So Long Old Friend

"There is no faith which has never yet been broken, except that of a truly faithful dog."

Attention Northern Virginia Drivers!

This is a traffic stop:
They are generally a routine occurrence, and do not require that you stomp on your brakes. The police officer is typically occupied at the time you observe such an event, and unless you are waving your crack pipe out the window, honking your horn and flipping the officer the bird, smashing into the car in front of you, or generally committing some other significant, attention-getting violation, they do not care what you are doing. Perhaps you find such an event fascinating, on par with a meteor falling from the sky. In this case I suggest getting out more often. It's really not all that interesting. If it's such an unusual site that you must become accustomed to viewing it, try an image search on Google. There are plenty of photographs, like the one above, of people being pulled over. Maybe after viewing enough of them, you will be able to withstand the overwhelming desire to slow down and stare, mouth agape, when a fellow motorist is being stopped, and thus I WILL BE ABLE TO GET TO WORK ON TIME.
Thank you. You may now resume being a moron.

The Show-Me (Your Bible) State

When I was little we traveled to Missouri a few times to visit my father's family in St. Louis, where he was born and raised. I was always excited for these trips...we got to see the Cardinals play, go up in the Arch, buy soft pretzels from street vendors, and eat at White Castle. (What? I wasn't always a vegetarian, and we didn't have White Castle in Vermont.) Plus, there were strange bugs to poke at, kids to play with, and a next door neighbor who always gave us candy (back in the days when the neighbor wasn't just using the candy to lure you inside and eventually boil you in a pot on the stove.)

But today, Missouri isn't quite as alluring as it used to be. I have many kind and lovely relatives who still live there, and I don't blame them, but it seems that Missouri has taken a turn for, well, the evil.

First, there was the story this morning about a town in Missouri that may ban swearing. They also want to ban table-dancing and profane music, in order to keep the town's rowdy bar patrons under control. Right. Because it couldn't be the alcohol or anything. There are few things more sacred to me than my right to swear. It's what separates us from the animals, after all. (Yeah, and the thumb, I know.) Take away the table-dancing if you must. I'll find other ways to express my art. And if profane music includes the likes of, say "My Humps" or something, I guess I can get behind that. But no one gets between me and my colorful vocabulary. No one.

I guess I should have seen it coming. After all, it is the state that unleashed John Ashcroft on an unsuspecting public, and where a middle school attempted to prohibit an eighth-grade girl from participating in her graduation ceremony unless she wore a dress, and additionally, in which the town of Purdy continues to enforce a historical ban on high school dances, possibly inspiring the plot of "Footloose" (and perhaps Kenny Loggins' rousing anthem to "cutting loose, footloose.")
I offer this information only as a warning to anyone who occasionally employs the F-word, enjoys cutting a rug, or in the case of you women-folk, prefers pants. The only thing Missouri would like to "Show" you heathens is the border.

Some things I would have blogged about if it hadn't been a distractingly crappy month (or My Triumphant Return to Blogging)

1. Holiday Crafts Weekend- During which we purchased a tree, hung a stellar, yet classy, display of Christmas lights (man, I love Christmas lights, seriously, of all kinds), and bought cranberries, destined for a craft we never completed. Maybe someday. Darren's exemplary light-hanging work was noticed by the neighbors, who slowly succumbed to the holiday spirit and hung their own lights. Just not as good as ours.

2. Hooters- It all comes down to this: What in God's name are they wearing? And why do people go there? Ever? I began asking questions when I saw the Hooters waitresses featured as ring girls at that fight we attended. The giant, blinding white aerobics sneakers (high tops required, per the official Hooters employee handbook), orange shorts, WITH PANTYHOSE (suntan, also according to the handbook.) A wife-beater with the word "Hooters" emblazoned across the front, as if to caption its contents. I guess if you're going for white trash you might as well go all the way. It's probably also worth mentioning that Hooters has a special "Kids Eat Free" day (Thursdays, in case you want to bring little Johnny or Sally along.) Seems a little outside of their target market, but I suppose you gotta start 'em young.

3. Santa's Nuts- That's as in "the nuts belonging to Santa" as opposed to "Man, Santa is nuts." Why was I thinking about Santa's nuts? Well, who wouldn't? But also, I did read an article about a woman in Connecticut who was arrested for groping Santa Claus at a mall. She was charged with fourth degree sexual assault. And while I do not support sexually assaulting Santa Claus, I have to admit I wondered for a brief moment if, given all of the crying and badgering and maybe even vomiting that your average mall Santa has to endure, if maybe he didn't like it just a little tiny bit. Does that make me a bad person?

As for why it was a really crappy four weeks, I'll just mention a few things: 1. The holidays are emotionally and financially stressful-I am sure you did not know this; 2. Our veterinarian has a solid start on a college fund for the little ones, or took a trip to Acapulco for the holidays, thanks to our eight visits during the latter half of December. Most importantly, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, Weasel is back in force, so all's well that ends well; 3. As a result of 1. and 2. I may now qualify for food stamps. Donations are welcome, but sadly are not tax-deductible.

My New Year's resolution? Occasionally remembering that I have a blog.

Friday Night Fights

And the pendelum swings...two Fridays ago, as you may recall, I spent the evening being regaled with song and spirit. Right, not exactly. But I did attend Karaoke Night at the Wilmington Village Pub, a virtual love-fest compared to last Friday, which featured a Mixed Martial Arts (think UFC) competition at George Mason University.

Bryan, from the bike team, originally brought up the idea of going. Jared mentioned I was interested, and they told two friends, and so on. And that is how the four of us (aforementioned, plus Darren) ended up at Friday Night Smackdown. A former NCAA Div. 1 college wrestler, Bryan knows some of the mixed martial arts competitors, including Randy Couture, an Ultimate Fighting Champion whom he apparently wrestled against, and some guy named Johnny, who used to wrestle for George Mason, and was on the card for Friday. Jared is fond of mentioning that Bryan could "easily kill anyone we know" which is an interesting thing to ponder. I try to be extremely friendly and helpful whenever Bryan's around. If you know me, you know that's no mean feat.


The actual fighting was interesting--there were some knock-outs, one bout of twitching by a knocked out person that made the words "traumatic brain injury" pop into my head, a few submissions.

What it lacked, though, was the spectacle of a UFC event. There was no Joe Rogan doing color commentary. No famous people in the audience. One guy kept taking five minute breaks because he'd apparently been kicked in the nuts--and the rules say if you get kicked in the nuts you have up to five minutes to allow them to drop back down out of your abdomen, or something like that. I'm not exactly clear on the details, but the point is, they never include 10 minutes of nut recovery in the UFC videos, right? The ring girls were from Hooters (I'm going to have to deal with that in a whole separate post.) You get the picture. There were a few attempts at spectacle (they kept playing "The Final Countdown" which then got stuck in my head, prompting me to raise my fist every now and again, at random intervals throughout the weekend, and sing "THE FINAL COUNTDOWN!!" Those are all the words I know.) A whole train of people escorted one guy into the ring (think conga line, but more intense) which was kind of spectacle-y, but not all that much.

My recommendations? Well I'm glad you asked. Cheaper seats (the least expensive were $30, the most expensive, $130--that's a joke, right?), free beer (random fights in the stands would definitely add a little something) and maybe let audience members challenge the fighter of their choice. After all, you can't discount the importance of audience participation.

Friday Night Lights

**I've been struggling with this post for a week now--some of them just come out fully formed, like Athena from Zeus's forehead. But not this time. I think maybe because what I'm trying to describe was so "experiential" in nature, that you really did kind of have to be there. I wash my hands of the whole thing.**

Last Friday, I experienced something truly special. Something I never would have imagined experiencing, but which changed me profoundly.

The miracle of birth? you might be thinking. (Unless, of course, you've ever met me.) A spiritual awakening of some sort? Jesus Christ, don't be ridiculous. Miracle jeans that make my ass look like someone else's--someone much smaller's? I wish. Okay, stop guessing already, you're never going to get it. After all, who among us would guess Karaoke Night at the Wilmington Village Pub.

Didn't see that coming, didja? While in Vermont over the holidays, we visited Brian, Darren's brother, for whom karaoke night was on the agenda. After about three milliseconds of consideration, I said "count me in." But if karaoke is so intriguing, why have I never been to karaoke night, right? After all, I did live in Wilmington for roughly a century, and God knows there isn't exactly a host of entertainment options through which to sort on any given weekend. I guess for me, you don't karaoke where you eat. Or something like that. Going to karaoke night was especially fun because I'm sort of an outsider now.

To wit, a list of highlights:

1. "Living on a Prayer" especially the audience accompaniment.

2. The Pub's own karaoke diva, who managed to sing the entire "raunchy ho" catalog, including hits like "My Humps," "Don't Cha" (Pussycat Dolls) and "Naughty Girl" (I have no idea.) Her voice, reaching the upper registers of helium intake, was like an angel's. And her between-song patter, featuring such gems as "WHAT'S UP BITCHES?!?" was beyond compare.

3. A bunch of seriously optimistic 50+ year-old men trying to pick up the barely bar-legal gals who, all due credit, seemed to know a quality supply of free drinks when they saw it. Ick.

4. Two girls whose performance sounded
mostly like cats humping--whether because of a natural dearth of talent or interference from Captain Morgan and his merry men, I cannot say.

5. A man so over-beveraged that he was literally no longer able to speak English (if he ever did.) At first it seemed like he might be trying to hit on Brian, but then it became apparent that he was just looking for some help fighting that pesky gravity. The one sentence we were able to translate had to do with his ride home having abandoned him. This came as no great shock to us.

In the words of Gen. MacArthur, I shall return, to karaoke night, I mean. But I'm pretty sure that's not what he was referring to. He has no idea what he missed.

O Pioneers!

On one recent morning, the alarm went off somewhere around 6 am, like it does every weekday, and I hit the snooze like I do every weekday. (Like you don't?) As I lay there, contemplating what must surely be the myriad joys of independent wealth (not having to get up for work at 6 am being just one example) I heard my brother out in the hallway, thoughtfully informing me that the power had gone out, because he didn't want me to be late for work. After getting my mind around the fact that we were without electricity, though my alarm had gone off mere minutes before (I'm a skeptic, what can I say?) I leapt out of bed, full of vim and vigor. Just kidding. But I did get up, motivated in some small part by the curiosity of getting ready for work absent a steady supply of alternating current.
First, I wondered about the shower. After gently rousing Darren (read: forceful nudge) I asked him if it would work. "Try it," he mumbled. Not exactly confidence-inspiring. But I did. It turned on, it seemed to be heating up. I stepped in and, wait for it...the water stopped running entirely. Necessitating all of the drying off, but without the actual cleaning that typically precedes it. I went downstairs, freezing, and gathered candles with which to light the rest of my morning routine. It took me 10 minutes to find matching socks (no, I don't sort them when I do laundry--you have to leave some things to chance, I think) nestling the candle down into the ridiculously deep, dark drawer, and wondering how flammable socks are, actually. I turned on the tap to brush my teeth, and was reminded that the water was not running. I rooted around in the dark bedroom for a water bottle and managed to accomplish the task--a small victory, I thought.
After earning a D-, at best, on my daily ablutions, I went downstairs, where I promptly made a few more discoveries.
1. No electricity means no coffee, which means no will to live.
2. The coffee at 7-11 sucks, no matter what they tell you.
3. No light in the refrigerator makes it hard to find your lunch, or anything else for that matter.
4. It takes roughly eight seconds for the hot wax in the stupid votive candle to spill over and onto your counter.
5. The garage door opener does not work when there is no electricity, which means you have to leave through the front door, whether you want to or not.
As I left through the front door, I asked myself, aloud of course, the question any of us asks in this situation: "How the f*@# did the pioneers do it?"