If it hasn't been said before, or frankly even if it has, I'll say it now- Superfluous is to blogs as Random was to college. It just slips in everywhere. No one can help it. No one can save you.

More stuff you would know if you lived inside of me or close by
1. Lately, I've had the urge to break into a run when I'm walking.
2. I think I am now able to mask my disappointment when I find out someone is married.
3. Marriage is not inherently disappointing.
4. At least I don't think it is.
6. There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but the closer you are to the bottom rung, the closer the lunch is to free.
7. I skipped 5 just to tick you off.
8. I'm thinking I need a vacation. The Washington-Oregon combination is currently leading stateside, while Iceland is momentarily tops in the land of the passport.
9. I am not Deep Throat.
10. The numbers on this list are freakin' superfluous.

Revenge of the Memorial Day Weekend
My weekend was like the new Star Wars for some (but probably not all) of the following reasons:
-I wasted two weekends previously so that I could finally make a good one.
-It was a constant battle of good and evil.
-It had some decent fight scenes.
-The acting was bad.
-Old friends made an appearance, except they aren't old friends yet because this weekend actually takes place before the weekends that already happened.
-Swedish furniture. It had nothing to do with the movie, but otherwise consumed me; not unlike the Dark side. huh.
-Both are over now and I'm none too pleased.

When I grow up
I'm going to be a liar.

I know when it started. It was 1997. All my life I'd worn blue jeans and the occasional sailor suit had been forced on me, but I knew one thing- I would never wear khaki pants. There was no doubt in my mind. I don't remember how it happened, but the next thing I knew I was a college boy and I wasn't wearing anything but.

Fast forward a few years to one of my early solo vacations. I was cruising along in the Carolinas in my khaki pants trying to figure out how to spend my hard-earned vacation days. As a kid, I remember grumbling with my sister about how my parents always skipped doing the fun stuff. When I grew up my vacations were going to be non-stop fun. Turns out the "fun stuff" costs a bunch of money and usually isn't worth it. Why didn't the folks tell me that? I would've understood.

At least I've still got my weekends. I can act like a big kid on those. Weekends are about goofing off for 48 consecutive hours, not for housework or yardwork or anything remotely related to work. It's a great system assuming that I want to continue to live in organized chaos. Turns out I don't. So goodbye Sunday, as I worked all day buying and assembling a Hopen wardrobe, which is just another enormous symbol of my sudden drive for increasing organization in almost everything. And as Monday slowly slips away I look at my mental to-do list and wonder how the heck I got to the point of long mental to-do lists. I never meant to want a clean bathroom, a haircut, a full refrigerator, exercise, a clean room, and on and on. I just meant to play outside with my friends until the streetlights came on.

Maybe that's what I'm going to do. Or maybe I'm a liar.

Concert
She smells of smoke and her lips taste like beer.
He carries a yoke and bathes in his fear.
Strobe lights flashing.
Her hands thrash madly. She pounds the drums.
His head pops at every cymbal crash.
Moved by the moment, carried by the crowd.
They stand still. Hearts like pounding bass.
Feedback. Throwback. Tipped heads back.
Sweat drops. Sweat rolls. Sweat won't put out the fire.
That burns. His insides. Connected and alone.
The music has faded but their ears still ring.
Lust like love before its jaded and their ears still ring.
And buzz. Like the alcohol that's washed away.
Disillusionment and cigarettes both leave that smell.

The white wires of freedom
or further reflections on a digital music player
Perhaps the "white wires of isolation" serve a higher purpose than I initially realized, though despite its divine form, I don't think it serves the higher purpose. In a world where we are increasingly bombarded by visual and audio messages in previously "quiet" places, the iPod and her digital sisters are the individual's latest defense. Take an airport for example. Don't take it, because they cost a lot to maintain and are even harder to store. Many airports constantly bombard waiting passengers with round-the-clock news. Only the deaf can escape the jabbering about the latest breaking story, but iPod offers some relief. A level of auditory control is restored to the individual.

When the beloved Metro adds TV screens to its cars, I suspect that a lot of eyes will wander to the images spewed on screen. I haven't heard if sound will accompany this additional noise, but I suspect there are board members who are unable to differentiate from commuters and consumers. Pupils roll back and are replaced by dollar signs. Marketers must love captive audiences. They are like prison guards that way. In steps the iPod and whisks you away from the evil onslaught. It's a prison break for the senses. Individual freedom is restored. And the orchestra music crescendos. Or the rock rocks. That's the beauty of it. The sounds of the world may have been signed over to someone with more money, but the sounds in your ears can belong to you.

I haven't even begun to address the freedom you regain from the overheard conversation. You can now rock in your own bubble to the likes of Meatloaf* rather than hearing that they guy next to you is having meatloaf for dinner. Glorious. Be careful not to miss all the conversations or you might miss a gem. I was walking through O'hare past a father and his two sons. I missed the first part of the conversation as they stared up at the dinosaur bones, but I heard the father say, "Nobody was born then." The cutest little voice asked astounded, "Not even God?" The dad replied quickly, "God was born then."


*This blogger does not actually recommend rocking to meatloaf, but will accept legitimate meatloaf-for-dinner offers.

This is what two years in the same job is doing to me
This week, I'm not leaving. My job has been stressful but good. My life is not that eventful, but not too shabby. I'm not feeling lonely. I'm not feeling bummed about my injuries-- I'll just exercise by bike. This strange turn of events has lead to a subtle shift in my thought process. I can talk about being vested without cracking up. I still use air quotes when I say "career", because career to me involves some path, preconceived if you're showing off. I'm talking about construction projects in my 'hood like I'm going to actually see them when they are completed. It's kind of spooky. I almost have the urge to start packing up my stuff just admitting this. Fortunately, I'm kind of tired.

The new ol' ballgame
Went to see a Washington Nationals game as Washington area residents are all now so keen on doing. Baseball is kind of fun. At least it was once and I could see how it might be again. I really liked the sax player at the top of the Metro stairs playing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" all jazzed up. The Nats managed a win with a single run in the 9th inning. I clapped and screamed like I cared, but I really didn't. The stadium made me feel a little cramped. At one point this woman's enormous purse in front of me was wide open and as I looked in I thought that giants looking down on the stadium probably thought I looked a lot like that tiny chapstick cap in the recesses of a purse. It would have been really cool if she would have had a replica of the stadium in her purse.

Might I recommend that you don't sit in right field if you want to see the scoreboard. And if you take the Metro, you might want to walk part way home. It could be a nice walk. Some nights I really like the city. Did you know that the Nationals mascot is an eagle named Screech? Did you know that a couple of weeks ago some paper had Dustin Diamond commenting on the mascot? It was Screech on Screech action. That's what it's all about, folks.

Dr. Peerpressure
or
How I started listening to everyone else and ended up in the waiting room

Dang it people. Stop telling me to go to the doctor when I don't need to. Dang it me. Stop listening. My ankle has been bothering me for a week ever since an incident where I rolled it which may or may have not been aggravated by my super smoove dance moves. It swelled up, turned a little purple, and started to transfer pain to other places on my body. Nothing I couldn't handle, but I let people see me limp. I let them hear me whine a bit and they all said "Go to the Doctor. It might be broken." PEOPLE. If it were broken, you'd see bone. Or at least I'd be wincing a lot more. Do you see me wincing? Exactly. Then I heard, "Oh, but when I broke my ankle it didn't hurt." Well, shucks I reckon I don't know what I ought to do. So I called the doctor. Immediatlely the blue color all but disappeared. The pain became minimal and I was off to talk to the Doc and feel like a real doofus.

"Der. Hey Doc. Nothing's wrong really. Just wanted to visit. Find out for sure that nothings ain't broken. Der. Here's my copay. La-ti-da."

The crowd likes cake in your hair and other lessons you should learn before your wedding

Overarching lessons to remember: You get the wedding and a life of bliss, make the reception memorable for me.

Lesson 1: DJ or band selection.
a. The DJ is critical. DJs who will accept requests for Madonna's Vogue immediately after playing Like a Virgin should not be hired. You should've done your homework. Consider a divorce. Also ignore that guy vogue-ing alone for everyone. He's not worth the film in your camera.
b. Cotton eyed Joe cannot go on the "Do Not Play" list. It's no wonder you weren't married a long time ago.
c. A DJ with a single letter as a name could suck. The "E" in DJ Lizzy E might not stand for ecstasy. Just sayin'.

Lesson 2. Make room for the dancers.
I'm not talking about the chorus line here, the flailers and the faux breakdancers need room to work. Provide that space and make it accessible to as many tables as possible. People that can find an excuse not to dance will likely "sit this one out."
2a. Leave a clear path for the "love train." It's a wedding people.
2b. The chicken dance is entirely optional.
2c. The kids love the YMCA. If you don't, you shouldn't have kids. Think about it.

Lesson 3. Tiny dancing asian girls are adorable, especially in pink dresses.
Note: This should evolve naturally. Hiring four year-olds to dance at your wedding is generally frowned upon.

Lesson 4. If I am the life of your reception, it's a low-key affair.
I'm not saying that I haven't pulled out some killer moves- diving into a groomsman's arms, piggyback rides, vogueing all alone. It's just that I'm a sideshow. Your party needs more of the elephants and flaming jugglers on trapez.... PSST. It's a wedding not a circus Oh. Right. Still. I'm not life-of-the-reception material.

Lesson 5. Speaking of me-- I'm aware that I'm sweating. I can actually feel it. The pointing it out to me-- PROBABLY UNNECESSARY. Thanks.

Lesson 6. Food. Drink. People like. Do it right. Two words: Tiny quiches.

Lesson 7. This is fun. Act like it, people. It's not like anyone's life hangs in the balance.
Oh. right.

Lesson 8. Cut that guy off. He's had enough.

More quick hits
1. The white wires of isolation run from our ears, the soundtracks of our lives all jampacked on a tiny futuristic box. Some bob their heads slightly moved by the music. Is this the Johnny Carson of our generation?

2. Why is it that in a time when everything is getting faster and faster, Instant winning takes longer? It used to be right there on the wrapper. Now you have to go online to see if you've won.

3. I carried a cell phone all day long and have suffered no ill effects. The problem, you see, is that when the phone rang I answered it and when I needed to make a call, I made it. That's what cell phones are for, you're saying. And I repeat- the problem...

4. I smell like trash. Marry me?

Look Steve, MEANING
Mr. Jobs has given my life new meaning. It's all about organizing, but it might be fun. Especially when I stop feeling like I need to wear plastic gloves to play with my new toys.

P.S. I'm cutting myself off from the "real world" and hibernating in the digital land.

Hopeless romantic no more
I’m almost frightened by the pleasure I take in the line from “you to thank” on Ben Folds new album Songs for Silverman.

In a song about weddings/marriage, the line goes a little something like: “Maybe they knew more than we knew/ As they danced and drank/ We jumped off the deep end

"Dave! Dave! Tell us about your No Pants Day! adventures"
Such is the chorus (in the mind) of a pantsless superstar.

Sit down my loyal fans and listen to this trouserless tale.

Fully-panted I made my way through another day of work. When the proverbial whistle blew I shed the shackles of the week and busted a seam right out of there. Some hours later dressed to the sevens (pants are worth two, or so I've heard) I made one final self examination in the mirror. No lumps, not that it was that kind of examination, nor is that a joking matter. Regardless, my super-starched shirt was in place beneath the black and silver vest and the sporty tuxedo jacket. A last minute adjustment to the lip-smacking red bow tie and a glance at the nearly black "Meet the Parents" boxers and I was out the door. My wingtips and black socks didn't even carry me a block before I heard the first cackle, "Put some pants on!"

"Can't. I'm headed to a No Pants party."

Off I went down the street, no doubt cutting a dapper outline against the moonlit sky. Moonlit here being the poetic way of saying light-polluted sky, but nobody says "light-polluted sky." Moonlit it is and I'm headed to the transport preferred by city slickers like myself. Good evening sweet Metro, please don't arrest me kind sirs. And they obliged.

Gliding on a moving staircase, I emerge, like a half-dressed God, onto the Metro platform where I am greeted by a throng of my fellow Friday nighters. Not my fellow Friday nighters as they all seem to have on their pants. Some chuckle. Some move away and some just stare. I smile. I stifle a giggle. Happy No Pants Day, I think to myself.

The train arrives and I stand waiting for the door. The doors open and a woman strides out. She looks at my shiny red bow tie and exclaims "nice tie." "Thanks," I say as she looks south. A quizzical expression crosses her face as our paths diverge.

My arrival at the party does not go unnoticed. While others have contributed to a growing pile of pants at the door, I have entered without pause; I have entered without pants. I won't be the last of the evening, but I will be the best dressed. I'm the prom date your mother warned you about. Only much older and probably a lot more innocent despite my glaring lack of suspenders. I'll spend the evening with the many Hefners in their bathrobes. A man in a lab coat and no pants will befriend me and a Superman in his tights will ignore me to hit on one of the many skirts.

At one point in the evening I will land on the couch. I'll watch as a small amount of dancing goes on around me. The kilted will shake their drafty moneymakers, as will the many boxered and t-shirted. Suddenly. I said, Suddenly, without warning, I will be attacked. My lap as dance floor and somehow after at least 14 years of planning I will be dumbfounded. Only able to throw my hands up in the air to fend off this surprising manuever, I will be laughed at yet again. It will not be the last time. It seems to come with the pantsless territory.

Many hours later, when No Pants Day begins to blur into the day after No Pants Day, I make my way home. Saying goodbye to the woman in lingerie and the Hefner that hosted it all I head back to the public transportation continuing my public display of calves.

Who should I meet? A pantsless Santa Claus! No. I'm lying.
I met a woman who was either high, drunk, or some combination of the three. She was very sweet when she was lucid. Try as she might, she could not fathom the location of my missing pants. At least three times she asked, "Where are your pants?"

digitalization of my face
i am one step closer to being just like everybody else. My pictures, my music, my life is becoming digitized.

When the pants come off
things just aren't quite the same.

There are moments when I feel pretty funny
I was at a wedding shower this afternoon. At that shower, each guest was asked to share one piece of advice with the bride-to-be about her impending matrimony and beyond. There were nearly 30 people in the room. We went around the table, and I quickly deduced that I would be giving the last piece of advice. I was surrounded by people that had been married for years, several as many as 25. Several had been married more than once. A few people made jokes, but mostly everyone took to giving advice quite seriously. Most of the advice fell into one of three categories. They told the bride-to-be to communicate. They told her to compromise. And they told her to keep her own identity. Heartfelt advice came from nearly every person's mouth. It was impressive and I couldn't think of a thing to add, except...

I looked at the group around the table and I said, "I'm feeling unqualified to offer much advice." There were a few snickers. I turned to my friend, the bride-to-be, and I said, "So I'll tell you my favorite advice to give, 'Ignore unsolicited advice.'"

Dear Hollywood,

I hate you. I hate the way you make love look like it's such a snap. Even when you put up little titles that say things like "three years later," it still seems so simple and instantaneous. Do you have any idea how long three years really is? It's a lifetime, especially for small children. I realize that on the whole you've done a remarkably good job of keeping the small children out of love, even in your romantic comedies, but you have to consider that in some ways I am still very much a small child and if you make something like love and romance seem easy, then I will want it for my own. And I'll want it quickly without all of the extra work. And when it doesn't just fall from the sky, I will have no one to blame but you. So, Hollywood, from this point forward, I would prefer that you portray love more accurately, or at the very least stop me from going to movies such as, A lot like love, because if Ashton Kutcher can make things go all happily ever after, then by golly why can't I? Further, if you continue to make these sappy movies and continue to allow me to watch them and think, "I had something like that once" and there were moments were "it was that easy", then I'm never going to move on and I will instead always be stuck in a freaking fantasyworld of your making.

Take some responsibility here and clean up your act, Hollywood. Romantic comedies are destroying marriages and forcing old lovers to reunite unwillingly. Bring back the singing and dancing of yesteryear. At least in those films the leads had to be frickin' talented to end up in love. Now any regular guy can meet the girl of his dreams and fall in love. What kind of message is that sending people?

I hope your spouse spits in your popcorn,
David

Speckled blue memories of Mexico?
Just listened to her new love, Jesus the Mexican boy. It took me back to a little yellow house I lived in when I was the less than two hands old. It didn't really take me back to the house as much as it took me back to a seat. The seat of my first bicycle was soft and vinyl, or something resembling vinyl. It was a banana seat, blue like the bike, with three quarters of a silver halo on the back end. Trapped beneath the blue vinyl were shiny blue specks. In the right light, or most any direct light, the specks seemed to dance on the elongated seat. I can almost remember my dad holding onto the halo, as I gripped the handlebars. I certainly recall the street where I learned to ride. It was 50th street. It was flat as could be and lined with well-trimmed lawns, perfect landing spots for a biker in training. The bikes brand escapes me now, as does the shape of the handlebars, but that seat I can almost press my 20 years older hand against its squishiness and watch the blue specks sparkle between my fingers.

Where I'm at, Ultimate-ly
I'm in a place where I am more excited to go watch a team I've been hollering at for two years than I am to play. I'm in a place where I can't see waking up in 6 hours to go prove myself to the new team in town. I'm so tired of recovering, the what I'm recovering for is starting to slip away.

Where I'm at, Halo-listicly
I spent the better part of my evening in video game "Kill. Kill. Kill." mode. I think I had some pent up aggression because I've never enjoyed Halo so much.

Where I'm at, Galaxylylyly
Saw the movie based on the book based on the radio show by Mr. Douglas Adams. The movie reminded me how much I enjoyed the books. In and of itself I thought it was fairly unmemorable.

Where I'm at
No turntables. No microphone. One jar of honey, tipped over, but bagged. One crumpled gray hoodie. One microfiber towel, folded then crumpled. One blueberry iMac on its decline. One vain calendar complete with Grandma and Prom Date. One safari hat atop one stuffed cushy backpack next to one comfy looking purple sheeted beddy bye.