Twas the week before christmas...

... when all through the district
Many a creature was stirring, quite many a mouse.
The mittens were hung in the new apt with care,
In hopes that Snopacalypse soon would be there.

The cohabitators were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of SnOMG danced in their heads.
And Sasquatch in his ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the hall there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the door I flew like a flash,
To peep through the peephole and kick some ass.
...
When, what to our wondering ears should a-hear,
But a gaggle of drunks playing Rock Band.

No seriously, I have to break away from Moore's classic poem to emphasize the nature of our disturbance and its resolution. My new apartment lacks soundproofing from the hallway, and so any noise coming from another apartment, while not making its way through a wall, floor or ceiling, easily comes through the gaps around the door jamb and at the bottom. On this particular night, we were trying to fall asleep despite a party occurring down the hall, which we didn't notice until the Rock Band started, when we were jolted awake by these charming lyrics,

"I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR GAY BAR, GAY. BAR. GAY. BAR. GAY BAR. GAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY BARRRRRRRR."

**hope-filled, breathless pause in which we thought it'd be over**

"AT THE GAY BAR GAY BAR GAY BAR WAAAAOHHHHHH!"
...

"What the hell?"
"I don't know"
"Is that even a song??"
"Apparentl--"

"I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU, SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU AT THE GAY BAR GAY BAR, GAY. BAR. GAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY BARRRRRRRR. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

At this point we couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of a) the song, and b) the clear, emphatic, enthusiastic enunciation of the singer.

"I think this is what hell's like."

"I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR GAY BAR, GAY. BAR. GAY. BAR. GAY BAR. GAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY BARRRRRRRR."

I need to emphasize here that it sounded as though this person was standing at the foot of the bed saying these things to us--that's how clear we could hear it. And we really couldn't hear the accompanying guitars or drums, just the rhythmic proclamations that someone, somewhere down the hall really, really wanted to take us to a gay bar.

Eventually Sasquatch had had enough, and he went to pound on their door. Upon seeing a 6 and a half foot sleep-deprived man with crazy hair and scowl, the guy apologized and said they'd keep it down. Sasquatch didn't even have a chance to say, "Look, I know you want to take the entire hall to the gay bar, but we just want to get some sleep."

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

A Charming Mistake in Word Choice, Brought to you by BobCurry

Ryan, looking at a Christmas card my parents received: "Who are these people?"

Dad, looking at card himself, which has pictures of a family wake boarding and water-skiing all over it: "I don't know, but they sure do a lot of waterboarding."

I'm not sure that's what he meant, but what a delightful Christmas sentiment! The family that waterboards together, stays together!

Merry Christmas!

My first pie

So I had a bunch of cherries sitting around, and was sick of eating them plain, so to get rid of them, I decided to make a cherry pie! Instead of going to yoga as I would any other typical Wednesday, today baking was my stress relief/meditation time. First I had to eat dinner...



Ok that's not all I ate for dinner, don't worry. After that I breaded and fried some chicken and had steamed green beans and rice (such a well rounded meal! I know, you're impressed). But I had to get good and liquored up first with all this baking in my near future.

Ok on to the baking..

oh wait! No, no no, first I have to do dishes.


ok, NOW on to the baking. I decided to invest in a cherry pitter for this little project. Coolest. Gadget. EVER. It shoots out the pit like a nail gun and has a little protective shield so you don't get cherry juice everywhere (though I still managed to get it all over my white shirt somehow).


That's it on the lower right. After that was done, I added a shit ton of sugar:



"Shit ton" is actually the measurement that my baker brother suggested. That's what you get for taking baking advice from a poop doctor. But I digress...

I added lemon juice because I was using sweet cherries instead of sour (I think...with no comparison who the hell knows?)

Then I stirred that bad boy up (after adding tapioca)


Poured it into store-bought crust (I have neither time nor the counter space for dough-rolling) and jury-rigged some lattice work:


Baked, and voila!


A little spillover, but that's ok...right? Hopefully it takes ok and the whole foods crust isn't narsty : / I want to eat it now! With vanilla ice cream! But I think it has to "set." Will update with how it tastes...

Things said outloud while browsing match.com

I didn't realize you could browse match.com for free, so I put in my zipcode and had at it. And I have come to the conclusion that I am far too much of a misanthrope for online dating. Upon realizing this, I decided to keep a running list of things that went through my head while browsing:

"What is wrong with his HEAD?!"
"You're only interested in women up to 5'7?? But you're 6'1! And so cute!"
"You're GAY."
*deep sigh*
"Oh GOD."
"Barf."
"Hey, here's an idea. If you want a girl to go out with you based on a picture and a profile, it's probably not the best idea to post a pic of you surrounded by a bunch of slutty girls in a bar."
"You're Goal-oriented? WTF"
"Really? Your job is to sell medical 'divices' and you can't even spell the word device?"
"You're wearing a pink polo with the collar popped. That's a joke, right?"
"If you have a great sense of humor then why isn't your profile funny?"
"Manners are important to me. 'Manors' are not."
"Ew! ew, ew, ew, ew, ew."

Ugh...I'm BORED.

to be depressed...

...and have only two books in the queue, one a memoir detailing the year following the death of a famous author's husband, and the other a series of essays on loneliness and recipes for one, is not recommended.

Crawling just ain't my style

Yes I'm the kind of people
You can step on for a little while
But when I call it quits
Baby that's it

Nina Simone F-ing rocks.

Evading the Hour

I heard a piece on the radio the other day about a man who walks around in a Superman costume sometimes. A real, honest-to-God authentic Superman costume. And he just throws it on and goes to a bar, or fills his car up with gas, acting otherwise normal. He doesn't get made fun of--he actually gets respect and attention because people are impressed that he has the balls to do such a thing. And he's apparently a really nice guy. So anyone intending to make fun of him upon approaching is quickly dissuaded. Anyway, why does he do this? One simple, heartbreaking reason: his wife died a few years ago.

Huh?

What if the only reason we're not insane is because something tragic hasn't happened to us yet? Lately it seems like everyone around me is in pain and channeling it through some other endeavor, be it for good or naught. It occurs to me that more people than one might expect are walking around carrying invisible elephants on their backs, or hosting dinner parties wherein only the host can see the lumbering elephant hanging out in the corner. And here is my deepest worry, dear diary (er, I mean, blog): how will my escape manifest itself when the time comes? I'm sure it will come, (no one gets by unscathed). I guess no one can be prepared and there's no sense worrying...

Ok enough of that. A jumble of observations over the past few weeks and I needed to express it somehow. Unfortunately, my blog became the vehicle for that. I guess it shouldn't be surprising that the patterns I've been noticing in people and about life are nothing new. Getting through life despite the occasional crisis blindsiding you is the most universal human struggle there is, right? Maybe I should read more... I'm sure Joyce or Keats or someone figured all this out already.

On a lighter note, the following is something I was told the other day:

"Ladylike subtlety has never been one of your strong points."

hmm...I'll take that as.... a compliment! : )

And finally, speaking of private pain and, in this case, a very public vehicle for it, I was fascinated by this piece (or pieces, rather. There's over 180 parts.) at the American Art Museum (Smithsonian.) My fascination stems from a) it's pure bizarreness (is that a word?); b) the title: The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly (awesome); c) the fact that this guy was from SC and moved to DC; and d) anybody who actually prepares for the second coming of the Lord, well, it's always interesting to see what's involved (usually bomb shelters, preparing emails to your un-saved friends for delivery after the Armageddon, and/or mass suicides).

I now have a 8 x 5 iridescent postcard of this scene hanging in my cubicle at work.

I'm making fun, but truthfully I think it's really cool that a janitor from SC's secret garage work--which he may or may not have thought of as "art"--is on display at the Smithsonian.

And finally, because my favorite poems are way better than anything I write, I found an appropriate one:

The Hour
by Michael Lind

Maybe the moment recurs daily at six, when commuters,
freed from the staring computers,
elbow and bump in unsought intimacy on a station
platform with you, and frustration
rots what is left of your strength. Maybe the hour comes after
dinner, when televised laughter
seeps from a neighboring room; maybe the time is the dead of
night, when you ponder, instead of
dreaming. Whatever the time, you will escape it—by sinking
down with a book, or by drinking
secretly out in the dark studio, or by unbuckling
pants on a stranger, or chuckling,
one with a mob, in a deep theater. Soon, though, the hour
comes to corrode all your power,
pleasure and faith with the damp dread that it daily assigns you.
How you evade it defines you.