'tis true, I'm a liar
Now that Daimon mentions it, I do recall a very brief stint with Friendster that involved signing up and shutting down. "I did not have relations with Friendster."

Daimon does bring to light a bigger issue. In the style of Blair, or that USA Today guy, or Pete Rose, or Mark W. from 5th grade, I'm a liar and a cheat, especially in this venue.

Here are three of the more recent indiscretions:
*Reuben and I missed the Squirtle like 25 times before we were able to knock it from its perch for the third time.

*The Easter Egg Hunt that involved moving furniture, never happened.

*I'm not too frugal to buy my own camera, I'm just not moved to do so.

I'm not sorry. Deal with that. If I can't lie here, I can't tell the truth.

Orkutyerheartout
A friend of mine, we'll call him Adrian because that's his name, invited me to join orkut. Orkut, at first glance appears to be much as I imagined Friendster to be. I never joined Friendster, because no one ever invited me. I assumed this meant I had no "ter" because I still maintain that I had and have friends.

These Friendster/Orkut type places seem to be about networking socially and professionally and longitudinally or something. I am not an avid networker. One, if one was so inclined, might call me borderline miserable at networking. Seemingly, a site which would allow me to network from the safety of my own computer would make for an excellent resource. That is until I realized that Orkut SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF ME. Don't believe me? When I terminated my account (after asking Kristin and Reuben to be my friends, no less) the Ork people had a little exit interview that asked why I terminated my account. My response, and I quote, "This scares the crap out of me." See?

My first question after "Why did this scare the crap out of me?" was, "What's the difference between a blog and a networking site?" I struggled with this question for a little while. Here, you have to come up with some of the answers on your own. I don't just tell you that I'm a decent fellow, it is required that you infer it from my tales and my one liners. (I'm a decent fellow.) I don't think I like being in list format, even for my friends of my friends to see. I'm not comfortable with the picture that presents. If you want a fairly accurate picture of me I suppose you could read all the archives at Do Topia and figure things out, but that requires some effort and again requires your perceptions of me, more than my perceptions of me, though the two can't ever really be truly separate, especially in an environment like this. (Another way to get an accurate picture of me is to mail $19.95 to P.O. Box ... ) Then is it merely volume that gives me privacy? I'm not sure.

What I do know is that networking sites are not for me. I'm more than a list and if I really need to meet a friend of a friend, I hope you'll introduce us.

It's a draw in the Squirtle Shoot Out
When my housemate offered up a giant rubberband, I couldn't fight the urge to shoot something. I pulled the band back and then slowly spun around the kitchen. Everything looked fragile, like a picture frame or extremely resistant to rubberband damage, like a refrigerator. Noticing my desperation, the Sandwich removed the picture frame and replaced it with a Squirtle (it's part turtle and part plush.)

I took aim at the poor Squirtle and fired that rubberband right through his plush skull. When I say through I meant off. The poor Squirtle tumbled off the speaker and fell to his first death. Squirtles may be related to cats, because this one came back for more. The Sandwich and I repeatedly took aim at the Squirtle and we sent a volley of rubberbands in his direction, but after that early hit the Squirtle had gained a certain skill at dodging the rubberband fire. After spinning the Squirtle around with one particularly close shot, the Sandwich was able to again knock the Squirtle from his speaker perch. Still the Squirtle battled back to his position of high ground. It reminded me of the War of 1812, or at least that song on the record my dad had about the War of 1812. You know the one, "We fired our guns and the British kept a coming." Sing it! "We fired once more and they began a-runnin' down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico." Only the Squirtle wasn't going anywhere. And we were missing badly. Then we looked at each other and declared that the next one to decimate the Squirtle would be declared the victor. We took aim together and fired those rubberbands. The Squirtle took my band in the chest and as he was reeling from that one, the Sandwich's band finished him off with a brutal blow to the head. We had defeated the Squirtle together and the carriage house would live to see another day of fighting those with severe disadvantages! (Insert Battle Cry) And Singing! WE FIRED OUR GUNS AND THE BRITISH KEPT A-COMING. WE FIRED ONCE MORE AND THEY BEGAN A-RUNNING, DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI TO THE GULF OF MEXICO.

Make mine Supreme
They're real! They're real! They aren't just in history books or in big white buildings that I can't identify. They aren't just fictional characters checking and balancing with those other branches. They're real, and I heard them on the radio.

Sandra Day O'Connor didn't sound like I thought she would.

This is not a euphemism*
What is it about Beef Stroganoff that causes such a negative reaction? Is it the name? Surely not.

It can't be the taste. Have you ever had a bad batch of Beef Stroganoff? In the spectrum of Stroganoff you can go from Mom's Stroganoff to Cafeteria Stroganoff in the blink of an eye. People just don't F up Stroganoff. I mean you've got your noodles and your beef and some magical gravy -not a liquid not a solid- substance and VOILA (that's French for "Ta Da" which is actually magician for "Whoomp. There it is" which is rapper for "BOOM" which is John Madden for... I've run out of synonyms) you have Beef Stroganoff and it's as tasty as tasty can be.

Yet, everyone I meet cringes at Stroganoff. Do people have bad Beef Stroganoff memories or are they just confusing it with something like mystery meat?

*This post has been edited from earlier versions because the poor Stroganoff humor was a distraction from the real message.
The real message, as a reminder is: "Why don't people like Beef Stroganoff?"

I'm a 25 year-old curmudgeon
*I holler at cell phones. I want to talk back when I overhear questions.

*I spit when I see Hummers, and snarl at other SUVs.

*I grumble about my impatience and the impatience of my generation.

*I am becoming increasingly convinced that "Big Brother" will be watching in no time. My own hypocrisy as a blogger at this concern is laughable.

*I have the sense that the more "we" improve the more "we" screw things up. I throw out fast food as my current prime example.

*Darn you meddling kids. I would've gotten away with it, too.

Mosquito
"I am a Mosquito and you are a Bug Zapper," I told her. She loved it. I knew she would. She likes to be bright and attractive and she chooses not to focus on her more devastating qualities.

And like a mosquito I am drawn to the Bug Zapper. I find the constant hum and glow to be soothing. I circle her broadening energy field losing focus as I am overcome by her brightness. I circle ever closer both lulled by the hum and thrilled by the light she emits. Intoxicated by my luck at finding something so spectacular I choose to land, to try and stay near the bug zapper. Then ZZZAP! ZAP! Z!


Nothing is as simple as a metaphor makes it.

Do all good people pass through the Midwest?
I don't know what it is about Midwesterners, or people that went to school in the Midwest, but I find that I like a lot of them. I would be remiss if I said I hadn't found others I liked, but after meeting 9 more good people from that locale, I have to wonder what it is that causes the 20-something crowd so much difficulty in finding good (good=compatible, interested in friendship, sharing some sense of basic morality, etc.) people after they leave the college set. Either post-college experiences kill off good people (and I know too many good people for that to be true), or the good people are in hiding. So, good people come out and play. I know you have your routines and your jobs and your lives to contend with, but it seems like a charming person like you would want to share with the world.

I'll be out there waiting for you. I'll be holding a disc in case you decide not to show, or in case you'd like to throw.

Yes, I'm still a freshman
or Do you think this will work?

You're hot. I'm sweaty. Should we get together?

In the box
I'm starting to feel confined by this little blogger box. It reminds me of my cubicle the way sometimes it seems to stifle my creativity and distract me by imposing these unnecessary boundaries.

Poetry and gravity
The difference between throwing and catching a disc and throwing and catching a baseball seems like it would be pretty subtle. It's throwing and catching, right? The disc floats and it's like poetry to watch. The baseball, due partially to my ineptitude and primarily to the forces of gravity, plummets to the ground. There's poetry there, but it's not my kind.

Fantasyland
I mentioned earlier, which you'll probably read later, that I went to the Josh Ritter concert last night. I don't completely understand concerts, especially encores. If everybody knows you're coming back, why leave?
My favorite nonmusical part of the concert was watching the women (HEY. LET ME FINISH!) fall in love, or confirm their love for Josh. When he first took the stage and started to sing, and then later whenever he closed his eyes tightly and moved his lips close to the mic, a far off look would start in her eyes and slowly descend through her whole body like she was being transported to a far off place, probably one with happy endings.

Cooking with bachelors
This house churns out brownies like we're having a bake sale. I actually have a little brownie following at work. I've got brownie groupies asking, "When are you bringing in brownies again?" Relax, people. It's a mix. It costs $2.00.

Blame it on the train
It occurs to me that the reason I feel so horrible on my commute home is because I'm surrounded by negative energy. It then takes 2/3 of my walk to shake all that junk off.

Going places that aren't here
While Josh Ritter made me want to move out West. (He's got a song called Lawrence, KS; it's even better live I found out last night. The song that is, not Lawrence.) I'm still pretty happy giving sad excuses for tours and taking bad pictures at home. Clare'll show you, because I'm also too frugal to buy my own camera.

Thanks, Clare.

It looks like I'm an Administrative Professional
and all the glory that goes with it.

It looks like I'm a runner again
and all the crap that goes with it.

and vice versa

The dangers of spring
More squirrels? Nay.

I fell in love 5 times today.

Her rich brown eyes look right past my morning glance. A
plunging neckline to lift the midday spirits.
Some witty self-effacing prose.
A brand new flick, a study in backhand grips,
and drums. I didn't even know drums could be sexy.

She's too old and she's too young.
She's too unapproachable and she's too engaged.
She's too unknown.

I never fell in love today.
I carried myself away
on the breeze of spring,
and then dashed my own hopes
against the rocks of fear.

No Delaware for Clare
I had intended to introduce Clare to Delaware this weekend, but it was not to be. Diana proved to be too great an adversary. I was willing to overlook our late start, my broken down jalopy, and even Clare's now surfacing doubts, but when Diana threw out that Clare had never been to D.C. before, I caved.

So, while there was no Delaware, I got to spend a splendid afternoon with two lovely ladies hitting the tourist spots. I hadn't spent that much time with Clare since our trip to the Columbia carnival. We almost died in the teacup ride there, but thankfully we survived. I hadn't spent that much time with Diana ever. It could have something to do with the fact that I was scared of her in college. I am happy to report that I now have one less fear.

Today may have been a loss (albeit temporary one) for Delaware, but I'd say it was another victory for blogs and their communication power. 2.5 cheers for blogs! Hip, Hip, Hooray! Hip, Hip Hooray! Hip Hip

The dance of death
Sometimes in the hallways there is an awkward moment when two people want to take the same path. They'll shift left as I shift right. I'll shift right as they shift left. Then we stop and smile and say, "Pleasure dancing with you," or something equally banal as one of us nods the other past.

Today I did that same dance with a squirrel. Only I was a giant hurtling along at speeds of up to 45 mph and the poor squirrel was pissing his squirrel pants in fear. It was not a pleasure dancing with the squirrel. I hope the squirrel is now dancing with all the lady squirrels in squirrel heaven. Sorry, squirrel.

Dude. Who was that?
I chuckled when Randy shed his email identity. How can you be attached to an address? Silly man.

Who is laughing now? With the lease on my AOL account up it isn't me. At first I felt like I was sending a little piece of me off to the electric chair. It'd be gone forever. No one would write. No one would call. (I realize that my email address does not affect Carriage House call volume, but I have noticed that when no one writes, she also calls.) I was that unpronounceable string of letters followed by @aol.com for almost 8 years. In 8 years I've grown. a. beard. And some other stuff and my online identity was there the whole time. Was I an extension of it or it an extension of me? (I have this same trouble with hobbies. I'm working on it.)

I did it though. I created a new identity, more powerful and more pronounceable than the last. I emailed everyone I knew, half of their addresses were no longer valid, meaning I know half the people I thought...

Already I have seen astounding results. Neighbors from freshman year of college are stopping in to say hello. My father has mocked me. It's all quite telling really. It tells me what I used to do before I was blogging (a big concern of mine last week). I was emailing individuals.

Which means in 8 years I've become increasingly distant... You're lucky I shared any of that...

Geez, you're nosey.

In the garden of fireworks
There are these white flowering trees at my Metro stop that were in bloom last week. I think they are done now and they are shedding everywhere. It looks like someone has raided a fireworks store and used "Snaps" all up and down the sidewalks. Wouldn't it be fantastic if Snaps grew on trees? Think of the madness when the Snaps fell off the trees. At first you'd hear little clicks every now and then, but when things really got cooking there would be Snaps going off at all hours of the day and night. Then again for those who choose to make their living by farming the Snaps tree, a Snaps harvest would probably be quite a chore. You'd either have to pick them off one at a time or you'd have to shake the tree and let them fall into some sort of giant soft sack. What a pain. That's why if I were living off the fat of the fireworks farm, I would stick to the bottle rocket harvest. You can rip those suckers right out of the ground and they're easy to take care of. Bumper crop, I tell you.

My Fortune cookies
"The start of an October Marathon begins on the couch in April"

"Love is easily attained, especially when renamed Lust"

"Everything does not remind you of her. She reminds you of everything."

"Your past and your future are always on a collision course."

"The cleaner the toilet, the cleaner the conscience."

"Your next decision is the first of many."

"A watch that tells no time is merely a bracelet."

"A great hat is not one which covers, but one which uncovers."

"Do not let activity define you, instead define activity."

"Do not let go of all the old ways, for without them there could be no new ways."

"Slow down while you speed up. You'll get there in time."

Oh, George
I just caught the tale end of Mr. President and his Q&A. I'm no political thinker. I don't have any insights to offer. I just know that whenever W speaks, my heart and head fill with dread. I can offer you no more than my gut reaction to the "leader of the free world". Dread.

After dinner sense
Before dinner I am baffled and furious by my lack of physical prowess, my unbelievable stupidity, the worthlessness of my very existence, and the horror that is junk mail.

After dinner, not so much.

The ring of self-esteem
I imagine you like me, or pretend to like me, for one of these 5 reasons.
1.You like that I'll tell you the truth if you ask, at least some truth. What is truth anyway?
2. I'm usually up for it, if it's cheap and legal or should be cheap and legal.
3. Like any retired circus monkey, I'm amusing to have around.
4. I'm here. You can't seem to lose me. It's not that you haven't tried.
5. Some other reason that isn't reason one through five.
6. Except that now five includes itself, creating this unending loop of reasons why you like me. Aw. That's sweet.

The greatest banjo player in the world
For a second there I was Bill Monroe, or Earl Flatt, or Lester Scruggs (actually that's Earl Scruggs or Lester Flatt, but then you knew that) or one of those other famous banjo players that nobody has heard of. For a second, it felt like I wasn't faking it, like I wasn't in a Matchbox 20 video. I was the greatest banjo player in the world and with no one listening no one could disagree. Then the second passed. Even if I never get back to it again, even if I am unable to ascend to the dizzying heights of banjo superiority, to climb that metaphorical mountain and raise my banjo at the pinnacle, I'll know, and now you'll know, that for one second I was the greatest.

And now I'm past my prime. Curses.

What Easter Monday means to me.
What am I? From North Carolina?
Go roll an egg.

What Easter means to me
I dropped a piece of egg-shaped candy behind the couch. I rifled through the games and blankets below the couch, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I moved the couch out away from the wall and poked through everything again. I tossed the couch cushions aside, but nothing. I gave up, put everything back where it belonged, and then noticed the little candy sitting under the end table.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.

Weather report
The winds of change are blowing. At the moment it's just breezy and swirling.
Expect minimal precipitation, low barometric pressure, and a general cooling until right before the storm hits.
Stay tuned.

Postal report
Black jelly beans and Russell Stovers eggs have just arrived by Express Bunny. The kicker is the miniature rubber chicken. It smells funny, but it cracks me up.

Art news
The first attempt at framing my dirty laundry has resulted in an off-center effort. Further attempts to follow.

In politics
Since no one is here to stop me, I have elected myself Grand Master of Ice Cream and All Things Sweet. No one can usurp my power, except perhaps the ADA.

In sports
Mall walkers have taken to the streets because they like Spring.

Local news
The recycling and trash are on the curb. Rest easy citizens.

Lost in Transition
I lost a coworker today. Well, she's not lost because for two more weeks she'll be in the same cubicle and after that she'll be on some other floor in the building. So, lost may be a bit strong, but lost she is. It's too bad to. After 9 months in neighboring cubicles we've developed a pretty good understanding of one another. She pretends to listen when I begin my 2 o'clock rants about whatever might be on my mind at that moment- the department use of exclamation points, my favorite quote, the cell phone ringing on the other side of the cube wall; she has mastered the art of listening just enough to justify my words without actually having to respond. Probably quite like the way you feel right now.

And me, I've developed an understanding of her facial expressions. That's angry. Oh and that one is pissed off. That one is ticked. That's upset, wait, no, homicidal. So it's good for her that she's getting a new job. It's sad for the department though. And it's sad for me. Despite our apparent lack of anything other than being twenty-somethings in our first office job in common, we have shared lunch together for the better part of those 9 months. You might remember her from the good night punch. Once I knew where I stood, things got much better and much less emotional. We bonded as our cubicles were invaded by the "CRISIS" that always exists. And somewhere along the line I think maybe we became friends. I'm not sure what will happen when she's not on the other side of my bay window. And that's ok.

There's a quote that I've been searching my brain for that applies here. It's something about walking along with people. I'm pretty sure the quote was on the column outside the girls' restroom in FARC. (It was co-ed and the restrooms were by the lounge, so please don't get any additional funny ideas about where I spent my time in college.) The gist of the quote was that some people are around for most of your journey and others for only a small portion, but we gain a little something with each encounter. And of that, I have no doubt. Cheers to her.

Blogging about blogs and fear
Modpodge is shutting down. Temporary wisdom is already gone. Just like Therapy and Candy and Monsters haven't posted in so long I'm near giving up. Is the blog fad coming to an end? Scary. Especially considering no one was able to remind me what I did before blogs.

Scarier though is the thought of attending the DC area "blogorama". It's a get together of DC bloggers on Thursday at the Rendezvous Lounge, 7 pm. Meet people? Formerly faceless people whose thoughts I might've read? I'm not sure I'm ready for that. It's not the meeting that I mind, it's the talking after the meeting.

Remind me again
What did I do before blogs?
The fast is broken while I check a few blogs to see who updated after I hit the hay. I'm chompin' at the bit waiting for my PBJ when I stop to check a few more to see who updated while I was busy working. Slackers.
Soup's on for din-din, but I'm making the full rounds wondering who updated since lunch? or since March 4th if you're a particularly under-achieving blog friend of mine.

I'll throw in some comments throughout the day if it seems worth it. I'll try to think of a post for myself and my loyal readers. Check some blogs to see if I missed anything. Post. Call it a night. Drink some whiskey.* Curl up with my little pillow mashed down on the top of my head and try to sleep. Get up and check a couple more blogs in case anyone posted while I was tossing and turning. Back to bed. Dream about blogs in another language-like Canadian. Wake up. Repeat.

*All the facts contained in this blog have not been checked. And sometimes the author has a tendency to embellish, like the time he said that water was whiskey. That dirty rotten liar.

I just can't do it
I either want to write about how being scrappy applies to all my life or I want to write about Hellboy being a piss-poor romantic comedy and a slightly below average movie-going experience. Or maybe I want to write about Lost in Translation currently vying to knock Swingers off the top of my favorite movies list. Instead I'm going to type a bunch of letters as fast as I can and then go to bed akf;hasfjidsajg;sfgklsajdghs;lkfjg;asjf;dsklf

Like guns
It's not that cell phones are inherently bad, (unless they cause cancer, but forget that for a moment) it's that some people just shouldn't have regular access to them.

It's not that I'm afraid
There are a few things that have given me pause lately.

1. It's a little intimidating knowing that Kristin's mom is reading this thing while on vacation. What if I let her down? What if I turn her vacation sour? What if she is using this as a cure for insomnia and I accidentally slip something entertaining in? Then what? I know. I KNOW!

2. It's a little intimidating knowing that at least 3 professional copy editors and numerous (like at least 6) other real smart folk read this thing.

3. It's a little awkward when a coworker announces her pregnancy and everyone has to feign full-fledged joy, when what they really feel is that mix of joy and dread.

4. It's a little awkward when a coworker mentions that your sense of humor is not so broad today, but seems shocked when you agree.

5. A disgusting weekend of Ultimate is still better than a disgusting ball of pus and mucus.

Tale of a failed metaphor
They tore down a house at the end of my street except for two walls. One of those walls has a door and a window. It's not difficult to picture a couch and a TV in what could have been the living room. Look through the house and the whole world is right outside the door and the window. Walk around. Look inside the house and the whole world is right there in the living room.
There's a metaphor there and it's just struggling to get out.

We interrupt this struggle to say, "Watch Wonderfalls." We now return you to your regularly scheduled struggle.

Is the whole world inside the house? outside the house? What does it all mean?