The Seaweed Is Always Greener

There is a more extensive Boston report upcoming; suffice it to say that the foliage was most charming and so was the company. I did take the time to walk around Fenway Park, which, although empty (since they were playing in St Louis by then) shimmered with the energies of many thousand prayers since answered. Wednesday night, back in DC, saw the phenomenal Dresden Dolls, and got home in time for the last of the Champagne.

Since then I've been working back at the place and pretty much loving it, although I know that I need to make some serious long-term plans soon. How bloody boring does that sound, eh? Shouldn't there be some way for me to profit from my love of football and my encyclopedic knowledge of the lyrics to "Under the Sea"? ("when the sardines begin the beguine/ it's music to me ... what do they got, a lot of sand?/ We got a hot crustacean band ...")

And tomorrow -- Liverpool at Blackburn -- cross your fingers that Stevie'll be back.

Fairplay but who can I rely on then?

Might I suggest "A Grand Don't Come For Free" as the soundtrack to your next errand-running excursion? It's forty-five minutes of first-person drama, and I have found that it dovetails quite neatly with the petty bullshit of life (seeing as the content of the album consists of pretty much just that). As you leave the house, the dreary yet triumphant thumps of It Was Supposed To Be So Easy lend quite the swagger to your hips -- the only problem I have found with this brilliant 3.5 minutes is the timing at the beginning is a little too slow for one full step in between -- you kind of half to stutter as youn walk. It's good though -- just imagine you're wearing massive white sneakers and a tracksuit.

So you're off, striding purposefully towards the bus, absolutely bloody well sure that you will, unlike Mikee, accomplish everything you set out to do -- even dropping the DVDs off into the mailbox at the appropriate lyric. You gaze soulfully at the handsome youngish/oldish hipster on the bus during Could Well Be In, imagining him buying you a pint, and you play with your hair. He doesn't notice, of course, but it doesn't matter because by then you're off listening to Not Addicted and fantasizing about footy -- can you believe Everton is now above Man Utd on the table? What is the world coming to? Is it a new curse -- Curse of the Rooney?

Then you're off the bus and Blinded by the Lights and half-walking half-dancing, you pick up your last paycheck, you deposit it, the world is beautiful and you Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way, and you fight your way through the CVS line to buy rat poison -- Get Out of My House, rodents! and feminine products. On the walk through Dupont Circle you notice the hotties of all sorts sunning themselves (Fit But You Know It -- so effing true, there oughta be a law!) -- and the dude cuts you off at the crosswalk -- Such A Tw*t.

The walk to the bus stop -- What is He Thinking turns you cynical -- reimagining old hurts and new faults. You see a happy couple on the bus and you wonder how long it will last. One of them at least will need to Dry their Eyes before long. Ha. And then you're off the bus, on your way home, that charging challenge of Empty Cans -- If I want to sit in and drink Super Tennants in the day I Will, no one's gonna fucking tell me jack -- oooh, even just typing it makes me feel mean and powerful and all kinds of pisssed off.

But it switches at the end, it does, that masterful sleight of hand, and so you unlock your door and you bound up your steps with a smile and your housemate is there at the top with something warm and sweet-smelling, and the second season of The Office just came in the mail, and as the rain starts pounding the roof in, you get to sit and drink hot chocolate and laugh, and this is start of what was.

Spectacular Soxtacular

I get home from the first night to a roomful of people, rally caps, beer, peanuts, and extremely wary smiles. Sox are up by 4 -- to nothing. No one wants to acknowledge the fact that this could possibly be happening. I take a seat and join, leaving occasionally to change, wash my face, grab some food, some beer, etc. The game seems to drag on and on. I take up Ellie's habit of chanting "Fuck you, Jeter!" whenever the camera focuses on him. It's really fun -- I highly recommend it. At one point, we chanted, and he seemed to nod his head at us, as if he had heard, which made us exceedingly pleased.

They put Pedro on the mound and we all freak out. They take him off and we are happy. We refuse to actually refer to what appears to be happening on the screen until the game is actually over. Wow. Wow. Amazing. I have many more interesting thoughts about this that I would love to share when my head is not quite so foggy.

So the people who don't live at my house go home, and Ellie, G, and myself stride purposefully towards Wonderland, eager for more drinking, more celebration. The bar, thankfully, had the perfect level of occupation -- we were the main event for a moment, bursting in with our elation, and then everyone turned back to their respective drinks and conversations . The cutie cutie bartender (oh, what a nose on that man!) made shots of some red concoction for us on the house, and then we each have a drink. G allows as to how he still can't quite believe it -- that he keeps thinking that somehow they will find a way to rejigger the score so that the Yankees actually won. Then he buys a round for the entire bar, which was truly awesome, as I had previously seen that done only in movies.

Then we go home and play some more, and then we brush our teethies and go to sleep. Yaaaaaay!

It is now 2:20 pm. I have a five o'clock call. So far today I have: made coffee, read the New Yorker, organised our massive recycling pile, and made lunch. My head is not among the fleetest at the moment, and I sit on our lovely couch in my sweatpants writing on Ellie's laptop, wishing that I could magically fix the television so that I could watch Pepe Le Moko on DVD. This is so fun. I cannot even tell you. I write that unironically.

Ellie and I want to figure out a way to sell playing at home for a day with us. We could make so much money. People would pay to not go to work, and just come over to our house and make yummy things to eat (apple turnovers yesterday and cupcakes today, if we ever get out of the house to purchase food coloring for the frosting) and watch DVDs and wear sweatpants and have fun. It is so fun! And it's not even that expensive. But don't tell that to the people who will be queueing up to pay us to come and play!

This post is much like my brain: wandering, slightly incoherent, ebullient, but confused. Just there, I actually kept typing condused instead of confused, and I think that "condused," as a word, much more accurately conveys my mental acuity at the mo.

Tra-la! It's off to the yummy Indian import store in Langley Park!

You know you want to come!

Perhaps We Have Turned A Corner?

So I came home last night after a somewhat tense rehearsal (we open in less than a week and I feel pretty safe saying that no one likes how much we've got to get done, or how little time we have left -- still, I think it will come together) to two massive tv's in G's front room, one blaring the final debate and one showing the Yankees-Red Sox game (shed a tear). And lots of lovely people and lovely food.

Yadda yadda, debate's over, sportscaster volume goes up and pundit volume goes down. I'm in the kitchen putting the pain au chocolat bread pudding* I had made the night before into the oven to warm up (say what you will about Nigella -- I know she isn't everyone's cup of tea -- but she can be pretty damn inspiring at times) and I start talking to this dude. We're just talking and laughing -- you know, the us. (Is there a proper way to spell the first syllable of "usual?" The only thing I can work out is "yoozhe," but that doesn't quite cut it. Please help).

So we're getting along, and doing that eye-contact thing, and it's really great. I mean, not your run of the mill, garden style flirtation, but the kind of thing where you're not nervous or anxious or weird or sharp or mean about it (how I usually flirt for those of you who haven't had the pleasure and would like to be able to call it when you see it). You just feel kinda happy and warm, and not worried, having a good time smiling at this other person who smiles back at you. And you keep discovering things you have in common, and you laugh at each other's jokes, and it's just like this little sweetness falls into your life, this little window of "Oh, right, I don't always have to be this bitchy schlub who says inappropriate things at inopportune times."

I haven't had any of that in quite a while. Partly because I've not been going out, I've been staying in and pining for my last greatest love, partly just whatever, my energy has not been focused in that arena, you know? We hit it off, I thought he was cute, he thought I was cute, it was fabulous. So of course he lives a continent away, and I'll probably never see him again, sniff, sniff, but it was like this little reminder from the universe that there's still some magoo left over for me somewhere. So, yay. I was even wearing my specs, which just goes to show that even Dorothy Parker can be wrong sometimes.

In unrelated, yet always important, footy news, England beat Azerbaijan 1-0, thanks to a header from everyone's favorite diminutive bolsador de alfombras, Michael Owen. I won't even go into the most recent Bx fiasco -- the less said the better (although Oliver Holt always gives good scathe). Looks to be an excellent weekend as well now that folks are back in Blighty -- the baby blues against the pinko blues (Man City v Chelski), Liverpool v Fulham (just imagine if those Thais had gone through with their deal from the summer -- then it would be the Thais vs El Fayed and Baby-Face! Franklin Foer would have had a field day), Man U v Birmingham City (and we all know City's biggest fan, and City's biggest fan's biggest fan**) and I won't be seeing none of them, since I'll be in the theatre. Damn you, tech week! (etc, etc)


*I tried to find a recipe to link to, but they're all crap and way too involved. It's really not hard -- a regular bread pudding recipe but use pain au chocolat instead, or regular croissants with chopped dark chocolate. Delish. Bless you Nigella!
**err, ah, that would be me.

Umm, yes.

Sometimes your friends know you so well, it's scary. I got this email today:

I just saw on your Friendster site your blog address. You have a blog. You are so cool :) I will now be reading it occasionaly, as I have several blogs I peruse and I'm sure yours will be among the best. (X)'s is full of rambles about love and bad poetry but yours has letters about mice and transcripts of messages from Daniel. I'm hooked. Do we have a little too much free time now that we've quit our job?;) K

On a related note: watching G's enthusiastic swearing during the 8th inning last night -- reminiscent of Dr Fish Poop's reaction to Manchester United games, but with less furniture-throwing -- has made me a Red Sox fan. A johnny-come-later, ill-informed Red Sox fan, but a fan nevertheless. (Related since the writer of the above message is from outside Boston, and not only a Red Sox fan, but also once witnessed the aforementioned Dr Fish Poop's fever pitch madness. May we all be so .. err.. lucky?)

And I never even thought I liked baseball. Well, I don't really like baseball -- doesn't have the flow and build of the beautiful game, plus baseball uniforms do not make anyone's butt look good (I'm just saying) -- but I did go to that game in Santo Domingo once. Tigres de Licey vs. Leones del Escogido. That was pretty hott: like the Mets playing the Yankees, Everton playing Liverpool, or Man City v Man U, inter-city games (or "derbies" if we want to be anglo) are always a good time.

For the record: the job doesn't end till Friday, so get those file-folder color preferences in to me fast.

No Alarms and No Surprises (Part 1)

I apologize for the blatant typos in my previous post. I usually have a bit more of an eagle eye for that sort of thing (seeing as I did win the Spelling Bee in sixth grade as I've told anyone who has spent more than three hours with me -- yet I still have difficulties spelling "trouble" out loud, ah well), but it was late in the day.

We had a pretty bitchin rehearsal yesterday. I am feeling positive.

Dramarama

Nine days from the show, and we've just lost one from our ranks. Twenty-four hours prior, there were five players, and now there are four. It's the right thing to do as far as I'm concerned -- four committed players will be better to watch than five with scattered energy -- and I think that the partying of ways was achieved not-too-acrimoniously, but it means quite a bit more work now than the already-considerable amount we have now. Eeek.

So far, there are two movement pieces to re-choreograph, and quite a bit of fiddling with other bits to do. One of the more significant piece still has to be created (luckily there are only three of us in that one) -- and my piece is taking a hell of a long time to incubate. I got some work done on it this weekend in NYC, but I'm having a hard time finding the voice of it. Apparently when my muse is left to herself, she gets quite mawkish. So ... now more than ever ... wish us luck. Give us money. Come see the show.

I did have a lovely 24 hours in Gotham. Greenpoint, thanks to B & E, treated me as well as El Barrio ever has (maybe we'll get luckier with Rah next time L & D!) -- and I look forward to tearing it all up next month with Tanya, who takes no prisoners on her side of the Atlantic and who, I would assume, wouldn't have it any other way on my side.

Change Is In The Air

In 24-hour period (yesterday), my house -- my beloved, slightly ragged house -- became equipped with:

1. cable (oh noooo! Ellie and I have promised each other that we will only use the cable for the watching of The Daily Show. I amended that slightly to include the rebroadcasts of EPL matches on Wednesday nights once F&C is over. Yippee!)

2. wireless internet (how sexy is it that you turn on your computer and the internet is RIGHT THERE? No wires, no cards, no fuss, no spillage. I think I need to buy new lingerie)

3. a working washing machine (thanks CL ... we had to drive out to the wilds of Virginia (not one of my favoritest places in the world) to pick it up -- but it only cost ten dollars. that's right -- one of the most brilliant inventions of the twentieth century, for less than a ticket to the new MoMa! also, G looked uber-fine as he hooked up the plumbing)

4. a brand spanking new recycling bin. It's heavy-duty plastic, maroon, and so foxy we totally forgot that we actually had to fill it up to get picked up this morning and have now spent over a month without recycling -- the beer can tower is getting a little precarious. Ellie braved the endless office corridors and bewildering quasi-regulations at DC Sanitation HQ to get it. Thanks Ellie! Have a good weekend at the Sandwich Fair!

Unfortunately, the roofers still haven't sorted out the roof, so the ceiling continues to fling little bits of itself down to us whenever there's a moderate-to-heavy rain.

But, dude -- cable! Did I pick an excellent time to be unemployed, or what?

Thanks, L. and T.

I quit my job. Huzzah!

(I will, however, be there until the 15th of this month, so please get in touch should you like me to pick up any office supplies or individually-wrapped foodstuffs -- Goldfish, granola bars, Rice Krispy Treats, the like).

This is Smart, and Not Too Long

one of the wonderful things about this shite temp job (it's not shite, really -- no place is when you get free White Cheddar Cheez-its -- it's just mind-numbing) is that I have a lot of time to surf the web. I could, theoretically, be looking for a real job -- but come on.

So I'd like to point you to The Black Table, in case you don't already know about it. It's is fresh each day and is quite amusing -- at times even poignant. I would in particular like to draw your attention to this article, which dissects the Bush (mis)administration's "promot[ion of] the appearance of leading ... rather than actually leading." I know, I know, we've heard it all before -- but it's very well done here, and (I've said it before and I'll say it again) not too long.

Ain't Nobody Out Here Playing Cans But Us

To explain the subtitle:

In 1988, a go-go supergroup called the Go-Go Posse (composed of Chuck Brown and members of EU, Rare Essence, Lil' Benny and the All-Stars, and various other go-go glitterati) released a single and an album, both called "DC Don't Stand For Dodge City." At the time there was a lot of violence on the go-go scene, and the song was part of a concerted effort by both bands and fans to make the scene about the music again, rather than about neighborhood beefs. (If you want more: an amazing oral history or this site, which has always tickled my fancy, as well as Big Mike's Go Go Joint which has dope music available).

I like that it references an old Western and I like that it is anti-violence, and I like that it refers to my hometown as DC rather than Washington (the DCeiver gives good rant about the DC vs Washington thing in light of the recent baseball blah blah -- scroll down to "Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have Baseball").

The thing is that DC really does stand for Dodge City. In two ways:
1) DC per-capita murder rates are still among the highest in the USA (thanks for trying to repeal the gun ban, House of Reps! and thanks for letting the measure die, Senate! how about letting me get a vote in Congress?)
2) I've been back here for almost a year (eeep!) and I still feel as if I am dodging -- not bullets, thankfully, but Real Life. Bear with me for a moment -- I know that "Real Life," as a concept, is a massive mindfuck. I feel as if I and almost everyone around me -- a pretty homogenous group, I'll admit, given that it's composed almost entirely of college-educated lefties in their early/mid twenties -- lives in an almost-constant state of low-level freakout about direction (or lack thereof) in our lives. Call it Quarter Life Crisis or whatever (although I've always thought that QLC is a bit too pat).
I know this feeling is not limited to DC. What is limited to DC (in my opinion) is the ubiquitous presence of what my dear friend R has termed "striving strivers striving to succeed" -- members of the aforementioned group who Have Plans and Goals, who are Climbing The Ladder (be it the ladder of wonk-dom or the ladder of ngo-dom). These people are the ones that bring on the Dodge in the rest of us. There's only so much Strive available in DC. Someone has to pick up the Slack. I feel the difference when I leave DC and find myself among the same subgroup of folks -- in NYC, in London, in Galway, in Madison, WI -- and all of a sudden, I feel less stressed. Sure, people are freaking out ("you mean people sit in offices for the rest of their lives? hell, no!") but there is a sense of perspective, an acknowledgement that we will find our way eventually. Meanwhile, we non-strivers, unaware of other identities, feel we must dodge and dodge fast, otherwise, before we know it, we'll have been waitressing for 15 years. As if. We avoid the Strive, thereby bringing on the slacker stress, and then we dodge, because let's face it, the constant questioning and wondering and second-guessing is exhausting.

Am I mixing my metaphors? Better stop now. Comments/ideas welcome.

PS. look here. Nice touch, no?

Smell You Later

Rat crisis solved. First we thought we would borrow Farrah's cat, but that ended up not working out. Sad. So we went to Giant and bought rat-catching things. We distributed them about the house and went along our merry way. Later that day I got this:

Subj: In the style of McSweeney's
Date: 10/4/2004 11:34:31 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: Eleanor Davis

An Open Letter to The Mouse I Just Drowned

First of all, well done. You did your little mousey family proud. Forgoing any unnecessary squeaking or struggling, you saved your energy for the long ordeal you knew was coming. This strategy paid off when, using my roommate’s tongs and hiding behind the back door, I tossed you into a Le Creuset stock pot full of water on the back porch. After slamming the door and running away like a little wussy girl, I retuned five minutes later to find you treading water! No matter that your entire lower body was immobilized by tar-like adhesive gel, you wiggled your little head hard enough to float the entire rat-sized glue trap towards the side of the pot and keep your little head out of the water. Then you just sat there looking all wet and sad as I kicked the trap back in, squealed with disgust, and put the lid on.

Sorry about that, by the way. Not for putting the lid on, cause you were fighting a losing battle and it’s probably better that you just move on to mousie heaven (or mousie reincarnation if that’s your bag). I’m sorry for the whole situation. Now, I’m sure you don’t really want to hear any excuses. Who am I kidding, you’re running through fields of peanut butter and checking out all the little mousie virgins that await those who die as martyrs, what do you care about my guilt or innocence. But I’m going to tell you anyway. It will make me feel better.

In the past four years I have battled your many, many forbearers for the control of my kitchen counters. There have been ups and downs. In the summer of 2002 I abandoned ownership all together and just ate out for two months. That was probably the golden age of your little mousie civilization. At other times, my roommates and I waged war with a variety of weapons. We tried to starve you out by improving our food storage techniques, became experts on the many types of snap traps (classic wooden, cheese-pedal TM, black plastic), and occasionally poison (like most weapons of mass destruction, only as a last resort.) Most of the time we were in a pleasant state of detante, our borders guarded by a minefield of traps. We never used glue traps because everyone says they are cruel, and we are progressive lefties who don’t believe in cruelty.

Then it all changed.I’m sure that you will agree with me that rats are really gross. You probably sit (I mean sat) around with your little mousie buddies griping about how they get all the good trash and hideout spaces and stuff. So I don’t have to explain how freaked out I was when I came home late at night and found my roommate huddled on the futon mumbling about a rat in our kitchen. This was a whole new ball game. Not content with the odd toast crumb or forgotten plate of spaghetti, this mofo bit holes in the lid of my Hershey’s cocoa and sucked the almond milk out of a box Dracula style. After several late nights stalking the rat with an umbrella and a rake, we decided that we couldn’t just chase it back out the way it came. The supermarket only carried one rodent-killing item that was hearty enough for a rat, and so we compromised out values and put out glue traps. What else could we do? It was a rat!

My deepest apologies,Ellie Davis

PS – As I was writing this, one of your little mousie friends scampered out from under the futon in the direction of the back porch. I stamped my very heavy clog-shod foot, and he took cover, maybe he was coming to say a little mousie eulogy over your pot or something. I’m sure that he’ll tell your family what happened, and maybe later, when I’m at work, they’ll all come back and toss little flower wreaths into the pot or something. Actually, I think I’m probably going to throw you and your glue trap into the neighbor’s yard before I go to work, but they should probably just stay in the nest where it’s safe anyway.

__________________________________________________________________

Now know that the above references a mouse, not a rat, but at the same time, I must say that we have not heard or seen hide nor hair of Mr Rat since putting out said traps. My slipper got stuck in the remaining glue trap yesterday and let me tell you, it was pretty darn sticky. So perhaps he got the message? Let's hope so.

Third Time's the Charm?

So I am new to this and have somehow erased what will hopefully, eventually, be on this page, at least three times. Hold your breath.

Why don't we just make units of three the theme of this post? Oh, do let's!

Onwards:

1. Spent some time with F & C co-conspirators Sabrina and Joseph last night, watching silent movies and picking up tricks. Also, eating yummy Ethiopian food. Thanks, Joseph! Then I went home and they went to put together press releases.

The show is fast approaching: October 20th is the first night. eeep! Check out the performance space here. Note we're not yet on their schedule -- I'll remedy that. There should be a wee box somewhere on this page you can click on to give us cabbage. Please do -- we promise to spend it on Velly Important Aht -- costumes, paint, mailings, the myriad of bits n pieces that putting together a show entails. If you are an eager beaver and you want to purchase tickets please email thefleshandcandor@hotmail.com. You'll be rewarded, I promise. Plus we'll put your name in the program. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

2. I got this message on my voicemail (imagine it in a Bristol by way of Oxbridge accent) (no, I can't either, but just try, yeah?):

Hey Hannah, Daniel speaking. Just watching Kerry-Bush on TV. My god, your country is in a bad way, man. Umm. [brief pause, you can hear the debate in the background] Aww, fuck me, it's terrible. Anyway, it's twenty past two in the morning, and I'm going to go to bed soon. Ah, it'd be great to hear from you, thanks for your text the other day. Wayne Rooney is awesome. Liverpool'll come good though, trust me. Cheers Hannah, all the best. Bye.

I mean, how bloody sweet is that? Ringing me from London. He must have been quite soused to be up that late on a worknight, but regardless. The encouraging words re: the Reds' latest debacle were much appreciated indeed.

3. Monsieur Mouse and family have been joined in the enjoyment of night-time delicacies from our night kitchen by Signior Rat. Ick. I saw him. He looks like this, but brown. Any ideas on getting rid of him -- and fast -- would be v, v welcome.

Okay, so I'm gonna click "publish." Cross your fingers...