Do yourself a favor and read this.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/23/weekinreview/23jamieson.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=tick
Classic.
Then, sit down, make sure the door to your office is closed, and watch this.
http://www.heavy.com/video/61396
Funniest thing I have ever seen.
My friends and I have been joking about the all-ugiest NBA team for years. You know, Sam Cassel, Chris Kaman, Adam "Trash Stash" Morris, Joakim Noah, and of course Andrei "I look just like the bad guy from the end of Ghostbusters/Annie Lennox/Kurt Warner's buttnasty wife" Kirilenko. 
Turns out my favorite of the bunch, Chris Kaman, has been misdiagnosed as ADHD. He's off his meds and working with a neurosurgeon to slow his brain down, and it's resulted in him having the best year of his NBA career, putting up almost epic numbers (he was one block short of a triple-double against the nexts on Saturday)
http://www.nba.com/clippers/news/kaman_espnotl_080115.html
Well, I'm happy for him ... but man, is he ugly.
Also, I think a couple of websites beat me to this all-ugly thing. But hey, that's a perfect example parallel invention, not copyright infringement. So sue me.
You have to check out SpeakeasyDC. They have me featured in their new ad, and the next SpeakEasy is next Tuesday, which coincidentally is Veteran's Day (a federal holiday) so there should be a lot of stories about war and peace. Check it out.
My first kiss.
Gum it up. Aren't hipsters cute when they get all, like, inspired? DC has been different for the past few days. People are looking a little less depressed. Maybe that's the 70 degree weather. Maybe that's the free tacos they got during the world series. Maybe it's Hope. Maybe it's indie prog punk electro screamo experimento rock. Maybe I'm just projecting. http://stereogum.com/
In other news, Rick Astley won "Best Act Ever" at the MTV Europe Awards.
Currently reading: This is Your Brain On Music
Currently listening to: That catchy MGMT song. You know the one. Don't make me hum it.
Currently anticipating: Paintballing tomorrow.
Currently hoping: PNC banks go bankrupt.
I was lucky enough to live in DC during the election of the first black president in our nation's history. This man can inspire me like no politician ever has. I hope he can knock this one out of the park for the next four years.
Some might feel it's gross or inappropriate, or just not care, but I wanted to say that I love Narda Leila Ipakchi, and I'm lucky to have her in my life. She's amazing. It might be cheesy - but I'm just being honest.
I’ve only seen my father drunk twice. The first time, we were at the beach for Thanksgiving, and all of my siblings were there, and my dad got horribly, horribly drunk. He had his big shirt unbuttoned down to his chest, like, “no, senior please, it is too sexy …” except it wasn’t … and his fathead was so red, and so big, it was a little scary. I thought he might burst like a steampipe. And my dad – my sober, thoughtful, strict, southern Methodist father, with his baritone preacher’s voice and southern drawl – started singing, in a low, deep rumble, a song from Porgy and Bess. “Myyyyyyyyyyyyyy … woman Bessie ………. Oh myyyyyyyyyyyy woman Bessie.”
Up until that time, I hadn't known my father had ever seen Porgy and Bess. Or any musical, for that matter. Much less one about the life of people living on Catfish Row in South Carolina the 20s. Oh man, his head was so fat.
The second time was at my graduation party. I was headed to grad school at Tulane, and he already knew I was going to be doing a bit of drinking in college, so he let my mom get a keg – a keg! – my conservative, southern father let us have a keg of Guiness, and he proceeded to get mighty drunk off of it. When the party died down, I told him I was going to take off to visit a friend at a local diner – and he looked up at me, shirt half undone again, and said, “you’re not going anywhere, you little jerk.” When my brother tried to tell him it was ok, he said, “NO! you’re not going, you flatbellied piss-ant.” And then he passed out and I went and had an omlette.
So in college, last day of school, sophomore year, my mom called me, and with two words, changed my life forever. I could tell she had been crying, and when I asked what was wrong she said, simply,
“Dad’s dead.”
It was a heart attack, at work, 9:30 am, as he rushed to a meeting. No one could have predicted that. At the funeral, I spoke about a dream I had about him, and all my siblings talked too about the articles he’d written about them and how much they loved him. The next four months of the summer were pretty much a daze. It’s been more than six years since he died, and I still think about it, and cry about it, and dream about it, all the time. I wish he were here so I could tell him all about my life – so I could ask his advice about the woman that I love – so I could watch a Michigan football game with him on a lazy October Saturday and hear him softly snoring in the chair next to me. I wish I could hear him yell “hot damn,” when they scored, just one last time.
And it’s funny, my dad did a lot of really great things in his life, but the times that I keep remembering were the two times I ever saw him drunk. We sit around and talk about it and laugh and joke, and my mom gets so angry. She yells at us, “That’s not the person your dad was, he was a great man. He was a sober man, and an honest man.” But I don’t know, for some reason, those drunken, crazy times are the ones I remember – him at his most vulnerable, most funny – and most human.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that. “Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy woman Bessie. Oh myyyyyyyyyyy woman Bessie.”
I miss you, dad.
Yeah, I have a girlfriend, and it's crazy, but I think I'm in love with her - after less than three months. You never expect that stuff to happen, and then boom, it does, and you're just floored. I'm not sure I've even fully digested it yet.
We went to New Orleans last week and it was so surreal; we got there on Thursday, with limited power, most businesses closing at 5 or 6 pm, and water in short supply. We rented a car and drove around and saw the city recovery, national guard troops, and police everywhere (even New Orleans has joined the annoying trend of Police Cars with permenant flashing lights, which I suppose was good in the darkness uptown).
We went down to the quarter the first night and hit up Port of Call, then went back uptown relatively early after a drink at Lafitte's blacksmith shop. Around 4 am we woke up thirsty and realized we hadn't bought any water, and so we went out looking for some - and much to our chagrin, or perhaps luck, nothing was open and the streets were empty because of a curfew (which in reality was only a walking curfew, thank god we had that car).
Anyway, we drove all around the empty quarter, the empty uptown, the blackened streets. Eventually we stopped at the Hotel La Pavillion and asked a couple of police officers if they knew of any place to get water and they gave us a dozen bottles out of the back of their truck. Surreal.
By Friday though, everything was business as usual. We even saw James Carville at Lilette's, and even Jacques Imos was back up on Saturday night.
The law school stuff is still in the embryonic stages, I haven't completed the apps yet - that's my goal for the next two weeks.
I'll post pictures soon.
these posts weren't working for awhile, but I'm hoping this test post will fix that.
Fourth of July party was incredible, check the book for pics.
It's been months and months and months since I've worked up the energy to post anything here. Call me a slave to trends - I guess the blogging thing ran its course with me when my real job began and reality intruded. I have to get stuff done now, and that's serious.
The Wire's new season is about 5 episodes in, and although it started with such promise, it's dragging at this point, and I can see all the journalists' points - their criticism is ringing true to me. David Simon's crusade is bitter and angry - which I love - but so far lacks a little depth and realism. But I have faith he'll right the ship yet, I just want it to happen fast.
Daily "Wire" commentary on Slate.com ...
... and a great article on David Simon on The Atlantic Online.
Went ahead and bought David Simon's heralded book "Homicide" too, thought I could get to it after all of these Graham Greene books. Man, my eyes are always bigger than my stomach/time/energy. I guess that could be considered a good thing, I dunno.
I need to get back to work, but quickly -
The Shipwrecked, or England Made Me, was decent ... but raw, and the ending was unsatisfying. Not sure if Greene was trying to write the "pop" novel, but it moved too fast adn was too obviously a dig at Disney and other coporate men, without an ultimate message. It started off grand and just metered out.
The Man Within - his first novel ever - was idealistic and overwrought and melodramatic. But I'm still glad I read it - you can hear the 21-year-old Greene coming out through it, and it's comforting to know that the 21-year-old Greene was as much of a romantic fool as I was at that age (and maybe still am).
Back to work.
-J
