thumbs up, thumbs down

I’ve been trying to sort out a long weekend trip to NYC while L. is here over the summer and the planning has once again raised the question of hotel reviews. The beauty of the internets is the number of travel sites where every Ma and Pa Kettle can add reviews for just about any hotel in the World. The problem, as with any review of any product, is how to apply the appropriate heft to the really good or really bad reviews. In fact, let’s just wonder about the bad reviews. You’d think it would be one pissed-off traveler and really horrific service to push someone towards the “this place is hell and I shall never return” input. Or not. And, that’s the rub. Even though this little nugget of a story doesn’t come from a hotel review I think it’s apropos; at some point on Amazon.com, someone gave a product a zero rating because the Post Office – admitted behavior by the Post Office – lost the package. If this disgruntled person wanted to slag off the USPS then please do; just don’t do it at Amazon when reviewing a new clapper or sonic ear. It’s something I like to call, apples and oranges. A few of the hotels I’m looking at have poor reviews that are well written and useful; unfortunately, most of them run something along these lines;

“I will never stay in this hotel EVER again. We checked in for three nights on August 3rd and it was VERY hot in New York City. We were hoping to enjoy the city but the hotel is four blocks from the subway and walking anywhere in 98° heat and loads of humidity is unbearable. We had no idea the city could be SO hot. We ended up taking cabs everywhere we went and I swear all the drivers must have attended the Al Qaeda Finishing School. I would not recommend this hotel to my worst enemy. AND, the girls in New York City, when it's so hot, don't wear bras.”

I bought my summer sandals today. (I know, I’m changing subjects.) I’m not a huge fan of socks and shoes once it gets to about 70° and the humidity is rising. I managed to buy the exact same style as last summer – a perfect pair of Clarke’s – so everyone will be able to easily recognize me even if you only see my feet. Last year’s pair was eventually destroyed after six months of hard work. I’m contemplating buying a few more pair and simply storing them for my future self; always consider your future self.

Funny story about shoes. When X came to Reno to visit me back in the summer of 2005, we spent three nights at a smashing bed & breakfast up in Truckee, CA . We hiked a few Tahoe trails, ate great Mexican food, walked the small town, and saw a guy pick up a broad at a hen party simply by simply flexing his bicep. Anyway, we stopped in an outdoor shop one afternoon because she wanted to look into some nice Teva sandals and Truckee is nothing if not ready to help with outdoor activity and kit. After about thirty minutes of quality expertise, and as we were having our order rung up (we were the only customers in the shop), the guy helping us suddenly ups and sprints, hell bent for leather, out of the shop while yelling over his shoulder for us to get out; cash drawer open and nothing but cartoon dust and spinning legs. As his words were ringing through the atmosphere we suddenly felt a massive rumbling. As we (sort of) ran out of the shop and into the street behind our savior, we realized that what had caused the commotion was a pretty strong earthquake – certainly the strongest I’ve felt in all my earthquake experience. We asked him if this running from his rickety store/shack was standard procedure. Was there a worry that the building was going to collapse? Was everyone in town supposed to now be standing in the middle of the main street? Because if that’s the case, the whole town was missing the boat and only he was following the emergency checklist. His response to our inquisition was this: he thought a train was going to crush the building, not an earthquake. We turned and gandered at the shop and realized that it is, in fact, right next to the tracks that run through town. Granted, these tracks don’t host freight trains, but most likely passenger trains because the station and its tracks seemed like a spur into town for the purpose of picking up passengers. Regardless, you’ve got to be one shaky character to spend all day working in a store and pondering the fear of getting flattened by a locomotive. He told us it sounded to him exactly as he’d imagined a locomotive gone bad – a beast sounding just like he’d dreamt. Death. Once he realized it was just a strong quake he laughed it off and headed back inside. I bought my shoes, a pair of socks, and left the store wondering whether to fear trains or earthquakes. Ponder.

I'm done with olden stories.

nevermind. i'll stay on this island

It’s taken some long, sideways glances and deep thoughts to sort out what it is about boys and doing stuff. This thesis is not merely an indictment of my two test subjects on the Hilltop; they are merely the most visible and easiest to study on a daily basis. Not only are they not the only brace of daft children currently plying this trade – they merely represent what was no doubt true for a great many children of the past, myself excluded, of course...

The battle that must rage in their head whenever a choice is presented that offers two things: first, something they would like to have or do; second, actual physical movement required to either have or do that thing. Here’s an example:

X: “H, would you like to go to the video store and pick out a DVD?”
H: “Cool! I want to get see the new Miyazaki movie! Yes.”
X: “All right. Let’s head out.”
H: “Hmm. Do I have to put on my shoes?”
X: “Yes. You’ll have to go in the store to find a DVD. You’ll need shoes.”
H: “Hmm. Are we going to drive there?”
X: “Yes. Why?”
H: “How long will it take?”
X: “I don’t know, ten minutes or so…”
H: “How long to get back?”
Todd: “You’re laying on the couch staring at the ceiling!”
H: “What?”
X: “We’ll be gone for a total of thirty minutes.”
H: “Nevermind, I don’t want a movie”
X: “Fine. We’ll be back in a bit.”
H: (calling from beyond) “Can you find me a movie while you’re there?”

The problem is quiet riveting and the human nature appalling. What we’re asking ourselves – and I’m now including most men in this generalization – is this: is the caloric output of putting on my underwear really worth the embarrassment of getting caught walking to the kitchen buck naked for a glass of juice? From that the decision one no doubt falls towards not spending critical life energy bending over and putting on the underwear. It’s merely a skip to the point where we decide we’ll just have to survive while actually dying of thirst in the warm bed. And with that, an actual conversation from yesterday afternoon that began as we stopped to talk to H. while he was walking home from the Metro and we were driving to the grocery store.

X: (rolling down window) “We’re going to the store. We’ll be back shortly.”
H: “I want to ride along.” (climbs in the backseat) “I’m DYING of thirst!”
X: “We don’t have any water, why didn’t you just walk home?”
H: “I thought this was a better option for water.”
X: “Sorry, pickle.”
(Galactica cruises to the Balducci’s parking lot.)
H: (looks up from a book) “Where are we?”
X: “At the store. Do you want to come in?”
H: “Is there water in there?”
X: “There might be a drinking fountain.”
H: “Hmm.” (wheels turning, calories considered….)
X: “Henry? Are you coming in? I thought you were dying of thirst.”
H: “Hmm. I think I’ll just stay here.”
X: “Fine.”
H: (calling from beyond) “Can you bring me some water?”

The prosecution rests.

t

run kick step run

In my desire to give dap to those commuters who go above-and-beyond the call of commuting duty, I submit the following event. It occurred at the Dunn Loring Metro station yesterday morning as I was heading towards the up-and-away elevators. The D.C.-bound train was already fully in the station as a woman was running down the escalator, full of eternal hope. She must have been about half-way down, just out of my view, when I suddenly spy a black, low-heeled, slip-on shoe flying through the atmosphere of Metro platform. It tumbled to a stop about 15 feet beyond the end of the elevator. Fortunately, that area of the platform was nearly empty since the running crowd was already a ways ahead of her. The period of time between the appearance of the flying jutti and the appearance of the shoe-kicker was barely long enough for one to sort out what was happening. She bounded down the trailing third of steps, appearing to hop off three or four sets from the end, skipped towards the shoe, twisted her right foot just so, and slipped the mischievous item back on while still at a full trot. I didn’t turn to see if she made the train, I heard the telltale ding-ding of doors closing, but if all’s right in the World she made it.

Former Governor (former Senator, former Representative) George Allen is on the WAMU Politics Hour this afternoon. Exactly how anyone believed that he could actually be President is frightening. In fact, his spewing of the party line concerning the War on Terror, activist judges, and all the other junk that flows from his portion of his party is comical. I’m sure there are tons like him in the Senate but I’m thankful he’s moronic enough to have dug his own grave last Summer.

If only my neighborhood had nicknames as great the newly indicted Gambino Family…

T.