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I bore easily. I think that's why I do these things to myself.
About a week ago, I had a random realization float into my head: "Gee, I don't think I've used a pencil so far this year."
Most people would note that observation and move on.
I, however, took it as a sign: I would make a resolution not to use pencils in 2009.
Over the next day or two, I slowly discarded/gave away all my pencils. No. 2, mechanical...all gone. The only one I kept was one my father hand-made for me. I'll save that for 2010.
Like most grand pronouncements, reality often gets in the way of big thinking. I have successfully cleansed my life of pencils, at least for the next 49 weeks, except for one: my carpenter's pencil. A true essential for any home improver/tinkerer.
At first I just thought I could start calling it something else, like a carpenter's "marker" or something. I googled and googled. It seems that a carpenter's pencil is only referred to as a carpenter's pencil.
But I've found an alternative: a china marker (aka grease pencil). Note I called it a "china marker"--which is its actual title. I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to determine which was the original title (china marker vs grease pencil) and came up with nothing. So I've decided that "china marker" is the original name--since most things originated in China are very, very old. Older than pencils, I guess.
I've heard two things a lot over the past few weeks. First, a surprising number of people have asked if I can hook them up with inauguration and/or inaugural ball tickets. I inform them that the fact that *I* am their best shot at a hook-up means they should definitely make other plans for January 20th.
The second is a large number of people saying, "Gee, it must be amazing to be in Washington during this inauguration."
Let me be clear, it is not.
You know all the chaos that comes right before Christmas? All the running around, interrupted routines, stress, lists of things to do and avoid, as well as preparations to have life be weird and difficult for a few days? Okay, now imagine doing that all over again a month later. Then, add in throngs of hopeless tourists and multiply that by 1.5 to 3 million--and you kinda get the picture.
It seems more like local people are preparing for a hurricane more than a presidential inauguration: buying lots of beer and bottled water, hitting the grocery store early, and planning not to go anywhere for any reason. Many District residents have the day off or are taking the day off, simply because getting to work on Tuesday will be close to logistically impossible. Subways are expected to double their highest ever ridership. All the bridges will be closed, all of downtown DC is a restricted zone.
I plan to enjoy the festivities much like people elsewhere in the world, in front of the TV in my living room.
When people hear this, they are usually quite taken aback. "You are so close to it," they say. "Why wouldn't you go be a part of it?"
As my brilliant wife replies to these queries, "When Neal Armstrong walked on the moon...did you have to be on the surface of the moon to feel like you were part of it?"
However, despite my grumpiness about it, there is something else very Christmas-like that is going on. People are genuinely being more kind to each other. Even in this sometimes awful city full of pessimists, cynics, and skeptics--there is a sense of hope, anticipation, and excitement.
I don't mind that part at all.
The New York Times ran an article about the restaurants popping up in Washington neighborhoods like ours, rightly assuming that the presence of restaurants is kind of like a neighborhood health barometer. A lot of it focuses on Petworth (including a quote from my friend Dan of the Prince of Petworth blog).
"In Petworth, Columbia Heights, the U Street district and even the dicier parts of North Capitol Hill, a little restaurant revival is under way. Washington neighborhoods that for years were considered too dangerous or too poor for a viable sit-down restaurant are suddenly entertaining quite a few.
Some places, like Ms. Clark’s ode to Southern food in Petworth and the pan-Latin Rumberos in Columbia Heights, reflect the flavor of their neighborhoods. Others could open just about anywhere, but they all are part of a renewed excitement among the segment of this city that doesn’t wash in and out with each new administration."
Here's a link to the article.
I was called for Jury Duty this week. Surprisingly, I have never been called before, ever, anywhere.
From what I'm told, being a semi-lucid non-crack addicted registered voter with no felony convictions puts me among a select few here in Washington, DC--so I was called to serve only five months after registering to vote (and I further understand I can look forward to be called like clockwork every two years).
What for other people would be an exercise in tedium, for a civics-nerd like me, was a roller coaster of excitement! I got to spend a day watching the wheels of justice spin!
Well, it was also an exercise in terror--because I was in absolute fear of being selected for a trial. When I got my notice, I saw that the length of service was listed as "One Day." Excellent! In and out.
It wasn't until I looked at the back of the notice the night before serving that I read that "One Day" really meant that if I wasn't selected for a jury on the first day, I could go home. But if I was selected, I was there for the duration.
I thought about showing up with my underwear on the outside of my pants and singing show tunes, but I figured that at least four other people would try that routine.
To answer the central question, no, I was not selected for a jury. After hours of waiting in lines and answering questions from attorneys, I ended up about five people down the list from where the game of jury chess seemed to end. Because it took up so much time, I was excused--civic duty fulfilled.
The most amazing takeaway from this process was my awe at the amount of time and effort that goes into a trial. The pool I was part of was 60 people--all of whom took the day off to do the same thing I did. Fourteen of them will be there for a week while this trial plays out. Add in the time of the attorneys, judge, bailiffs, court workers, etc...--it really adds up.
And all this for a guy who was obviously guilty.
I'm kidding.
Actually, that was the excuse I was going to use to get out of service: my "deeply held belief" that anyone who would wear a denim jacket with a plaid shirt had to be guilty of something--why not convict him of this? Needless to say, that bit of genius went the same way as the underwear idea.
In all seriousness, now I'm thinking that I might take a day off work sometime and sit and watch a trial take place. I can keep watching the wheels of justice (live!) without all that pesky stuff about objectivity and guilt/innocence.
"I have a present for you."
This is not a phrase I'm used to hearing in a liquor store.
Right before Christmas I stopped in to our neighborhood sketchy liquor store, which we call Fair Liquor Liquor. We call it that because, for some reason, the sign outside of store has the word "liquor" twice. So instead of its actual name, "Fair Liquor," we call it "Fair Liquor Liquor."
Now, if anyone needs evidence that our neighborhood has had its bad stretches, you need only visit Fair Liquor Liquor. Every square inch behind the counter is covered with bullet proof glass. And I mean every square inch. In order to purchase something, you put it into a plexiglass lazy susan (along with your money, ID, etc...). After the transaction, your bagged purchase and change is spun back over to your side. The whole place has a brutalized feel.
But, they carry fresh Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, so I often stop by there on my way home from work when we need beer. I was doing just that right before Christmas when the young Chinese guy running the place waved at me through the glass.
"I have a present for you," he yelled (because of all the thick plexiglass, every conversation between employees and customers is yelled).
He reached under the counter and pulled out a 2009 "Views of the World" calendar, courtesy of Fair Liquor.
"Here...for you...we give to best customers."
Normally, I'd be quite honored to be among an establishment's "best customers." But at Fair Liquor Liquor most of my fellow "best customers" were hustling for change on the sidewalk to buy another 40 of St. Ides or slumped down against the front of the store in a pool of their own urine.
He smiled at me (the only time I've ever seen him do so). I smiled back and thanked him for the calendar and wished him a good new year.
We had a few friends over for dinner that night and I told them all about my calendar. They were a bit jealous of my fortune--and I was oddly proud of my calendar.
In truth, I'm so excited to have it. Any shred of evidence that I belong in this weird neighborhood is cherished. I'm not sure where I'll hang it--but you definitely know it's going up somewhere.
So I'm going to out myself here and now: I love house porn.
It started years ago, when I'd look in the back of the New York Times Sunday Magazine to admire all real estate ads for insanely priced New York apartments and weekend homes. It wasn't that I particularly longed to live in places like these, I just always enjoyed looking at the listings.
It went to an entirely different level when we were looking to buy our house a year ago. Just for fun, after combing through hundreds of online listings for "practical" choices, I'd look at listings we couldn't possibly afford, but were beautiful homes.
Well, we bought our house, and I'd occasionally go back and look at the listings for expensive DC homes, look at the pictures, etc. Some people look at eBay or Amazon to kill time, I look at real estate virtual tours.
As you can imagine in Washington, for every block of ghetto nastiness, there's also quite a few blingy homes. Katherine and I often joke about nice houses: that we wondered what level of Hell the owner would someday occupy for whatever they did to afford these homes.
When I look at the listings, I often think to myself if I would live in this place, what I would change or replace (people who can afford big houses have the craziest bad taste, let me tell you), and so on.
Here is my current favorite: a new house in an exclusive DC neighborhood near American University. It has its own Web site. It is a beautiful house. Tasteful, thoughtfully put together. Oh, and it's $4.5 million. Like I said, I'm a realist--it's just an escape to look at and think about. 9,100 square feet, 6 bedrooms, 7 baths, a home theater, wine cellar, whole house electronics, and (of course) an elevator. Usually houses in this price range are awful--like bad taste threw up all over them. The place is new, I'm sure the fuck that eventually buys it will screw it up and fill it with gawdy crap.
To me, houses like this are like Scarlett Johansson: I know I could never possess it, but it is nice to look at.
