eric nuzum dot com

How I almost accidentally got myself elected to office this week

ANC ballot1
Originally uploaded by sltaylor

"Do I need to vote this time?" Katherine asked me.

Living in DC, it is a reasonable question. Not every election "matters" here. We have no representation in Congress, obviously. And in a place where 92% of voters cast ballots for Obama in 2008, the real fight is for the Democratic primary. From there, the general election is kind of a foregone conclusion. It does beg the obvious question--does it matter?

On Tuesday, I walked into my local polling place in a futile attempt to exercise my civil duty. In the process, I almost (and still may have) elected myself to public office.

After reviewing the ballot for a few minutes, I came to one of the few ballot issues that does matter in a DC general election: ANC Commissioner.

In DC, ANC Commissioners (ANC stands for Advisory Neighborhood Commission) are the ground level connection between government and the people. They are supposed to help citizens navigate city government and solve problems. Trash collection missed your street again this week? You call the ANC Commissioner to help straighten it out. Streetlights not working and no one has fixed it after three calls? Call the ANC Commissioner. Having trouble getting a permit for your Latvian Heritage Festival? You get the point.

Being an ANC Commissioner is tough, thankless work. The position is unpaid, carries little authority or power, and is almost never a stepping stone to bigger political office.

So I'm sure you, like me, are not surprised that there were no candidates listed on the ballot for my local ANC Commissioner. None. No one wanted the job. The only line on the ballot was for a write-in candidate.

RIP, my favorite shirt. Long live my favorite shirt.

My favorite t-shirt
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

 "Do you have another shirt?" a friend once asked me.

I asked what he meant.

"I mean that I always see you wearing that shirt...don't you have another?"

Of course, I do, I said. But this is my favorite.

Admittedly, I wear this shirt a lot. Anyone who has spent time with me will recognize it.

I bought it in 2003 on a trip to Las Vegas that included a tour of Hoover Dam. I bought it because I loved that it didn't have anything on it except fun facts about the dam. No photo, no fancy lettering. Just fun facts.

Eventually, this t-shirt worked its way deep into my heart, becoming my favorite. But this weekend, word came down from Katherine: It's time to let it go.

Okay, so it is completely faded. Okay, so the silk-screening is cracked and started to fall off the fabric. Okay, so it has a nickel-sized hole in one of the armpits (which no one would ever see--I mean, how often do I go showing people my armpit). But it is my favorite shirt.

We've been through this with previous favorite articles of clothing too. It starts off as a suggestion. Then a stern suggestion. Then an offer to retire it for me. Then, a kinda-but-not-quite ultimatum. Then an actual ultimatum. Then, if the matter is still not resolved, one day the item of clothing goes downstairs to be washed--and mysteriously does not return. Then Katherine denies having any knowledge of the whereabouts or fate of said clothing item.

But this shirt is special. It has, literally, traveled the world with me. Think of any major event in my life in the past seven years and I guarantee you I was wearing that shirt for part of it.

Faced with yet another Old Yeller-like situation with a beloved clothing item, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

"Do we have any combustible fluids?" I asked Katherine.

Living in a city, we don't have a lawn mower, so no gas can. I was kinda shocked that I had such trouble laying my hands on something that would ignite.

"Why do you want a combustible fluid?" Katherine asked, her tone indicating that she already didn't approve of the answer I had yet to give her.

"I'm going to burn my shirt."

I explained that I just couldn't give it away (I would be heartbroken if I saw some ironic hipster wearing my t-shirt at a concert) nor throw it in the trash (imagine how it would feel, especially after all we've been through). I couldn't even consider cutting it up to save for a quilt or something equally as ridiculous. It seemed more fitting to burn it.

Katherine was understandably concerned. Giving the degree of craziness we've observed in our alley, lighting a match back there is probably not a wise choice.

"How would you feel if I said I wanted to take something into the back yard and burn it?" Katherine asked.

"I'd probably tell you that you should burn it in the driveway instead," I said. "That would be much safer."

Katherine suggested that if I had to do something, I should bury it instead.

But then what will happen is that in 100 years someone will be digging up the backyard to put in a hovercraft landing pad and will come across this shirt. They will look at it and say, "Huh, what a cool shirt...why would someone bury it instead of wearing it?"

I, honestly, could not come up with an answer for them.

 

Meet Herbert

My venus fly trap
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

You'd think at my age, I would have learned my lesson by now.

Whenever I end up caring about a houseplant, it always ends up disappointing me. In fact, I can't think of a single houseplant I've ever had that didn't end up crushing my dreams about houseplants. The ferns end up dead. The African violets end up wilting away. They start off looking lush and green, but then, reality sets in...again.

But I never seem to learn my lesson. You think I'd learn after all this time that I should stop getting emotionally attached to houseplants--because I know it will always, always end up in the same place.

So I've decided to go in a different direction.

Thus, Herbert.

Herbert is a Venus Fly Trap. For some reason I can't really explain, I've always been fascinated by these plants, but never knew how someone could raise them. They eat meat, right, so...do they have babies? Do they lay eggs? Magically split into multiple fly traps?

I had no clue.

Ends up they aren't that much different than other houseplants--except they are totally different.

I found a place online, called Carolina Carnivores, which sold me a Venus Fly Trap for $7. That didn't seem like much of a risk, so I ordered it. A week later Herbert arrived.

I don't normally name houseplants, but figured if something was going to live in my house and eat meat--it should have a name. Herbert is as good as any name, I figure. He doesn't seem to mind.

Now, there are some particular things about raising a Venus Fly Trap.

Herbert, it could be said, is a sojourner. While he can lay down roots--he can't do it in DC soil--it is too acidic. So, Herbert lies in a cushy pot of peat moss. Herbert also can't deal with local water (it contains chlorine), so Herbert can only get moisture from rain water or (as is often our choice) bottled spring water.

Even though I was fascinated by Herbert at first, I was also, equally, a bit repulsed. I didn't want to touch him. When he started to grow and needed a bigger pot, I didn't want to touch his roots, either. I know what happens to the leftovers when I eat meat, so I figured the same would be true for Herbert. God knows what is mixed into those roots.

So Venus Fly trap. Check. Peat moss. Check. Bottled water. Check.

Um, what about the flies?

Herbert had been living on my porch for about two weeks and I hadn't noticed any of his traps closing (a sign that he has caught a meal). I figured that he had to be starving and that I should help him out a bit.

It just so happened that a big, juicy spring fly had made its way from the front porch into the house earlier that day--so I went about trying to catch him for Herbert. Here is the rub: I'd have to catch it alive. For some reason, raw meat and dead bugs are unhealthy for a Venus Fly Trap. It has to be fresh--as in alive.

So I went about chasing the fly around our house trying to swat it--but only swat it lightly enough to stun it. This is more difficult than it may sound, as I was constantly missing the fly because I was second guessing how much force to use.

The next morning, I managed to take down the fly--I think I broke a few of his kneecaps with my pansy-like swat. Then I quickly scooped him up and carried him outside to Herbert. As soon as that squirming fly hit Herbert's leaf, his trap snapped shut like like a mouse trap. It was an amazing sight.

So Herbert digested the fly for a few days and then slowly opened his leaves again, letting the leftover fly parts flit away like pieces of ash in the breeze.

Herbert never showed any gratitude. Never really did much of anything--since he is a houseplant.

But, he survived.

Since then, Herbert routinely catches flies and mosquitoes on his own (don't know if he has a preference). And every time is as fascinating to watch as the first.

And Herbert is doing great. He just recently sprouted a flower for a little spring pollinating. (Does that mean he is a girl?)

I'd like to say that Herbert had renewed my faith in houseplants. But the truth is, houseplants are houseplants. Herbert is Herbert.

Rest in piece

This morning I got up and did something I've been meaning to do for some time: kill off probably the most popular thing I've ever done.

I turned off my Web site that documents the history of music censorship.

(I'd provide a link, but it is, um, gone.)

It started as part of a First Amendment law class I took in 1997. Every student was required to do a "creative project" as part of the final. I did a small six-page Web site called "a brief history of banned music." (Archive.org's Wayback Machine does show a slightly-beefed up 1998 version here.)

That class project seemed to be the end of it for a few weeks, when I suddenly started get dozens of emails a day about it. For a week or so, the emails were coming in by the hundreds. Netscape and Yahoo had listed it on their home pages under their "What's Cool" sections.

Then came write-ups in Entertainment Weekly, Yahoo magazine, San Francisco Chronicle, Village Voice, and the Houston Chronicle.

Also during this time, a book editor contacted me asking if I'd be interested in expanding my thoughts into a larger form. Though it is oversimplifying the story, the site's also responsible for my first book contract.

It just kind of exploded and stayed exploded for many years. At its height, tens of thousands of unique visitors would come to it every week. In its twelve year history, I think I can safely say the number of people who read it is several million.

While I'm sure fake blogs by Terri Schiavo have probably reached more people, that isn't too bad for some nobody kid from Ohio who wanted to change the world.

I always have respect for people who stick with one thing for years, even decades. I am not one of those people. I'm interested in many things and when I've finished exploring an idea or topic--I want to move on to another.

I moved on from exploring the complicated issues and history behind attempts to censorship music, but kept the site up for all this time because it was so popular.

But there has been a not-so-fun side as well. Forget the periodic threats and hate mail for a moment. Search just about any unique string of words on the site, and you'll see how it has been pilfered, stolen, and spread hundreds of times by others (often claiming it as their own work). I know of three students who have failed classes because their instructors busted them for lifting material from my site (two of the students were required to write and apologize to me as a condition of their punishment). Seeing your work stolen over and over and over and over just got too depressing.

Keeping up the site would have required work. Work I don't want to do with time I no longer have.

Turning it off this morning made me happy--it felt freeing. I feel good that I don't need to hold on to it. I feel glad that I've done something that so many people found useful. I'm thankful that, despite its hugeness, it does not (and can no longer) define me.

We had many adventures together, dear censorship Web site, rest in peace.

Supercycle!

It's still a Super-Cycle!
Originally uploaded by gardinergirl

When I was eight, I decided that I wanted to write books. So I did. While my most elaborate work was a military action story staring my friend Robbie Compton, my first tome was "Supercycle."

After I'd finished "Supercycle," my mother typed it up as I'd written it, photocopied and stapled a few copies (bound in red plastic) and mailed them to my grandmothers.

In my mind, I was a published author.

In the great basement purge of '09, I found one of the original "Supercycle'' books. Below is the text of "Supercycle," pretty much in it's entirety, as it appears in that book.

SUPERCYCLE PART I

SUPERCYCLE

"On planet Mars," said my friend Ted. "The Martians are bikes."

I said, "No way, Ted."

"Maybe!" he said.

"O.K. Ted, I'm waiting." I said to him.

"O.K."

A long long long long time ago, on Mars, the Martians are bikes. On the 12th of Never. A baby was born. But on Mars it's a blessing. They name him Cycle, Jr. Because his mother's name was Handlebars. And father's Cycle. He was called Cycle Jr. because his father was the Mayor of Mars.

On day it was 10,000 degrees F. Too hot to live on. Spaceships are sent out! Cycle Jr's mother and father died of heat rays! Spaceships are blowing up. Mars life is dead. The spaceship carrying Cycle Jr is the last one. It’s in Earth's Inerzone! Crash! For ten years asleep. 

At the age of 11 he waked up. In two days he had "SUPERPOWERS."

Necessity is the mother of invention

scene march 27 1996
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

I was going through some boxes in the basement this week and came across this. It is from Scene Magazine in Cleveland from March of 1996.

I think the only reason I kept it was because I was so blown away by this person's creative genius.

Not only does he get people to send him free home-made porn, but they enclose some cash as well.

Why don't I ever think of these kinds of things.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I want a bunch of Scene classified-reading Clevelanders sending me their home-made porn.

Who be the man? Metro driver be the man.

McGruff is a perv
Originally uploaded by NCinDC

Here is a life lesson from me to you: Never fuck with a DC Metro bus driver.

Thankfully, this advice does not come from personal experience. I'm the dork who says "good morning" to the bus driver when I get on and "thank you" before exiting.

I come by this advice simply by reading the paper.

The first was this story of a metro driver who pulled his bus up to a guy dressed as McGruff the Crime Dog, got out of the bus, punched the McGruff dude so hard he fell over, then got back on the busy and drive away. Yes, the bus driver did this.

The second is the story is this one, about an off duty Metro bus driver who decided to put on a mask and try to carjack another guy (who happened to be an off-duty police officer). Next came a shoot out between the off duty public servants, and now Metro has a job opening.

A quick review of both drivers' pasts reveals they were both convicted felons, which is completely fine by Metro. They will, by policy, hire just about anyone who has a couple years between them and their most recent offense.

Just keep that in mind before you flip off the bus driver who cuts you off in traffic.

Its all voodoo to me

voodoo doll found outside my door
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

The other morning as I headed into work I stopped cold in front of my office door. There, in front of it, was an eight-inch voodoo doll. No idea what it was or how it got there.

Weirder yet. It was kind of a "nice" voodoo doll. As in it didn't have any pins stuck in it or nasty evil things written on it.

Even weirder still, it was wearing a black dress, checkered pants, and had spiky black hair.

What could this be? I wondered. What does it mean? Who put it there? Was this voodoo doll put for me to use against someone (and someone with checked pants, a black dress, and spiky hair, to boot)--or was this someone else's attempt to put some bad mojo on me!

Rather than some kind of mystical warning or puppet of pending doom, it looked like a character from a Tim Burton movie. So I wasn't scared or anything.

But I was intrigued.

As people would walk by, or in and out of my office, they would remark, "Umm, what's up with the voodoo doll?" I'd tell them about its mysterious origins--and then they'd get really interested in the "where" and "why" as well.

Scuttlebutt about Eric's voodoo doll spread further around our floor all day, then finally in the late afternoon someone was discussing it when my boss walked by.

"Oh, I put it there," she said.

No one asked her why. Maybe they didn't want to know--or feared that our voodoo priestess boss would leave them a voodoo doll too for being nosey.

Later I asked her about it.

"I bought it for my son and he was scared by it," she said. "So I thought you could put it with the skulls and Grim Reapers and stuff on your shelf."

It is true, I do have a collection of skulls and Grim Reapers and stuff on my shelf in my office--which always makes those coming in for evaluations a bit nervous.

I asked her why she didn't tell me she was doing it.

"I thought it would be more interesting that way."

She was right.

Today is Annual Underwear Day

my 2009 underwear
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

I have many ideas, but very few of them are any good. One of my better ones, just about as close as I ever come to genius, is Annual Underwear Day.

Most people (not me) are doing laundry, getting dressed, in the gym locker room, or standing on stage in front a room of antsy and bored paying customers--and have an embarrassing revelation: they have hobo underwear. They notice, or--even worse--someone else notices, that their undergarments are covered with holes, tears, loose seams, discolorations, etc... You know, hobo underwear.

I am not one of these people. I never have these revelations. That's because I have absolute confidence in the condition of my underpants.

How is this, you wonder? Well, that's the genius of Annual Underwear Day. Once a year, or at the first sign of wear on any of my undergarments, I throw out all my underpants, go shopping, and replace the entire stock. No guessing, no fussing, etc... Just out with the old, in with the new--once a year. I do the same thing with all my socks (usually shortly after replacing my underwear). All the socks go--on the same day, replaced with all new ones.

I started doing this about five or six years ago. At first, my wife was very resistant to the idea, mostly because it included a provision that forbid her from buying me any underwear, for any reason, during the course of the year. She doesn't like being told she cannot do something, even when that thing is buying underpants for her husband.

She has eventually warmed to the concept, mostly because I invite her to come along and edit my buying choices. This year she came up to me to review my choices before checking out and only had one thing to say:

"You need more green," she said.

Whenever she goes clothes shopping with me, and the clothing in question has a green or greenish color option, she always tries to get me to purchase it. She read somewhere that green brings out the color in blue eyes, and she has taken this as one of her life missions.

"This is underwear," I said. "How is wearing green underwear going to bring out the color in my eyes?"

She grabbed two of the pairs I'd picked.

"I don't like these," she said sweetly. "Why don't you pick out something green to replace them?"

I did.

(My previous self-tributes to the genius of Annual Underwear Day can be found here).

Framed

trying--and failing--to be clever
Originally uploaded by ericandkatherine

In my office at work, I've collected random photographs of my wife, dog, family, and friends. They are often stuck inside the corners of frames holding other photographs of my wife, dog, family, and friends. 

One of my co-workers spotted this issue and thoughtfully gave me a multi-photo picture frame as a holiday present (which I promptly broke while taking it home to fill with pictures).

For awhile I've been planning to get a digital picture frame for my office. So this past weekend I noticed that they were on sale at Best Buy and thought I'd pick one up.

When I got it home, I started to comb through pictures of my wife, dog, family, and friends--when I realized I had a problem. A very large number of my personal photographs contain someone flipping the bird at the camera.

I, myself, have a long tradition of camera flipping. For years part of the routine of family photos has included double checking to make sure I am not sneaking a middle finger into pictures with my Grandmother (seriously).

Well, you reap what you sow, I guess. I chucked photo after photo off my list because someone thought they'd be clever by doing what every one of us does when having their picture taken.

The worst part was Monday, when I brought it in to work and discovered that I hadn't eliminated all the middle finger photos. I was in the middle of a meeting with several people in my office when the photo above faded in.

So, yesterday I had to bring home my memory card and look at each photo, carefully, just to make sure they were all gone.

I found two others. Hopefully that's it.