in this world

I’ve been remiss over the last seven weeks in not getting L. in to see an orthodontist. I actually did some legwork on this a few months ago at my semi-annual cleaning; I gave them a quick background and I asked them if they had an othro they’d recommend. Conveniently enough, they have one that comes to their office every Thursday to see patients and that seemed like perfect idea for L. She’s about 14-18 months into a two-year program so all we’re looking for are monthly adjustment visits until she returns to Omaha – or wherever – and has them removed.

I finally gave them a call this morning and rehashed the idea with the office manager and queried about getting her in Thursday afternoon. As if. What I unwittingly stumbled into was the maw of the “no people”; you know the tribe – can’t do, won’t get done, that’s impossible, are you fucking crazy? Yes, them. She tells me that he can’t do that kind of work because how could he possibly know (or learn) the inner workings of another ortho? How would he know what her plan was? What if this ortho would have done something different? It CAN’T be done. I pause momentarily before asking her a simple question: Are you telling me that no family has ever moved while having a child in braces? There was a long pause on the line. I followed up with: Do you think people decide not to sell a house and move because Jimmy has three more months in braces and they don’t know about the alchemy of braces in Nebraska yet? I told her that I had the contact information for her man in Omaha and all that needs to be done is to make contact, ask a few questions on the phone (I’m sure the two orthos understand the language), and then set-up an appointment. She takes my number and tells me that she’ll contact their ortho and call me back. Sounds good, I say, so I’ll hear back from you this afternoon? What? No? She tells me that she’ll talk to him on Thursday when he comes in; she is kidding, right? Does this guy live where there’s no phone? Maybe somewhere that requires him to teleport in from another galaxy? They are killing me.

(p.s. I just called back to get the number of the guy and do the work myself but the afternoon woman just said she’d give him a call and call me right back. Go figure?)

I had class on Friday night so I sent The Forty to see Orestes at the Folger Shakespeare Theater (I’d bought the seats about six months ago prior to getting my class schedule and child moving here.) They had a quick dinner in Rosslyn and then Metro’d in to see the show. When they picked me up after class there were great reviews (WaPo review here) from both girls so it appears their night out was a success. I’d taken L. to the Caps’ game the previous night and told her during intermission that she’d be hard-pressed to attend two more different events on back-to-back nights: crazy sports fans in red and a Euripides play.

t

guest room

(by guest poster)

Guten tag! I’m Todd’s younger daughter Laurel, and welcome to the first installment of Fantasy! (by a dork who can talk of nothing else.)  I’m thirteen and live in Omaha, Nebraska. I really want to be an author, and have started my first book with my laptop that my school handed out to all the eighth graders. Which is great, because I could steal the neighbor’s internet. One more thing you should know about me: I have an unhealthy obsession with anything magical (dragons, elves, mythology, etc.).

Have a lot less people than I thought read Lord of the Rings? Because yesterday my dad was driving me to camp, and he asked who the elves are in LOTR. When I told him who they were, he then asked me who the short guy with the ax was, and if dwarves and hobbits are different. While I was explaining to him about how no, hobbits are much more peaceful than dwarves, I was suddenly struck by what a geek I was. Considering one of my favorite topics is the logic of the characters within fairy tales and mythology, I’m surprised I don’t feel like that more often. But I mean, come on, who just walks into a creepy old lady’s house in the middle of the woods, even if it is made of candy, which is pretty much awesome? Not quite as cool as Baba Yaga’s house, because it walks around on chicken legs, and… I just got that geek feeling again.

Has anyone here read the Percy Jackson series, by Rick Riordan? Because you really should, if you like fantasy. It’s like a modernized version of Greek mythology, and it’s honestly one of the best series I’ve ever read (and I read more than most of the people I know.) It manages to be really funny without sacrificing action or plot, which is nice, and as I mentioned earlier, I’m a mythology nut, so it’s basically perfect for me. (PS: If you have read Percy Jackson and liked it, try The Shadow Thieves by Anne Ursu. It’s really good too, but Percy will always be #1 in my heart.)

Have you ever noticed how the gods in Greek mythology are kind of hypocrites? They find humans basically worthless animals, but then get mad when we ignore them or don’t honor them enough or something. They were upset about Prometheus giving us fire, so they sent Pandora with her jar (it’s not actually a box,) and insist humanity honors and sacrifices to them. Doesn’t really seem to be a fair trade off. Your kind-of friend steals fire for us, but that leads to us beginning to worship you, and you release a bunch of vices on us. Even-steven. And they seem oddly eager to punish us. Like the king Erymanthia (that’s the best I can spell it) once forgot to include Artemis in a sacrifice, and she released an enormous boar into his country. Hera doesn’t like Zeus’s son Heracles, so she drives him insane a couple times. Though admittly, her husband cheats on her all the time, and punishes her if she tries to get back at him, she’s allowed to try and get revenge on his offspring and girlfriends instead. But anyway, when Heracles (named after Hera!) is driven insane and kills his family, he gets punished for something that is blatantly arranged by Hera. Where does she get off?

Anyway, I hope you have been educated by this rather rambling blog entry, or else you’re probably entirely sick of fantasy. This has been the first installment of Fantasy! And yes, that means there might be more.

Be afraid.

Be very afraid.

frittering while it burns

All the tired seems to finally be wearing off and I’m almost recovered from a very long Tuesday – a twenty-hour day takes much more out of you at 43 then at 29. It also takes much more out of you when you’re massively out of shape. I’ll begin to remedy that very soon.

My old pal Buzz came to town last night and we plopped ourselves down in the front row of the club section at the Verizon Center for the Capitals v. Hurricanes game – he’s a ‘Canes fan; not much can be done about that. No talk of politics, just a hockey game and an exciting finish with the home team winning on a great goal with ten seconds remaining. When Alexander Semin scored the winner the place erupted and I sensed that all of D.C., so intense and divided over the last two years, was plenty happy to just cheer for a home team and not worry about anything for a few hours. It was quite nice.

Now, about baseball. I’ve made little secret of my lack of respect for the performance of Bud Selig as commissioner of baseball. Unfortunately, my calls have not been heeded and Sire Bud is still sitting in the commish’s office in NYC. Is my blog not powerful enough to bring down anyone? What we’re dealing with now is the endless ‘for sale’ sign hanging off the façade of my beloved Wrigley Field. It’s no surprise that the politburo of baseball owners would feel threatened by Mark Cuban’s ownership of the Cubs. Why? Because there’s not a single one of them that has any idea how to market the game, bring back the fans, or kick Bud Selig in the shins. Did anyone watch the World Series? Would I want to hang out with Cuban at the house on a Friday night? Nope. Would I want him to own the Cubs and re-energize MLB? Damn right. Under whatever rules exist (or were written by the oligarchy in charge) in baseball, there is a requirement for two-thirds owner approval before a team can be sold; Selig and his Great Lakes boys, who took over the game in the early 90s, can certainly hold off any real chance of Cuban winning the bidding war. Don’t think for a single minute that Selig isn’t the driving force behind keeping Cuban out of the club. David Stern can handle Cuban in the NBA after years of butting heads with him; Stern is a very smart man and could easily see that he’d have to find middle ground with the Mavericks owner. Selig isn’t smart enough to do that and he’d rather not have to use his limited skills in dealing with an aggressive and very successful owner. I don’t know what’ll happen in the end – maybe Chicago’s own Jerry Colangelo will win the beauty contest – but the Cubs and baseball will be worse off for not having Cuban in the league. Of course, Selig’s modus operandi is to do everything he can to ruin the game while making money. Nothing new. I’ll miss not seeing Baby Steinbrenner yapping at Cuban during some Winter meeting and getting smacked down for being a fool…I can dream, can’t I?

In the mass of birthdays (WonderTwin2 and G.), elections, traveling readiness for the boys, I neglected to mention that my lovely was notified on Monday night that she successfully passed the Massachusetts Bar. Much like the excitement shown by Pinnochio upon realizing he was real, I think she took a look at herself and realized she was finally, and in fact of letter, a real lawyer. And not a minute too soon as her partner in the firm had already dubbed her impertinent.

t

trains and spotting

I remember an entry earlier this year about the bus girls checking out each other’s fashion every time the 401 stopped and some gal the walked up the aisle towards an exit: heads swiveling, eyes glaring. It seemed a combination of both fashion grading and fashion idea theft. In order to present both sides of the sexual agenda I need to rat out the guys – at least the Metro train drivers. I suspect that the bird watching occurs primarily during the morning and evening rush hours as the flocks move in heel-tottering, well coiffed formation. I also believe that the actual Metro station has a lot to do with the view – those stations with the exits/escalators toward the head of the train provide the greatest cinematic pleasure. For those beyond the Metro confederacy, here’s how trains manage passenger exit (first) and entry (second). The train doors open upon arrival at the station and herds of folks pile out as new herds pile into the oft-packed cars. The drivers, after a few seconds in the station, open the platform-side window of their cockpits and stick their heads out in order to look down the platform so they have a basic idea of when the crowd has managed to complete boarding. Once everyone seems on board they trigger some switch in the cab, while still looking out the window, and signal a warning before the doors close and the train begins to pull out of the station. I know that’s a long description but it’ll come in handy. Any number of drivers during the morning rush spend a little extra time looking down the platform because they’ve spied hottie who’s exited three cars down and is waggling her little self towards the escalators located near the front of the train. I can tell you with absolute certainty that those long(er) stops in some stations can be confirmed by verifying the escalator location. If you happen to be getting off a train and heading towards the front you could simply catch a glance at the driver and you’ll easily find who he’s looking at – and he’ll look until he gets a walk-by, full view and all. Of course, he doesn’t have carte blanche on girl watching – anyone beyond three train cars isn’t get the eye…he doesn’t have that much time. I can’t really blame the drivers. If I spend a good part of my day in and out of the tunnels under D.C. and the greater metro area I’d need some fresh air and scenery. I’m just saying.

The Minnesota Vikings head coach says he’s going to continue using two running backs even as super rookie Adrian Peterson returns from injury this week. There are some good reasons to share the workload, and I don’t disagree in theory, but the excuse he’s giving is this – they don’t want to risk him getting injured again. Right. This brings to mind a great book / great problem called Fermet’s Last Theorem. The book, about the problem, is a grand yarn involving a mathematical theorem that us normal folk can actually understand. Fermet, an amateur math genius from back yon, put forth the following: for a3 + b3 = c3 (those are cubes) there are no whole numbers to make the equation true. Same idea as Pythagoras but with the mysterious threes included – “it’s a magic number.” As later mathletes attempted to prove this theorem they ante up the idea that the variables couldn’t be odd numbers (or even numbers, I can’t remember) so they could basically eliminate the search by half…all the odds (or evens). Of course they realized shortly thereafter (probably within minutes) that since we believe in infinity there was, in actuality, no reduction in possible numbers to test: infinite odds and infinite evens. I love that story. Anyhow, back to football. Since most injuries - particularly knee injuries - occur on freak plays and poor footing during a violent sport, cutting a players actions from 40 to 20 doesn’t really change the odds of him getting hurt. Are we assuming that freakish plays and injuries only happen on odd or even downs? Just wondering.

I’ll leave everyone alone.

T.

that reminds me of 2001

I waited for Esquire to publish the name of the Sexiest Woman Alive because I refused to believe the hype, and Poiret-ish detective work, put forth by some I know. I didn’t really believe the idea that it would be Charlize Theron because she’s about five years ago. Charlize Theron? What? I’ll have to read the article/results to figure out just what she’s been up to lately, I know of absolutely nothing, but isn’t currency part of the sexiest thing? There’s certainly a voting chunk that is aligned with popularity as the contest winner is discussed. Charlize Theron? Shocked. Of course, based on my belief that the Employee of the Month shouldn’t be a rotating award so other workers don’t cry or quit, the fact is – if the contest is Sexiest…Alive, what happened to last year’s winner (Scarlett?)? If she was sexier than Ms. Theron last year, what happened? Did I miss something? Is she sans sex this year? Is she dead? Even if you dispatch that argument there are at least four that far overshadow Theron: Blanchett, Ricci, Wiesz, and Swinton.

Cate


Christina


Rachel


Tilda


and last year's winner Scarlett


This has been way too much effort in addressing a wholly unimportant issue. Ooops.

On a more serious note - there's an Christopher Hitchens article in the new Vanity Fair that's unbelieveably thought provoking. As I've said before, Hitchens is one of the great philosophers and writers of our time, I often feel like I want to strangle him and point him to his words. He can make the most persuasive argument, he can use parts of brain that I don't have, yet I see into what's wrong with his push. This is one of the first articles I've read where he acknowledges that it's gone awry but there's no inclination on his part to figure out just why. I remember riding the Metro about six months ago and seeing a very young guy missing the bottom of his leg. I assumed then, and I still believe it now, that he was en route or returning from a vetern's hospital and that he'd been wounded in Iraq. He sat as I, he watched the world through the windows, he seemed settled. But for me it clawed at every bit of whatever soul I have - his live forever changed and his ability to live on was far too shocking to my system. You know what's funny? He isn't a hero - he's someone who served is country and made a great sacrifice greater than anything I'll ever know. I could see his pride, I could see that service was a duty; duty isn't courage. In this day and age it's something that someone else does. That doesn't make his life any greater or less amazing - it makes it sadder because he'll never know just how much I admired and respected him - but as a country there is no respect. Measure Hitchens' article against the jackassery of questioning whether a candidate for President is wearing a lapel pin; or if a Hummer 2 has a yellow ribbon proudly displayed on its bumper. Think. We know nothing - it's horrible.

esquire.com doesn't have the article online; the newstand is worth the purchase price. You also get some great Annie Liebowitz shots of great folk singers. Damn Liberals!

You can't be more psychotic than this mess...

Love to all.

T.

more car ding-a-lings

I heard the ad on radio today advertising Lexus’s voice-activated navigation system on some or the other model. The first thing that comes to mind involves something about a significant other ‘inadvertently’ blurting out, “Do you know where you’re going? Are we lost?” My normal response is a measured “Sure baby, I just got turned around.” All of a sudden the dashboard lights, and a disembodied voice replies, “No, he doesn’t know where you are and he won’t ask for directions.”

[dashboard light dims and system shuts down]

That doesn’t seem so helpful in the end – a smartass navigation system that always takes her side. Maybe I choose not to use the so-called navigation system. All works out fine in the end because after a few miles I recognize where we’re at and I know exactly how to get where we’re going. I turn and say, lovingly, “Right. Now I know where we are, I recognize that building [squinting and pointing]. We’ll turn right at the next block and swing around to the Interstate.”

[light on dashboard fires up...]

“As if turning right there will get you to the Interstate. He recognizes that building? That phrase has never before been uttered…”

[dashboard light extinguishes with a chuckle]

I don’t need that kind of heartache…I can read a map.

While I was waiting for the plane out of Reno on Friday afternoon, sitting at an empty gate down the terminal from my packed departure gate, a young girl pulled out her violin and gave it a good practice. Her mother was either her teacher or simply a talented parent; she had her run through her scales followed by a couple of lovely tunes. The most natural musical instrument demonstration that would happen in an airport, while you’re traveling and miserable, is more likely to be some yob yanking out a trumpet, kazoo, or snare drum just to further irritate people. Maybe it would be a guy busting out his guitar and practicing his version of Good Riddance – that would be so painful. This was beautiful to hear as I struggled through the crossword puzzle…I’m not always horrible; good things can happen in airports.

Corey and I attacked X’s bike last night in a miserable attempt to mount her rack and fenders. How hard can a few nuts and bolt be? Yep. Great.

T.

loads of stuff

Let’s get back to talking about the Fairfax 401 bus blended together with a little chat about bags…and purses. (I’m going to excuse the WonderTwins as lab rats for my useless observations because they both carry totes in addition to, or in place of, ‘purses’. Smart girls.) Public transit commuters need to carry stuff because we don’t have the benefit of cars and trucks to run to during our smoke break. We need stuff. What I’ve noticed about the busgals is that they tend to want to maintain their designer purse-cute clutch ideal, probably as much for the other gals as for the busboys. I don’t have any issues with girls and large bags so it must be for the other fashionista dames; they do glare at each other-. The deal with men is this, when we finally realize that carrying a bag is a grand idea we are completely overrun with perfecting the bag life. We have no worries about overall size and certainly no need to find a small clutch or cute little lamè bag to impress the girls…we’ve decided, and we’ve got stuff to carry. It used to be that it seemed women carry purses so that we can laugh at them; as if they needed to bring along all that lipstick, powder, brushes, huge wallet, mirrors, and other womanly needs. In fact, the root of the problem, from the man logic jail, is they don’t go big enough and then end up with and an additional carrying platform like a recycled, handled paper shopping bag from Nordstrom or Macy’s so they’ll have shoes and lunch for the day. I guess the fact that the bag has nice rope-like handles and comes from Bebe or l’Occitane makes it fashionable. Guys would never do that, it’s counter-intuitive and we’d end up with a ratty old Subway bag with our ratty old shoes inside. The point of carrying a bag, any bag, is so our hands are free to do things like:

Describing a sweet golf shot from the 17th hole,

Explaining a great passing maneuver from the weekend’s Formula 1 race, or possibly,

Giving an accurate spatial relation demonstration representing how we shot down a Russian MiG, or our watch, on our Cold War video game.

It’s not so we have free hands so we can carry other bags. The great bag life allows us enough room to carry everything needed to survive either the workday or trip around the world, you never know: lunch, clothes, newspaper(s), book, magazines, iPod(s), first aid kit, umbrella, snacks, keys, wallet, sunglasses, water bottle, spare water bottle, day planner, camera, hand soap, maps, and tons of other stuff. We’ve no need to be svelte and overly fashionable; in fact, the more stuff we can pull from the bag the more impressed the crowd. As if a few lipsticks and rouge is enough to get a man through the day.


I’m off to the 9:30 Club to see the flaming redhead tonight. It’ll be my first Neko Case show and the general tenor of most reviews is that the crowd is a bunch of guys swooning over her. I’ll be mature. I think my review will take on the boy:girl ratio along with how mesmerized and full of woo the men were…

T.

girls on buses

Sometime early last week X chortled at me while relaying some psychological mumbo-jumbo that allegedly confirmed male species' behavior when encountering new folk (I think it’s any type of male: me, giraffe, rhesus monkey, ladybug, or my dog Gus). Apparently, we look quickly at the eyes, glance down to the ‘private’ area (very quickly and without regard to gender), and then return to the eyes and/or face. We have no concern for whether or not the other is speaking, commenting on our hair, eating a donut, or making kissy sounds with their mouth. Eyes – crotch –eyes. Repeat for everyone you meet at the cocktail party. I’ve never even thought of myself as one that would indulge in this behavior but for some reason it came up while we were doing our hair early one morning. Now that I think about it, maybe she said it wasn’t only upon initial meeting, just at the beginning of our daily interaction with each person in our life. I’ve been trying to avoid this male trap for the last ten days but I don’t know if I’ve been successful since I didn’t even know I was doing it.

I’ll tell you what I learned on the bus this morning; but first I’ll pass along the set-up. The #401 / Backlick Road / South Franconia-Tyson’s Corner bus passes the Dunn Loring Metro station and runs through the heart of the Tyson’s Corner business ‘casual’ district in Vienna (12th largest base of business casual employment in America!). The route is conducive for lots of folks heading to work from D.C. and Arlington (opposite the major crowds) that ride the Metro and then catch the bus the last few miles. You get the same busload of people just about every morning, it feels a little like a traveling circus, and you have some imaginary connection with the other carnies. I tend to sit in the first set of seats that face forward (more legroom) so I’m generally looking across the two elderly/handicap rows of seats that have their backs against the windows and face the center aisle. If you haven’t ridden a lot of public transport, or can’t visualize the layout, I can’t help you anymore. In front of me today there were three chicks sitting in those access seats, not as traveling companions, but they were very similar: late 20s/early 30s, nicely dressed, good hair, business casual. I’m in perfect position to watch what’s going in front of me and suddenly it becomes almost comical. At each stop heading up Gallows Road there is at least one other woman getting off the bus and heading to her office, and as she walks up the aisle to exit the front door, all three of the girls give her the look. It’s like watching a tennis match: all their heads follow her from left to right, glare at her legs, pants, jacket, hair, and physical attributes. Once she gets too far into their peripheral vision, and someone might notice them scoping the comp’, they snap their little bird heads back to the ‘neutral looking out the other window’ position. The bus moves, the bus stops, a competitor walks past, heads swivel, grade the goods, snap back to neutral. Without fail, every stop. If the timing is just right you just might catch one of them glancing out the window to see just how ‘she’ could possibly walk and switch in those heels. Now, I’m not saying that this is anything like guys checking out girls but it certainly falls somewhere in the same post code. We have our reasons, they have theirs, but I'm certain neither creature can physically override the mental power to do what seems ingrained in our genes. But, at least us guys do it when we’re looking for something important…like a mate. Girls do it because they’re trying to find new styles of jeans and shoes…and because they’re catty and judgmental. Heathenesses.

Ah, Monday.

T.