Saturday, January 19, 2008

Next Up: Lurene

I'm in Newport News this weekend. You can tell this is a place that is compensating for something because it uses the word "new" in its name not once but twice, and this place doth protest too much. I have easily traveled 30 years back in time. I don't even need my anti-wrinkle face wash here - the time differential alone has my skin firm and buoyant.

I'm with Jess. We're visiting our friend Val, who works for the shipyard in Norfolk and bought her first house here. It's been an amazing adventure, mostly because it is so deliciously backwards. I forget sometimes that Virginia is in the south. Not the deep south, but the SUV-centric, fried seafood, strip-mall south - the kind of place where local men look at a girl funny when she holds the door for them ("well, equal rights I guess" they mumble reluctantly). It's a short drive down from Alexandria, and we arrived in time to grab some dinner at the "Crab Shack," a seafood restaurant situated right at the foot of the James River Bridge. We rode in Val's Mercedes coupe - I wasn't even reclined, I was curled in the fetal position in the back seat - and I had a solid fish sandwich and overlooked the water and it was a great start to a weekend of new.

The key lime pie was good, which in my opinion is a prerequisite for any restaurant which purports to sell seafood. I only ever tried to make a key lime pie once, when I lived in Florida, and its legendary horribleness follows me to this day.

After dinner, we dropped the car off back at Val's house, used the jaws of life to extract my ginormous self from the back seat, and walked to the "Hilton Country Club." Please remove any images of plaid pants, golf clubs, or anyone who refrains from smoking OUT of your mind, because this country club was a dive bar for the ages.

And they had karaoke. The fact that I didn't run tells you two things: 1) I really wanted to be drunk, and 2) I knew a good story was brewing. I was not disappointed on either count.

Everyone was smoking. Not a single person in there was without a cigarette in their dry, crackled fingers. These people weren't screwing around with Marlboro "Light" anything - all were smoking straight Marlboro's, and a haze of burning benzene hung so heavily in the air that I could blow second-hand smoke rings. We opened a tab, grabbed a couple of beers, and then Jess, like a meteor pulled inexorably toward a planet, found the karaoke books.

A little history: I hate karaoke. In fact I once described karaoke thus:

Curious buttf*cking George I hate karaoke. I know this makes me an almost unbearably wet blanket in 19% of social situations, but the only things I hate more than karaoke are brussel sprouts and child molesters. Karaoke. Killmearaoke. Put-the-microphone-in-a-boat-and-implode-it-araoke. Not only are we going to make bad music, but we're going to make it LOUDLY, insert it directly in your brain past your shriveling cilia, and wedge it right between your will to live and your need to destroy.


Yeah. Not a fan.

But for two minutes and 40 seconds, I actually liked it. Jess and Val tortured the bar with a seven-minute rendition of Meatloaf's "I'd Do Anything for You," and afterwards Jessie insisted I sing something. She pulled out her cute eyes. She threatened bodily harm. And I don't know whether or not it was the smoke cutting off circulation to my brain or the Miller Chill which I was downing like Gatorade after a dodgeball game, but I heard myself say, "I only know 'Blue Christmas' by Elvis." If you know anything about Jessie, all she needs is an inch and she'll have you dancing naked in front of your Board of Directors within three minutes. She ran to the DJ, signed my name up, I screamed at her, and then spent twenty nerve-wracked minutes listening to Mindi, Mike, Beau, and, of course, Lurene sing their tone-deaf guts out .

The DJ had screens set up with the words, and at the bottom like a CNN ticker names would read off "Now Singing: Mindi. Up next: Lurene." Well, pretty soon it was "Up Next: Martin," and I was freaking out. You have to understand, music is my second language. Playing the piano is an incredibly intimate experience for me. I work really, really hard to play pieces in a way that reaches people, that excites them, that presents me in the best, most talented light. But my fingers do the singing - I do not. The Martin does not sing. Or if he does, it's in the shower surrounded by adoring shampoo bottles, and usually I'm making up the songs ("Martin's in the sho-ow-ower, scrubbing up like a st-ah-orm..." etc...) I don't know pop songs. I don't sing pop songs. But I do do a pretty wicked impersonation of Elvis singing "Blue Christmas." I did it once for Jess as a joke years ago, and she loved it and couldn't stop laughing (especially with the "uh-hun, uh-hun, un-hun...")

So there I was, standing up in front of a bar full of Newport Newsians, my throat thick with smoke, my hand shaking on the microphone, watching the screen read off, "I'll have a Blue Christmas without you..." and three minutes later realizing that I had sung it, that it wasn't horrible, and that the world hadn't collapsed.

...and that no one but me cared if it was any good, because they were all busy waiting to see their name "Up Next."

I wondered how much of my life's energy I've wasted worrying about the outcomes of things that only mattered to me. If any politician could get elected as easily as I've elected the voices in my head, he'd have statues as far the roads could go.

We woke up late today after the first good night's sleep in a while, and caught some lunch at the "Twin Star Diner," complete with bright green ceiling and rusted chrome napkin fixtures. Like I said, I'm 30 years behind you right now. I'm impressed I've been able to tap into ARPANET to send this post to you in the future. Later in the day we caught "Sweeney Todd" at the Cinema Cafe - I haven't had my love of movie theaters shaken that hard in a long time. There were no texting-teenie-boppers and no pregnant trashy girls, but the projector had a bad shake that shook the entire two-hour film. After about the 17th shaky throat-slitting I was like, "Why am I sitting here watching this crummy image when I could watch it at home with pristine picture, the ability to pause, and no scary people?" It's not the first time I've thought it, but I was still an advocate for film-watching being a social experience. There is something special about experiencing a movie with a bunch of strangers. It's like going on an adventure or something - you all become participants in this great unknown story, combined by your common goal of following this story. I usually really like that, and I don't know whether it's because I'm older or because I hate karaoke, but my desire to experience a movie with a bunch of people who don't know how to be in a theater watching a moving being shown by a crummy projector.... I don't know, it's just different. I'd rather invite friends over and have "release parties" and watch a movie on a big-screen TV with friends.

Anyways, I'm rambling. Then again, I'm in Newport News, where everything new is old again. And it's nice. It's balancing. It's a reminder that not everyone is so caught up with all that crap I'm caught up with. And I did get up and sing like the King. That felt pretty good... you know, for something I hate.

Your,
Martin

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Juno and the Stomach Flu

Dear Reader,

I've been MIA due to a lovely stomach bug that had me wretching my guts out. Eww. I took a day off of work and laid around. I watched five hours of "Project Runway." It did help me feel a little better to watch some dreams get crushed. The downside is I now know way too much about chiffon and must be shot.

I've been having a blog war with myself over what to name this stupid thing. I think this might be one of those situations in which my capacity for over-thinking actually created the problem I'm now trying to solve. And I imagine this identity crisis is about as exciting for you as it was to watch John Stewart devote an entire show to the writer's strike. Stimulating.

I saw "Juno" with Jess on Saturday. It was a little "thank God I can leave the apartment without attaching a toilet to my ass" party, and I absolutely loved it. It took me awhile to translate modern teen-speak into something I could relate to, i.e "gob"="piehole", but after a few minutes I was in the swing of it. The language is actually one of the great joys of this little movie. That, and realizing that those incredibly hormonal and emotionally exhausting days are mercifully behind you. I've never been more glad not to be a teenager. It was a passionate time. The smallest things seemed like the world, but I realize now it felt that way because everything reverberates louder off the walls of a high-school. I like it better now. Your twenties are like being a teenager only with less angst and more money.

Though apparently the kids today have a lingo. I miss having a lingo. And you can't go up to someone and ask for a lingo. That's just silly.

So, I was delighted that I didn't come out of "Juno" feeling more like a parent than a moviegoer. That's when I'll know I've crossed that line of no return. I am a little creeped out, however, that I find myself relating more to the adults in movies. I swore to a younger version of myself that I wouldn't forget what it was like to be 18, how I saw the world, what really mattered. Of course it was a promise I couldn't keep, which is why this blog is cool, preserving events and my thoughts of them for years to come. But I remember somewhat. I felt much more entitled to success. Diablo II was the greatest video game ever created. The day-old three-cookies-for-99-cents at 7/11 was the breakfast of champions. The late-night drive was the ultimate act of freedom. Phone conversations should last a minimum of three hours. The best way to find yourself was to get lost. Who will protect the memory of those times unless we collect what we remember and inscribe it somewhere safe? And how do you grow up and not lose what was important, what was hopeful, what was vital and optimistic and never dimming?

The advantage of the older worldview is that I see things I would have missed otherwise, or perceive complexities that would otherwise go unnoticed. And I can still summon a sense of wonder. Jess and I watched "Transformers" at home and I seriously uttered, "Oh my God, that is so fucking cool!" like seven times during the movie. Don't know what it is about transforming cars with guns that is so damn cool.

Actually I think I just answered my own question. Cars+spacerobots+guns=I win.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

200 Flying Martins

You hate it.

That's okay, I'm not sure of it myself. On the plus side, a search on Google reveals that I am utterly, completely unique. Take that, "Fight Club"! You are looking at (according to Google, which is like the universe) a very special snowflake.

Haven't you ever wanted to utter a phrase that has never been uttered before in the history of the world? Do you think those phrases even exist? When I was younger I would try and come up with them for fun. I would say something and be like, "You know what, I bet that combination of words was never said before." It was exciting to think that I'd perhaps stumbled onto something genuinely new. Then again, back then it felt as though everything I experienced was unique to me. I won't pretend it doesn't still, because it does. I am the center of the Martin-verse. Why else would I write about it?

Potentially new phrases can't be manufactured. They have to grow from changing realities. Don't be alarmed if a whole in space fabric opens up as you read them (and feel free to add your own):

"The meat-packing district is all out of porcupine!"
"I bent the shrew but it didn't make her any rounder."
"Gumdrop purple with a hint of Triceratops."

The trick is getting them to make sense, which is why these examples, as well as almost all user-generated examples, will suck. They really can't be manufactured, as the examples above show. They have to be organic - moments or situations that exist but create the strangest combination of words. For example, at work we use a software bundle called "evolution." I've heard these kinds of phrases:

"Evolution is going to be down for a few minutes, so you might want to finish up and save what you're doing before heading out."

"Have you learned how to use evolution yet?"

"Does evolution have a user's guide?"

Now, are these the first times these phrases have been uttered? Probably not. But it's that kind of situation that creates a new phrase - words that shouldn't be together, but our new reality has pushed them together - and maybe, just maybe, you are privy to the generation of something new.

Like "Beware of Falling Me." I don't know, it kind of fits - I am pretty angsty, I wear emo Versace glasses, I have a penis and talk about my feelings. Tooch suggested I call the blog "The Man of Poor Choices," for which, frankly, there is ample evidence that this would be apropos. She asked me, last time we were together, "How can you be so open and honest on the blog?"

I didn't really have a good answer. I mean, it's probably some kind of mental illness, what with the sharing and the deeply personal and the "I don't even know you but I feel like I was at your birthday party" thing. I like it because, like many things in my life, I feel like it's a chance to perform.

Even if the audience is the computer screen, I'm still writing to you, Dear Reader. And I feel like I owe you new posts, new stories, new thoughts. That is motivation for me to write, and I need motivation. I am someone who wants to see the practical value of what I expend my energy doing, and to know that someone reads the blog makes it fun and worthwhile. I don't know if it could ever have a life outside of friends and family, but maybe it doesn't need to. Mat, for instance, doesn't allow comments on his blog. He updates it at will, whenever the mood arises (and writes beautifully, which you know by now because you've read it), and when I bring up a post of his, I get the sense that I've in some way intruded. The reaction is not cold, not at all. But I get the sense that it was impolite to bring it up, as though it's a place where he gets to exist without worrying about being entertaining or good (both of which ABOFF is).

I'm the opposite. This blog originally didn't allow comments, and you know how often I updated it? Yah, never. If I'm not performing for you, I'm performing for the judgmental audience in my head, and frankly I prefer your silent approval. Now I'm like, "Crap, I need to do more stuff so I have something to write about other than my thoughts about the blog." This is why early 2007 contains my favorite blog posts. I was so dark and stormy, trying new things, depressed, drunk off my ass. It was an excessive and expressive time, a time when I could smoke and spill my life story out of its iron glass and I'm glad I did it and would do it again. Now I can read about it and wonder, "Who the hell is writing this?" It's fun to think I've been more than one person, seen more than one corner of my mind. It makes me feel like I've actually, you know, lived.

Anyways, this is one of those rambling psychological posts, the kind I make when I'm just enjoying writing and don't have much of a point. We'll see if the new title sticks. And it's good to have a counterweight to posts like Sunday's - it is possible to have TOO much happen in a weekend.

Hope you're well, Dear Reader.

Your,
Martin

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

A Blog By Any Other Name

So I'm renaming the blog.

I've been conducting tireless research, Googling "what to name your blog" and reading through pages for at least for at least five minutes before copying-and-pasting (what I do for a LIVING, people) into this blog.

The first guidelines I found:

1. Determine How Important the Name Really Is (well, I wouldn't be wasti... er, devoting a whole post to it if it wasn't important)
2. Stand Out (From what? The 14 billion other angsty overwritten blogs that exist on Blogger alone? How? Who do I have to kill?)
3. Avoid Generic Surnames (Martin's Blog of Stuff)
4. Avoid Descriptive Names (Martin's Blog of Interesting Stuff)
5. Avoid Acronyms (MBOIS... which sounds like "mmm... boys" which, I'm not sure, might have just gotten me arrested and thrown in the cell with Urinating Man)
6. Avoid Faux Latin (Martinus Blogimus)
7. Avoid Faux Latin (Cont’d): -nt Names (I don't know what this means)
8. Avoid Spaceless Names (i.e. ThingsI'llProbablyRegretMakingPublicSomeday [shamelessly plucked from the corpse of PITS])
9. Avoid “Tech Power Synergy” Names ("Outside-the-Box Paradigm-Shifting Blog of Increased Productivity")
10. Find Examples to Emulate (i.e. pillage like a butt pirate)

Or perhaps instead of trying so hard, I can just "Inventify" a word here:

invent-a-word

My favorite is Avanon+nonexistence=Avanonexistence.

This blog suggests some steps:

Step 1: Without thinking too much, write down every idea that comes to mind. You could even get a friend to brainstorm with you.

Step 2: Once you have a few names, look them up on Google to make sure they’re unique. If you’re thinking about registering a domain name (either now or eventually), be sure to see this video tutorial on Trademark Law and Your Blog Domain Name.

Step 3: Next, research your competition. How can you distinguish your blog from those similar to yours? If you find a blog named “Bob’s Lemonade”, you should probably cross “Fred’s Lemonade” off your list (oh my god I am naming my blog "Martin's Lemonade").

Step 4: Consider ways to improve the names you’ve thought of. Use a thesaurus to find synonyms for lengthy or vague words — maybe you’ll discover a way to incorporate alliteration or rhyme.

Step 5: Once you’ve narrowed down your choices, let them simmer in the back of your mind while you do something else. Take another look at your names after a few hours (or days or weeks — whatever works for you). By then, you’ll probably have no problem making your final decision.


So I guess it is time to simmer. Dave suggested "Soothmancer," which is excellently inventified, but in my mind implies that I have some clue as to what is going on most of the time so I don't think I can use it. I can't resort to movie quotes (That's No Moon.... It's a Blog Station!). I feel like the name should use MY name in some way (just the "Martin" part). Something like "Martin Nonetheless" or "Martin, Actually." Maybe I could steal from a recent post and call it "In a Cloud of Unknowing." That is so pretentious it just might work.

Hm. I could be at this for awhile. Better sleep on it.

Sleep tight, Dear Reader.

Martin

Monday, January 07, 2008

Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta

Dear God,

I don't know what I said. Maybe it was something I did. But whatever it was that I did to deserve this weekend, holy shit (sorry), I am penitent. Remorseful. Guilty. Balls-on terrified of your wrath. Because, holy shit (sorry), this weekend could only have been a punishment. I don't know whether it was Jessie puking all over my bed, the homeless man I got arrested for peeing on the tree next to my car, or the fact that the Steelers lost a game they were so close to winning, but Jesus testicles in a Kitchen Aid, this was a horrible, horrible weekend.

It started well enough.

Jess and I had a cute dinner at home, and decided to make a date out of the evening and go to a movie. There are about 11 amazing movies out right now - it's the first time in a long time (maybe ever) that I felt like I wanted to see 90% of the movies that are out. We chose "Charlie Wilson's War" which, if you haven't seen it, shame on you. It. Is. Amazing. I had forgotten what good dialog sounded like. This movie was so funny, so well-paced, so brilliantly acted, and so incredibly damning that it is easily a Top 3 movie experience of the past two years. The combination of Mike Nichols and Aaron Sorkin is something I will now seek out - Sorkin's writing, what he perfected on "West Wing," is pitch-perfect, hilarious, never contrived, and always sharp. Add to that Tom Hanks (amazing), Julia Roberts (likable enough), and, oh my God one of my favorite actors, Philip Seymour Hoffman (who managed, somehow, to steal a movie from Tom Hanks), and you know it has to be good.

And it was. I loved it. I would see it again. I want to own it. Genius. Go. Now.

The night ended with me battling Bowser's minions in "Mario Galaxy" on the FRIGGING WII THAT JESSIE GOT ME FOR CHRISTMAS. Talk about amazing gifts '07 - here, unbeknownst to me, she researched all the different gaming systems, decided that the Wii would be the one we could both enjoy, realized it was impossible to find and so went on craigslist and found a guy selling one for a not-as-insane price whom she then met after school in the library of the Beatley Library, handed a wad of $20s, and surprised me with the damn thing on the way home to Pittsburgh. The thing is amazing, and I'll reflect on it further at a future point (preferably after I've become a "Pro" in Wii Tennis).

Saturday started with mind-boggling nookie - what could be better?!? - and then, oh dear, dear Reader, the weekend took a horrible, horrible turn.

Or rather U-Turn, of destiny, to the most horrible place in Alexandria: Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta.

First, let me state unequivocally that this was not my idea.

After years spent eating out instead of cooking for my damn self, I have developed a finely-tuned sense about restaurants. I almost instinctually know if it's going to be a good meal or a bad one within the first three minutes. I see it as the payment for the horrible toll that eating out has taken on the physical age of my body which, at last count, was sharing a birthday with dirt. And I had a bad feeling about Generous George.

I don't know whether it was the matching 15-foot nutcrackers at its entrance or the fact that the building was painted a Pepto-Bismol pink, but whatever early warning system I have flashed from yellow to red, and I, like a good American, ignored the crap out of it. We were ushered into a restaurant full of families with small children. On the wall, a placard hung ominously that read, "Reader's Choice: Most Kid Friendly Restaurant 2003," which, I later came to believe, was when they had made the dough of the pizza we ate. Oh. My God. Who hates me.

This place looked like a dilapidated Chuck E.Cheese. Grotesque wooden animals stolen from abandoned county fairs hung lifeless from the pink steel-beamed ceiling, their faces, a mixture of regret and permanent shock, staring bleakly at the massive bronze clock that stood watch over the pink restaurant with the pink chairs. Between the animals were rusted cars and three-wheeled wagons which dangled like corpses between pink steel teeth. On the wall were massive portraits - a girl, dressed in white, sitting in front of a massive grand piano; a Rockwellian-styled boy and his wagon; one of those old black-and-white photos of a wrestler that you always see in Greek or Italian-styled restaurants. Wait... what? And what are all these old newspapers doing on the wall? It looked like Chuck E. Cheese had gotten drunk and run over the Olive Garden. Horrific.

We ordered the antipasti salad (which was a mistake, as the pillows on my bed would later come to learn) and a pizza, both of which were disgusting, dry, tasteless and, as we found out today, covered in the germs of someone's butt. And which cost nearly $40. This is the first restaurant I've ever been to that was so bad, I am motivated to write a letter.

Flash forward to Saturday night. We have a great time over at my cousin Laura's. She lives over by U-Street, which is this sort of revitalized cultural district that has giant murals of Duke Ellington and other black jazz greats on the sides of buildings. We watched the Steeler's game which, as many of you know, ended with frustration, annoyance, and ultimate acceptance that we just didn't deserve to win with all those turnovers. It was fun to put on my Steelers jersey and root for them, though. They showed us one hell of a game in the second half.

Then came Sunday.

It was the fact that the homeless man had stared me straight in the eye as he pissed next to my car that made me call the police on him.

When he was sleeping on the stoop, I passed him and felt a loud note of pity and concern. I fantasized about going up to him and being able to, I don't know, say something or do something that would magically transform him. I thought of him as I carried the groceries upstairs, because I live in a nice part of town. I mean, NICE. He was a reminder of how fragile all this financial stability really is. Without my family and Jess, I thought, I would be like him.

But then he woke up, and as I was unloading the last groceries from my car - this is King Street, mind you, the place with the French restaurants and the boutique shops - he stood up, came over to the tree by my car, opened his pants, and pissed. For like 15 seconds. Just pulled out his dick and pissed. Two girls walked by behind him, their faces unreadable. I look over at him long enough to confirm that yes, oh my God, he is pissing. I then register that he is pissing right next to my car. Not on my car, mind you, but there is some splashing going on. And he is staring straight at me, his eyes unblinking as he relieves himself as if to say, "I see you, and I piss on everything you are." We locked eyes for, what, 1 second? And that is when I resolved to call the police.

You are on my street. Your piss is splashing on my tire. It is fucking broad daylight, families are walking around, I'm trying to unload groceries, and you are pissing in front of all of us. Isn't there somewhere else you should be?

Of course I was horribly conflicted about what to do. Something about the fact that he'd stared right at me the whole time made me angry, though, the kind of white-boy anger that I never have, and I realized that in that moment I wasn't angry at just him; I was angry at Damascus man. I was angry at the guys with the speakers in the white van, angry at every poor-looking jackass who'd gotten one over on me, who'd played me for a fool. And now you're looking me in the eyes as you piss in front of me? Ooh, it got my goat.

Of course, being an idiot and not being able to find the non-emergency number, I called 911, who promptly explained to me in no uncertain terms that by dialing 411 on my phone, I could have gotten the correct number. Hopefully nothing burned down while I extracted that valuable information. I called Alexandria police and explained that there was a man on my block who pissed next to my car.

"Is he a homeless guy?" the officer asked.
"I think so."
"Black, white, hispanic?"
"Black."
"What is he wearing?"
"A dark blue coat, a hat, dark pants."
"What color pants?"
"I don't know."
"Was he urinating on your car, sir?"
"No, no, he didn't actually urinate on the car, it was next to the car."
"Oh. That's good. Do you want to leave a name?"

I was grateful in that moment that I could call someone and make it their problem, that I could put the onus on them to get the pissing homeless black man off of my block. After I got off the phone I, honest to God, sat with Jessie in our apartment and ate fresh cherries. I ate fucking cherries as the sirens blared, and spit out pits as the mentally unwell black man got arrested for peeing in front of me. It'd be a great scene for a movie, only in it I'm the bad guy. I told myself that maybe they can get him some help, you know? Get him to a shelter, or at least give him some damn food. But mostly I just didn't want him peeing on my street. I felt territorial. Challenged. And dammit, man, there are people walking all around you. At least go in the alley in the back.

I think that might have been when God sent the plague, because it wasn't long after that that Jessie went into my bedroom to lay down. She hadn't been feeling well all day - cramps and the like. I was watching the replay of the presidential debates when I heard this wretching sound from my bedroom. Jessie screamed, "Martin! Help!" and, sensing there was actually something wrong, arrived just in time to watch her explode purple, chunky vomit all over herself, wave after wave of it all over the bed, the comforter, the pillows, her shirt. Between heaves she asked for a bowl and I ran to get it. She couldn't sit up, and just kept puking all over herself. I thought she was going to choke on it and die. I grabbed her hand, pulled her upright, and she wretched into one of our mixing bowls, the bed, her shirt, her hair - everything covered in spew.

Five minutes later we were laughing, but I don't think I'll ever be the same. Here she'd gotten food poisoning from Generous George. He was generous alright, but not, apparently, with the soap in the bathroom, because someone touched their butt and got Jessie sick. I, on the other hand, am inexplicably fine (though talking about it makes me feel like I have to puke). I can actually say I held someone's hair as they puked. You really know, in that moment, just how much you love someone, because if there was ever a time when you DIDN'T want to love someone, it's when they're puking all over your bed.

Poor Jess. It seems like she's always sick. Hopefully she feels better soon. I'm trying to be a good caretaker. I spent the night watching the Republicans and the Democrats debate and occasionally emptying the "barf bowl" (this seemed strangely appropriate somehow). The barf bowl is apparently a grand tradition in Jessie's family - I was taught to, you know, puke in the toilet, but to each their own.

I am terrified at how fragile it all is, how one moment you have a bed to sleep in, and the next minute it's full of puke. It is terrifying to know how close we all are to pissing on the sidewalk, how many things have had to happen that were out of our control to keep us out of that situation. I said a prayer for the homeless man with the half-eaten sandwich. Words echoed in my head, words that I always liked but secretly feared: "Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me."

Sorry I got you arrested, Jesus. Please make Jess feel better soon.

And, holy shit (sorry), close down Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta.

Your,
Martin

Thursday, January 03, 2008

Digg It

Check out my sexy new Digg button!! ---------->>>>>>>

I'm not entirely sure what it does. I think it is for bookmarking useful things, so I can't imagine the Captain's Blog ever getting Digged (Dugg?) for any reason. I actually don't really know what Digg is. It just looks so damn official to have it in the post. I feel like a blogger now. Though the "0" is kind of making me self-conscious.

I also had a mini-crisis yesterday because I made the mistake of Googling "Captain's Blog," and accidentally plumbed the depths of my lack of creativity. There are over two million results for "Captain's Blog," many of which are, in fact, on Blogger and many of which, true enough, are not this blog. Sadness. If you google "Captain's Blog Martin" I am the third result, which is weird but at least a little comforting. I think I need to change the title to something more unique. Tooch suggested calling it "The Man of Poor Choices." I can do what Emily did and be a "Martin in the Sun." Maybe I'll steal Mat's and be "A Breath of Fresh Martin." The best name, of course, is taken by Fake Steve Jobs , which has been cracking me up nonstop as of late. Perhaps I'll make a blog called "Revenge of the Frigtards."

I don't even talk about Star Trek here. I mean, I love it - if TNG comes on TV, I'm basically shot until it's over (unless it's the episode where Riker jousts with his father, b/c I've seen that one like 13 times). "Inner Light" was a transformational viewing experience. I still maintain "First Contact" is one of the best sci-fi movies out there. But the name "Captain's Blog" just doesn't really fit here anymore, you know? (I can tell you're enraptured by my inner-monologue). It's a play on words from a show that I love but don't talk about. It'd be like naming this blog "Words from Dagobah." I need something that captures the angsty, over-wordish, haplessly revealing nature of this blog. Suggestions welcome.

So, how is 2008? So far it seems like a decent year, no? Today was the first day back to work, and I confess I was excited to be back. It wore off after an hour or so as the reality of just how busy I am settled back in, but I feel like people have realistic expectations and as long as I'm working hard, they'll have no problem with me. I wrote my first 2008 date today. It felt very weird to scrawl the round little "08" at the end of it. I need to find a non-cliche way of saying, "It's hard to believe it's been eight years since high-school," but, as we learned earlier about me and two million other people, I'm not that creative. (Also, Blogger is trying to spell-check "cliche" as "cloche," and I don't see how that is any better.)

I saw $15 man last night. I was in the car, and Jess got out to run into the apartment for something, and he was walking up the street, dressed in nice khakis which my stupidity must have bought him. He asked her if she knew anything about Virginia, Maryland, and "Damascus," and she said no and ran inside. I watched as he approached an older couple in my rear-view mirror, unfolded the paper he carries around with numbers written on it of the fares to Damascus, MD. I tell you I have never been more tempted to take my car and run over somebody. I wished I had watched more CSI so I knew how not to get caught. The only thing that stopped me from getting out and saying something, the only thing that stayed my lips, was the fact that he played me, and I lost. Jess told him "no" this time and he left her alone. That was all I needed to do, but because I am a sap who wants to save the world one poor little person at a time, I got duped. It was like buying the speakers out of the van, only the only thing I bought was a crushing sense of stupidity. I mean, he's just selling a story, right? I bought his story. Paid $15 for his story. His bullshit story. I'm having fun fantasizing about what I'll say if I see him again. If he doesn't recognize me, maybe I'll pretend to be really concerned about everything he has to say, let him go through his whole shpiel, open my wallet, and then look him in the face and go, "Look, why don't you case someone else's block before I hit you in the face with this metal trash can?" Mmm... passive aggressive rage expression... I was so pissed to see him again, and even more so at my complete lack of action. I kept thinking of the words, "All that is necessary for evil to succeed is for good people to do nothing." And I realized I am totally that good person who does not want the job of kicking the ass of bad people, even though secretly I wish that I did.

So, new adventures abound. Dave would be proud - I got locked out of my apartment today and so I got creative with a credit card. Good thing, too, because it was cold outside. I waited until all the cars had passed and foot-traffic was at a minimum.

You know, just in case. Who knows who I would have thrown $15 at in a vain attempt to save the world?

Your,
Martin

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

Happy 2008!

Dear Reader,

Happy New Year! I hope your holidays were festive, painless, and eventful. I've been on a whirlwind tour that started on December 22nd and ends in Alexandria tomorrow evening. Christmas has been a table for one at the Cafe Crazy.

I did everything on my list. I saw friends. I dueled to the almost-death in an epic game of Risk which will soundly echo through the ages (if only for the massive miscalculation that allowed the yellow armies a last dying breath to spit at me). I took up pipe smoking. I gave my grandparents the video Christmas card I made for them (it featured everyone in my family taking turns saying "Merry Christmas!" and adding a personal message). I spent a day color-timing with Dave, and wrote half of the first featurette script. I smoked cigars with Mark on the back porch. I worked from home and actually got some work done. I saw cousins and aunts and uncles and spent more time with my nieces and nephews than I have in the past two years combined. I wrote with Mat. I helped Jessie navigate a friendship minefield as we all struggle to redefine ourselves under the searing heat of adulthood. I got to watch others open my gifts, got to have a little Christmas with my Mom and another with my Dad. I got to drive Mark's manual VW Jetta all the way to Ohio and back and only stalled it once! I went piano shopping for four hours. I met my sister's new dog. I rung in the new year with a kiss or seven from my future wife.

This was, like, in eight days. Jess spent the week sick with the flu. I had a great Christmas. Hers was, frankly, horrible, and we're both excited to go back to Alexandria and regroup. The second day I was here it felt so...comfortable... and I realized that mentally I've barely left. Sitting on the steps at 5725 feels as natural as it ever did. Maybe more so now that I appreciate it for the oasis that it is. I felt like at any moment Scott would come out to smoke a cigarette, or I'd see Bryan walking up the steps after a long day at the office. Time stretched and stood still. In one moment I was seven and creeping down the steps to see what Santa brought. In another I was 70, looking back on all this and wondering, "Where does it all go when it's gone?"

The whole week became a meditation on family and friendship. I have a weird disconnect sometimes with the things of my childhood. I have to remind myself, for instance, that my sisters are the people I grew up with. We just don't get much time to be siblings, what with the kids and crazy schedules. Even more rarely we talk about the happy times before the divorce. It was a long time ago now - 16 years come this August - and those windows are shuttered for longer and longer periods, only opening now for brief, meaningful glimpses that cast a sad shadow on what is left. My father's financial stability should be my mother's, you know? Little sadnesses slip through cracks in the windowpanes.

But so, too, do little joys. I am absolutely adored by my nieces and nephews. Of course you're thinking, "Duh, Martin, you are, like, the coolest!" (I'm paraphrasing your adoration for me, of course), but the adoration of children is in many ways like the adoration of a puppy dog - warm, uncalculating, and unceasingly fixated on play. And when they ask you what you "do," they are asking, "What are you doing?", as in, "What are you doing right now that could possibly be more important than playing with me?"

I totally burned out on being "Uncle Martin," but that's okay. They were worth it. And they're not my kids, so I have the luxury of time to recharge. Slowly the secrets of unclehood reveal themselves.

On the friend front, I had many meaningful interactions. Dave and I had a blast color-timing scenes from the movie. I feel closest to him when we are working on something together, and in 2008 I want to find other things beside the movie we can share. Mat and I had another "Steps of Life" conversation on the hallowed ground of 5725 Phillips. He is allergic to smoke, and yet sat on the stoop with me for an hour as I tried vainly to keep my pipe lit for more than 10 seconds. Trying to paraphrase a conversation with him would be an exercise in futility, so just take my word that it was, per usual, awesome. I am blessed with guy friends who can be cheering the exciting finish of a Penguins game in one moment and discussing the intricate mysteries of love and life the next. Much as the rain does not make friends with shallow pools, I do not make shallow friendships. If you're my friend, it is going to be an intimate affair because, if you haven't noticed, I hate surface-level interactions. Not that we need to be rowing in each other's deepest waters all the time, but I want to feel like I'm interacting with your gears and springs, not your clock face, you know?

I was reminded this break, by some of the troubles Jess was having with her friends, just how important my friendships are, just how fragile the agreement is on which they are based. It was a wake-up call in many ways. When I was younger, I could afford not to pay too much heed. People called me whether I called back or not. Now, though, as those people grow and get stronger, and I realize their value to me, I simply cannot afford to lose one single friend. They are far too precious, and are becoming harder to replace. I will keep that in mind when it's time to write an e-mail or send a card. How hard is it really to make the little motions that remind someone they are in your thoughts?

That's definitely one resolution for 2008. As I approach getting married, I need to shore up my other relationships, too. I have a feeling they are only going to get more important, not less.

-Martin