I almost leapt from my seat and boasted, 'I've saved a life too! My shot gardener!' but thankfully I had some tact; Dad and I held in contempt people forever interrupting fascinating conversations with their own rinky-dink story. (Dad called them What-About-Mes, accompanying said phrase with a slow blink, his gesture of Marked Aversion.)"

(pg 206) "It was the cause of many of Dad's outrages too, when people elected themselves his personal oracle of Delphi. It was the grounds for many of his university colleagues going from nameless, harmless peers to individuals he referred to as anathemas or bete noires. They'd made the mistake of abridging Dad, abbreviating Dad, putting Dad in a nutshell, watering Dad down, telling Dad How It Was (and getting it all wrong)."

(pg 246) "Sometimes people say things simply to fill silence. Or as a way to shock and provoke. Or as exercise. Verbal aerobics. Loquacious cardio. There are any number of reasons. Only very rarely are words used strictly for their denotative meanings."

(pg 309) "Not returning phone calls is the severest form of torture in the civilized world."

(pg 422) "My heart landslided. My legs earthquaked."

Heart to Heart

"The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful. From the time he met Tereza, no woman had the right to leave the slightest impression on that part of his brain. Tereza occupied his poetic memory like a despot and exterminated all trace of other women.

I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory."
-The Unbearable Lightness of Being-

Day 165

I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I didn't move immediately, thinking that someone had accidentally bumped into me. Turning my head slowly around, I was greeted with, "I think we've met before."

I did a quick once over of her face. It was the girl I'd seen outside the café as I was heading out for a smoke. We'd made accidental eye contact as she sat talking on her phone. She'd looked vaguely familiar but in that every Asian girl looks the same until proven innocent way. University Heights isn't exactly a normal haunt for me and I didn't know anyone who could possibly be coffee shopping in the middle of the day, unless it was Lilly or Hong, and they were already seated right in front of me.

"Michelle's friend?"

Ah yes. Everything clicked. Michelle, ex-marketing manager at Omnis and one of Hong's good friends. I had last seen her at Izzie's going away slash birthday party, held at an old dentist's office last July. I had gone solo and ended up spending most of the evening hanging out with Michelle and her friend. What was her name? Something hard to pronounce. They were wearing party themed appropriate Eighties costumes then.

Now, the girl's almond shaped hipster glasses, her grown out mussy hair, and the contemporary clothing had changed her look entirely. But I remembered her and we exchanged hellos as she sat down at a table immediately to my left. I pushed my chair back so we could talk around the wall that had previously separated us.

My mind raced trying to dredge up details about her, or anything from our conversations before. I remembered that we'd had a few good talks and we'd gotten along well but nothing specific was springing to mind. If I was Evie from "Out of This World," I'd have paused the scene right there and run to check my friend files for background information. No dice. Instead, I picked up my coffee -- which I finally noticed was a chai latte and not a vanilla latte -- and began to furiously sip to buy time.

Oh right, she lived on Alabama Street, possibly a few houses down from Jennifer. I'd mentioned that I was down there all the time and that we should play board games. Some prediction that turned out to be, since I haven't been down there much at all, especially post-July. My brain was going into overdrive trying to recall something else but I was drawing blanks. I still couldn't remember her name. With my memory putzing out on me, I quickly made the "These are my friends" move to figure it out.

"Nochi." Um right, there we go. Hong had met her before too, a long time ago.

I asked her what she was doing at a café in the afternoon and she said that she was studying for her hair stylist test the following week. Now the mental floodgates opened and I remembered what we'd talked about before. Lots of hair and fashion. I was still wrapping up the book and we talked about fun words and procedures I should incorporate into it. Fortuitously, I had packed one of the advance copies into my bag earlier that day and was able to pull it out to show her my make-under scene, for her amusement and assessment of hair dressing veracity.

As she flipped through the book while we chatted, the only other guy sitting in her area spoke up and asked, "You're a writer? Can I ask what it's about?"

Surprised that a total stranger had poked his head into the conversation, but kind of intrigued, I answered that it was a young adult book for teens. In the future, I should probably leave out the "young adult" part since it's redundant with "teens." I have to get better at describing what it is I do. Much better. I tend to just mumble my way through a deflating explanation.

"I'm a writer too," he said, with a head nod indicating his laptop. I glanced over and tried to surreptitiously read what was on-screen. Too far away.

"Really? What are you writing?" I replied. This was like an exciting moment, meeting a fellow writer in a coffee shop in the middle of the day? That's exactly what I want my future life to be like. The downside was that he was probably the least interesting looking person in the place -- everyone else was overtly trendy or semi-hipster intriguing -- and seemed to just be a regular bald white dude. But don't judge a book by its cover I guess. Or do maybe.

Waving a hand over his keyboard, he said, "I'm working on something more theoretical, sort of philosophy."

"Oh, I was a philosophy major." Now my interest was really piqued.

Turns out that was as exciting as it got. While he was a very nice guy, recently emigrated from New York, his project was still in the alpha stages and sounded like one of those "I had a life epiphany and it involved Buddha and spirituality and now I want to write about it." You know, something I'd want to write if I didn't already realize how cliché it was. And how ultimately it would only be of interest to one person: myself. You could launch a paper Titanic with the number of personal epiphany manuscripts waiting to be finished (written most often by thirtysomething males).

In the back of my mind, I kind of wanted to say, "Actually, my agent is sitting right around the corner, you should go talk to her about your exciting project." But then Lilly would have killed me and deposed of my corpse in her client slush pile. Writing career over, friendship sullied.

With fading enthusiasm about having met a fellow writer, I instead turned my attention to conducting the conversation between the three of us. I found myself trying to balance the conversation ratio between not being overly rude and disengaged versus making sure Nochi wasn't bored. I tend to ask follow up questions to everything, especially with strangers, and I couldn't prevent myself from firing away at him. I mean, he was pretty interesting, even if he was a bit of a Chatty Cathy. Actually, he was a lot of a Chatty Cathy and thirty minutes later I was ready for him to go.

I couldn't feel out what Nochi thought about him though. I mean, this was the second time we'd met ourselves. If it had been Lilly and I trapped in that situation, we would have been halfway down the street laughing about it ten minutes ago after shared mental eye rolls and one of us feigning sickness (her) and the other playing concerned friend (me).

Through Nochi's responses, I was trying to gauge if she was just being nice or she was genuinely interested in what the guy was talking about. By the time Nochi's friend appeared out of nowhere to join the table, I'd decided that the best case scenario was to just butt out and let the conversation run its course. I'd jump back in later after he left.

This is what I mean by my increased social anxiety over the years. I'm hyper aware of everything, I try to measure how everyone is feeling all the time, and then I feel this need to have everything in equilibrium. Why I feel the need to conversation conduct is beyond me. I must have volunteered for it sometime in a past life, even though nobody posted a sign-up sheet. I never used to feel this way, at least consciously. Now this increased self-awareness is useful for educational (and de-briefing) purposes but it just makes me jittery during the actual interaction.

I think I'm going to practicing shutting up more often. I think it'll be good for me. Other people might like it too.

On a related note, I'm taking pre-orders for my life epiphany book, tentatively titled, "What I learned after Ameer pinned me to the ground and shoved sleeping pills (or placebos) in my mouth. A novel."

Day 163

Listening to: The Radio Dept, "Strange Things Will Happen." A friend put me on to all these indie pop bands from Sweden. These guys are apparently related to dream pop, shoegaze, and twee pop. Fun descriptors, all of them -- even if I have no idea what they mean. Certain bands are labeled shoegaze because "musicians in these bands often maintained a motionless performing style in concert, standing on stage and staring at their effects pedals or the floor while playing their instruments; hence, the idea that they were gazing at their shoes." I find that, well, twee.

My home Internet was down all day and I'm trying to make up for lost time by ramming out emails, blogs, and general browsing. I read today that Percocet and OxyContin are basically like prescribable heroin. Having intermittent and unreliable access to the web made me feel like a desperate junkie. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Nothing. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Nothing. I dragged my pillows and bedding out into the hallway -- my favorite reading spot when the sun's out -- and whipped through "The Pinball Theory of the Apocalypse," a book designed by the author to be read on a flight from LAX to JFK.

Either the title, and the fun cover, was the best thing about the book or I totally missed something. It's supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, satirical, and dark. I think I'd like to be all of these things but when confronted with them (especially in the literary world) I lose my interest. The characters always come off a little too nonchalant and unaffected. I wonder if wanting to like this stuff means that I want to be nonchalant and unaffected, and if so, maybe I should just say uncle and admit that it's not very exciting to be any of the three.

Things are moving fast fast fast. Which is great because I'm in no mood for anything to slow down. Of course, when things move this fast I feel like life starts to spin slightly out of control but that's okay. If approaching light speed has the relativistic effect of slowing the aging process (hypothetically), than that's the speed I would like to move at. Of course, moving fast is also a subtle form of escapism but that's besides the point. I already have the rest of my February all planned out and winter's forcefully crawling to a close already. Things are moving a tad too fast maybe? Then again, last year at this time, I think I was feeling the exact same way. Someone really influential shortened February by a few days and now it never lasts long enough.

No matter. I will accomplish all the things I need to do before March hits. For one, there's a great snowboarding trip all prepped and ready to go. For two, I'll be in San Francisco in a week or two, ready to apartment hunt and settle in. I've decided this saving money is for the birds. What good is a bulky bank account if you're wasting away inside?

To that end, I'm trying to convince a particular someone to move in with me. I don't do well without roommates and it's probably best I'm not left alone to my own devices. If that doesn't work out, I may very well have to room with strangers, which sounds more exciting and romantic in theory than in probable practice. I haven't had stranger roommates since freshman year and I can't say I relished that experience. I have to say though, when looking for apartments, this mashup of Craigslist and Google Maps is amazing. I love technology, even if it sometimes leaves me flat on the ground, staring at something that I can't quite wrap my head around, and waiting for my real world to reconnect.

Refresh, refresh, refresh.

Queen City

I must love me some cold weather. I'm in Seattle, visiting the Pacific Northwest's finest, Gemma and Michael. They booked our resident one man Geek Squad, Ameer, to come visit and fix their hard drive. I decided to tag along to be his assistant. Meaning I stand over his shoulder and ask stupid questions while he tries to explain and fiddle at the same time. Ameer's a mechanical engineer by training but it wouldn't shock anyone to call him an computer expert. It takes a particular mental makeup to dedicate a few hours not only to learning how to do something, but to doing it right. And efficiently. That's how Ameer's engineer brain thinks. Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency. Check out his computer rescue station. Little holders for the tiny screws, all ordered and easily accessible, a cloth mat to prevent static, and a cup of joe for energy.

"If there was a problem yo Ameer'll solve it."

A few things I've learned from him this weekend: When putting a frozen pizza in the oven, the trick is to make sure the edges line up even on the grates, thus preventing drooping on the sides. When putting on a coffee lid, make sure the mouth opening is opposite the cup seam to prevent drippage. Most things Ameer does is accomplished with this sort of precision. The best way is the only way. If I'd trust anyone to successfully pull off the champagne popping with a sword trick, it's Ameer. The irony here is that Ameer is also one of the fumblier people I know. He's constantly snapping and dropping things with his thick worker hands. But he always fixes it right back up.

So Seattle is like San Francisco-lite. There's the same feeling of little neighborhoods and streets filled with non-generic shops and eateries spread out and separated by random industrial areas. There's a whole bunch of bookstores, coffee shops (of course), and a lot of record stores, which seem anachronistic in this MP3 age. I used to cruise record stores all the time and leave with at least one CD but now I'm just walking around looking at unfamiliar cover art to albums I already own. The only thing I bought was Reservoir Dogs: Special Edition and season one of Dawson's Creek. I can't imagine how independent music stores are staying open nowadays but more power to them.

Gemma and Michael are captains of fun and I decided awhile ago that anything Gemma assures me is fun, is fun. I don't raise an eyebrow in suspicion, roll my eyes, or hesitate to say "yes" when she tells me we should do something. Still, even armed with an open mind and no expectations, I wasn't entirely prepared for our Saturday excursion. Michael and Ameer are alcohol connoisseurs so drinking begins early for them. Like eleven in the morning early, before I'm even awake. They're the crew that started the short-lived Neighborhood Excursions, dedicated to exploring a particular street in SF every month or so. We took that spirit of exploration and upped it a few notches. As Michael lists out, we hit up eleven spots in eleven hours. It was eclectic to say the least.

I mean, we ended the night walking by the famous fish market, down a mysterious little alley, and into and downstairs to a bar/club that was momentarily spinning retro hip hop. I posted up against the wall because I couldn't imagine that actually dancing would be more amusing than watching the drunk (white) crowd bop around. This was the most normal experience of the night.

Prior to that, we had started at an abandoned pool hall bar (where the jukebox stole our money, denying my attempts to replace country music with Missy), lounged through a trendy bar, and then went to a dive/hipster bar in search of shuffle board. We didn't actually end up playing any but I did cut my hands cracking peanuts. My mitts are delicate, it's true. The fantastic part was finding pork and chicken tamales to rival any in San Diego. Who knew a magic door at 9 l.b. Hammer would reveal delicious Mexican food? That's the kind of little thing you wouldn't know unless you were out and about, exploring!

The most surreal experience of the night was walking into a sports bar on the edge of the city, going through the back door Swingers style, only to be faced with a roomful of middle aged Filpinos. After two days of commenting on how lily white Seattle seemed, here we were, staring at a packed house of Titas and Titos. I was sure there was a Pacquiao fight going on, even if logically he just fought a few weeks ago.

Luckily, Gemma and Michael gave us some PI cred and I felt safe. We plopped ourselves down in the middle of the room and proceeded to talk loudly about why all these people were here. Well, Brian (Michael's best friend) and Ameer talked loudly. I mainly tried to cover my face and ignore the random Spanish they were spitting out. I embarrass easily. Fifteen minutes in, we figured out the reason for Asia central. It was karaoke night, tagalog style.

I came to Seattle to hang out with some of my favorite Filipinos, and boy did we find them.

Push

"Sometimes when you win, you really lose, and sometimes when you lose, you really win, and sometimes when you win or lose, you actually tie, and sometimes when you tie, you actually win or lose."
-White Men Can't Jump-

Stuff I Like

Our short trip to Washington DC was filled with all of my favorite things. Long car rides where I don't drive, caraoke, conversation, coffee, cigarettes (indoors!), lounging around, wonderful food, and lots of board games. I'm sort of a terrible house guest because my schedule is so backwards but I find that when you go someplace for a short amount of time, people will stay up to hang out, even if they are practically dying at four in the morning.

I was not excited to enter winter weather and I kind of wussed out the whole time by staying indoors as often as possible. The few times we did go outside, I chose to bundle up with a jacket and sweater over two layers of thermals. Plus sweat pants underneath my jeans of course. I have got to get a (cool) scarf because they make you look so much more fashionable and protect your neck too. But you can't just have a nice scarf without an outfit to match, as Mike proved. I might be sort of jealous of his clothing collection. Vests, cool shoes, fun hats, deep scoop neck t-shirts, biceps...

We spent Friday night hanging out at his apartment in Chinatown and it was revealed to all how nosy I am. Usually I'm covertly studying someone's room and exploring with my eyes but I figured this was a rare opportunity to finally be in a space that was Mike's (he's always on our turf) and I had to gather up as much information as possible. I cruised through his closet, inventoried his bookshelf, lightly rummaged through any open boxes lying around, poked into his refrigerator, maybe reached into a few crevices to dig out things, and generally frightened Michelle and Helen into never leaving me alone in their apartments ever again.

I'm a curious person okay? Luckily, Dhonielle agreed with me and I didn't feel entirely alone in my desire to do an item by item accounting of someone's place. I strongly believe that you can gain irreplaceable insight on a person by carefully studying their space. Little things that might never reveal themselves in five years of friendship could come to light in three minutes of apartment exploration if done right.

We watched a video Mike made of his inauguration experience and I admired the way he used his unobtrusive Flip camera to capture some of the night's conversation. For the record, I think I could watch/listen to Dhonielle talk all day because she's animated and hilarious. It's good to have a record of these things, I wish I could tape everyone talking, but people tend to clam up when a lens is pointed at them. Let's work on that.

We stuffed ourselves with late night Chinese and then headed off to Helen's to sleep. But really we stayed up until seven watching Centerstage. I'd never seen it before (incredible, I know) and was lost within the first ten minutes and couldn't tell the dancers apart. So many blondes and they all blended together. I kept up a steady stream of stupid questions and Michelle and Helen were kind enough to only make fun of me a little. Brian had told me that Centerstage was really great years ago but I kind of didn't fully believe him because he was dating an ex-ballerina at the time. Now I know what he meant. It's a great but terrible movie, in the grand tradition of all craptastic dance movies.

Saturday night, there was more conversation and some puzzle assembling, before we pushed through Trivial Pursuit, Catchphrase, and Scattergories, even as Dhonielle and Mike were on the verge of physical collapse. I find normal Trivia Pursuit to be too staid and non-group interactive and prefer the Jeopardy version where everyone gets their own pies and just competitively buzzes in on all questions. We said that you lost a pie for each incorrect answer, which led to a lot of fear of guessing and wild swings on the leader board. I curse green (science and technology) and feel like girls are hugely disadvantaged for the oranges (sports and games). If in doubt, while playing the 20th Century edition, always answer "Ricky Henderson" for baseball questions, study up on your New England states, and don't sleep on Brunei in the Middle East.

Helen and Michelle created a Super Bowl finger and chili feast the next day but really we played Squabble and learned that Mike knows a lot of British slang. Try googling "quim" and educate yourself. By the time Arizona was threatening one of the greatest comebacks ever, we were already half an hour into the ride back to North Carolina. Michelle taught me how to stay alert for deer on the side of the road. She also said that the worst thing to do when one is in your headlights is to swerve or stop. Apparently the thing to do is to just keep going. Bigger accidents are caused by vehicles wildly careening into each other due to a driver avoiding a deer than by just ramming the damn thing. I somehow can't wrap my mind around this idea but chances are I drive so slowly that any deer in my way would have time to yawn, nap, snooze the alarm, and still stroll out of the way.

Now I'm at the Raleigh-Durham airport and wondering why this is the nicest design and architecture I've seen in a Stateside airport. Random.