Anyone have the number for Sotheby's?

So, the other night, the nuns, Kirstin, and I are sitting down to a lovely homemade dinner (benefit of living in a convent: food not from a can!).

Anyway, we're chattin' it up and I make some cultural reference to the MTV "Newlyweds Show".

"What's that?" asks everyone in unison, and then I remember that these are middle-aged nuns. Forgiven. Thirty-year old Kirstin also has no idea what I am talking about, but she is a little earth-lovin', compost-diggin', natural-buildin' hippie, so I understand... and, frankly, am a little envious. I mean, wouldn't all of our lives be better if we had never heard of Jessica Simpson or Chicken of the Sea controversy of '03?

Sympathetically-- and apologetically-- I try to bring the baby boomers (and Kirstin) up-to-speed. "Oh, Newlyweds is a dumb reality television show that plays on MTV. You know, now that MTV doesn't play music videos anymore".

And then, Kirstin makes a comment that causes me to actually snort my water. Snort. My. Water.

"I don't think I have ever seen a music video".

What? WHAT?!!! A member of generation X who has never seen a video-- ever?!! That seems possible only under one of two conditions:

1. Kirstin grew up in a developing country without electricity.
- Nope. She grew up in rural Minnesota (so kind of close), but did have running water, tooth paste, and tv. (I confirmed this with her)

2. Kirstin is amish.
- She isn't.

Only logical conclusion: Kirstin is lying... or just really forgetful.

I try to jog her memory. "Oh, yes you have. Nearly-naked women gyrating their hips while sippin' on gin and juice? Men made up to look like they are not made up standing knee deep in a river lipsyncing to a cheesy love song?".

Blank stare.

Kirstin has never seen a music video.

At first, I am honestly appauled. Didn't her small town write to their cable company, informing the network leaders, "I want my MTV"?!!!

My second thought, though, is "Cha-Ching"!!! Suddenly, I am compelled to grab Kirstin by the hand and drag her to the Antiques Road Show to find out what I could get for her at auction. I mean, really, a non-amish, non-Taliban sighted thirty-year old American who has never seen a music video?!!! She must be the last one on the planet!!!!

As I am counting my dollars and determining the appropriate salary (and commission) we should ask of Barnum & Bailey, Kirstin looks at me with her innocent eyes and asks, "Will you show me a music video?".

Friends, I face a moral dilema. What is the right thing to do? Do I bring her into the millenium (the last millenium) and give her a common experience with her peers? And if I do, which videos need to be included within our tutorial? I mean, obviously, "Video Killed the Radio Star", "Thriller", and "Take on Me", but what else? Could she really handle Madonna and cone bras, NIN, and Marilyn Manson?

Or, is the better choice to leave her in her video-virginal innocence, sheltering her from the reality of boy bands, choregraphed street dance sequences, and Paula Abdul?

Friends, help me. What would Socrates do?

adventure

It's been about a month now since I moved out here to Boston, and I'm glad to say things are going smoothly (and thanks to everyone for asking and well-wishing!).

All this change has given rise to lots of thought and self-exploration. Those who know me best will not be surprised at this... I tend always to look inward, to process things. But then, I think anyone would! Maybe I'm just more aware that I'm doing it than most people.

Anyway, the thing that keeps creeping back into my consciousness is this: how and when did my previous life get to be so small? By small, I don't mean boring or trite, just... routine. It's not like I'm up here hanging from every available chandelier. I just can't remember the last time I tried something new before this! Somewhere along the line, I just stopped seeking the opportunities.

I'm itching lately to keep the adventure going...! As I get more settled here and find my pace, I feel this pang, this longing-- to not let myself get into some rut (albeit a new rut) of school/work/friends/whatever; to keep things fresh. There's such power in trying new things. It doesn't even have to be some big crazy adventure thing, either-- it's just about challenging my ideas about myself and my world, about seeing things from a different angle.

So, here's my challenge to myself: For the next 30 days, my policy is to be game for anything. Provided it's affordable, legal, moral(ish), and doesn't jeopardize my job or my schoolwork, I agree to say YES to invitations, big and small. Lunch with a friend? Yes. Email about an art opening? Yep. Hiking? Yes. Checkers? Yes. High tea? Yes. I've kinda already started-- yesterday I served as acolyte for a small Mass (I *never* thought I'd do that!), and tomorrow morning I'm walking in a 5K for charity.

This could really get exciting. And if I enjoy myself this month, I may just employ this policy on a permanent basis. look out, folks...

Well... It Is Finished

So, I ran my first mini-marathon. 13.1 miles. Yea, I'm excited. It's an accomplishment for me. Before race morning, my longest run had been 10.5 miles about a week earlier. I trained pretty diligently, except for a few weeks where training consisted of overeating. But regardless, I'm please. I ran the race in 1:57, which is a hair less than a 9 minute mile. My first nine miles were about an 8.5 minute mile. My last four miles were much worse. The only part on the last stretch that I ran well was when the race route passed the sororities. What can I say? Every guy my age did the same thing. I actually laughed about it after turning the corner with another dude about my age and ability.

I definitely learned a few things:
--26 years old is not the new 21 years old. It's true. My right hip is still a little sore.
--have respect for hilly roads
--people who train for marathons are insane. (I can not imagine running for 2 more hours after my first 2 hours).
--next time, band-aid my nipples. Yep.
--U2's cover of "Mission Impossible Theme" should be on everyone's workout mix. I felt like a secret agent running mile number 5.

I know Fr. Bob has a picture or two. He's the Dominican pastor at St. Paul's... he ran the race 3 minutes faster than me. I mean, he does have God in his corner. Whatever. If I get one or two, I'll post them.

Now that I think of it. This blog needs more photos. The troops and I will start working on that.

It has been a week since I was nearly stabbed to death

Last weekend, I was home alone at the convent. Well, actually, that is not true: I was the only human at the convent; in fact, I was accompanied by four dogs, two cats, and one fish—all of whom were entrusted to my care. The nuns + NIT drove our former housemate, Yessina, to Los Angeles to begin her new life, thus requiring my vigilant care of the zoo-like domestic brood.

Though we live in a country house on a quiet farm street, I was anxious about my solo condition because the Sisters had forgotten to leave me a house key; every time I left the house, I was vulnerable to intruders and other undesirables. Still, I soldiered on.

Even before my near-death experience Sunday, the weekend was difficult. On Thursday I ate a dubious burrito in Mexico and suffered its poisonous effects all weekend (use your imagination). Also, the “Sun City” has been under water; in the last week alone, more rain fell in the area than usually accumulates in a year. Floods, mudslides, and closed roads have basically sidelined the entire region. And, of course, there was the other…. issue… I faced during my home stay.

The Issue. I am ashamed to admit that under my watch, the convent has been christened… and I don’t mean in the religious way. For the first time, sex has occurred—many, many times—within the convent’s confines. Specifically, Surge “surged” all over Zoey… all weekend. (Below please find a picture of Zoey-Surge-Foreplay)

Zoey is one of the dogs in my charge. Surge is the mutt who used to squat at our neighbor’s house (now he squats on Zoey). On Friday afternoon, Surge discovered how the dog door to our house works. On Saturday, he discovered other “doors”. In every room he made this discovery. Loudly. In the kitchen, while I was making coffee. In the hallway outside my room, while I was getting dressed. In the family room- while I tried to listen to Tim Russert lay into Bob Casey- grunting, thrusting, panting. (actually, what I did hear from Mr. Casey was pretty pitiful, so the noise pollution probably did him a favor). Humpage all over our house.

What would the nuns say? In my two weeks in the house, I hadn’t yet learned their canine coitus policies, so I was left assuming they were as strict as the fornication rules governing their own lives; of the four promises these women made at Final Vows, two concerned sex! Each takes a vow of celibacy and a vow of chastity. Truthfully, I can’t even guess the difference (Aunt MB, do you know?), but what I can conclude is that these women take pureness seriously. And now, just three days under my tutelage, their house is defiled. Are there purification ceremonies for convents to counter the taint of mutt sexin’? At least I kept them out of the chapel…

Anyway, back to my near death experience… this all ties in. I left the dog door to our house open all day Sunday, to encourage Zoey and Surge to take it outside (they were bothering the other dogs, too. Bailey at one point barked out something that I am sure was the canine equivalent of “get a room”!). Thankfully, Zoey and Surge disappeared for a spell, allowing me to suffer my stomach parasite—affectionately named “Eugene”- in peace.

Then, at nightfall, I noticed an elderly gentlemen limping up our driveway. Was this Mr. Trujillo, our neighbor who has threatened to call the dog catcher if another member of our brood defecates in his fields? Quickly, I ran a dog roll call: Saga, check. Yogi, check. Bailey, check. Zoey… ZOEY!!! I ran outside to plead my case to Mr. Trujillo—I couldn’t allow a dog to be nabbed on my watch!—but he was already gone. Probably to the pound to watch Zoey’s slaying. I got into a car and did a search of the neighborhood. Twenty minutes and no Zoey. Hopeful that she had found her way home, I returned to the house; still, no bottom-biting, sexin’ pooch. Resigned to meet the Trujillos on their turf, I walked toward my room to put on a pair of jeans (I was already p.j.-rammed because of my infirmity) and a contrite countenance.

OMG. One of the five doors in the long hallway at the back of the house was closed… a door which had been open only an hour before.

OMG!

I wasn’t alone.

While I had been searching for that damned dog whom I had banished from my presence for humping all over the house, an intruder had entered… an intruder who was now hiding in Skarlee’s room, waiting for his opportunity to slaughter me. I skulked to my room, grabbed my cell phone, and called the only person who I knew would be awake at that hour (to give him my address to call into the paramedics in the event that I was stabbed while we were on the phone). Less than sympathetic to my precarious situation, Peter insisted that I open the door to my murderer’s hide out.

“I know you are here, Intruder! Jump out the window now because I have the police on the phone,” I called.

No response.

“Open the damn door!”, Peter yelled in my ear.

“He is going to kill me”, I responded.

Then, over Peter’s guffaw, I heard the sounds of a struggle from within the room. “Peter,” I whispered, “someone is in the room!”.

“OPEN THE DOOR!”, he roared. Incanting the Blessed Mother to accept my sinful soul into the warmth of heaven, I pushed the door open and ran.

THE DOOR SLAMMED SHUT!

OMG, OMG, OMG!

For God knows what reason, I pressed my luck. I again flung open the door and…

OUT RAN ZOEY AND SURGE!!!!

Bitch! Bastard! Damned dogs!! They had heeded Bailey’s plea and had, indeed, gotten a room—and locked themselves in it!!! Needless to say, Surge slept outside and Zoey went to bed without a biscuit!

I was nearly killed because Surge can’t keep it to himself.

I am the best damn dog sitter who ever lived.


(...though, apparently, not the greatest fish guardian; Nemo died two days after the nuns’ return. A coincidence, I am sure…)

Newsweek's My Turn

I was reading Newsweek today and ran across the section entitled "My Turn." I rarely read this section as such editorials tend to bore me and often relate to a topic in which I have little or no interest. But the past two Newseek "My Turn" sections have been thoroughly entertaining and, in some ways, downright funny.

A past My Turn was entitled "I'm Old -- and I'm Just Fine With That." It was written by a charming old lady, Mary Immel. Without paraphrasing the whole darn article, Mary mentions how a clerk in a store referring to her as "young lady" sort of ticked her off. Mary is hip enough to know she isn't young anymore, but so what? Two great lines from the article. "It must have seemed a miracle to him that I had been able to locate the store and hobble inside," and "In spite of my outward signs of aging, I manage to tie my own shoes and eat my oatmeal without assistance." The article is just great.

This week's My Turn is entitled "My Declaration of ... Well, Dependence." Written by Angelo DeVitis, the article talks about assisted living homes. His style cracks me up. The guy is sharp enough to read through words like "luxury" and "classic" and "independent living" to understand the place is a home for old folks who need some help. But again, who cares? He takes this pun to its extreme when he deadpans the name of his retirement home, "Life-Care Senior Citizen Independent Living Classic Luxury Residence." I was laughing out loud in my chair. Stringing all those false descriptors together is just funny to me. It demonstrates the extent to which people will disguise something that everyone else understands perfectly for what it is.

Hope you enjoy both articles. I had to share them.

Mimes.

Last Thursday, I was sitting at my desk doing some work. I had a random thought. Have I ever laughed at a mime? I honestly don't think I ever have. I mean EVER. What is to laugh at? Mimes aren't funny. A mime is basically a clown without sound, props, gags or jokes. Come to think of it, what the hell are they? Are they supposed to be ironic? Are they poking fun at the human condition by taking away our predominant mode of communication and replacing it with that "I'm trapped in a box" thing? I honestly don't get it. I asked a few other people and they haven't laughed at mimes either.

That leads me to a recurring theme. What have the French ever contributed to society? Two things... recreation (i.e. the 32 hour work week) and mimes. And this warrants a permanent seat on the UN Security Council? Right.