Last year I discovered National November Writing Month, or “NaNoWriMo.” It’s this thing that encourages aspiring writers to take a crack at writing a novel in the month of November. Because there’s only a month in which to write, the focus is on output, not quality (the goal is 175 pages, or 50,000 words). The point? To see what it feels like to write a novel! Regardless of how crappy it will be (and if I do it, it will be crappy). Anyways, I’ve decided to take a crack at it (I’m already two days behind. Hoot!), and I wanted to announce it on the blog so that someone would hold me to it when I completely fall behind and don’t get it done. With work and other stuff, I’m doing far more writing than I’ve ever wanted to as it is, but this should be good. Maybe I’ll write about a spaceship or a dragon or something. Although I’m wasting words as it is.

Unrelated, I went to California for four days last week for work, and since I was by myself, on one of those days I got an in-room movie. Nothing dirty, sickos - I rented “Oceans 13.” It wasn’t that good. Which is not surprising, and I wouldn’t mention it, but for the fact that it had all these stupid “Godfather” references in it. But that inspired me to watch Godfather II tonight. I still love the movie, but I’m really starting to think John Cazale may have overacted a bit when he’s first “introduced” to Johnny Ola in Cuba. He looks totally freaked out by the encounter, but I’d imagine he would have been at least a little more subtle about it. And later when he slips, he completely blows it. He might as well have made out with Johnny Ola.

Shit. Now I feel horrible. I take it all back. It was perfectly acted, and made sense, because of course Fredo was an idiot. Just amazing. Totally totally amazing. I love you Fredo. Sorry you got popped.

More Random Thoughts…

- I do this thing where immediately after I burp, I blow outwards to expel the stank burp breath. I think this makes perfect sense. Who wants to be in the vicinity of burp smell and burp taste? But for some reason, this really pisses Neha off, even if I try and be subtle about it, and blow either straight up or straight down (as opposed to say, in someone else’s face). I really don’t understand her anger. I guess she just really likes the burp taste. Personally I think that’s disgusting.
- Most people in the “blogosphere” mock ESPN’s Sean Salisbury because he takes pictures of his genitals with his cellular phone. Also because he’s an arrogant and abusive bully when he’s talking down to uber-dork John Clayton. But the real reason to mock ESPN’s football “expert” is the fact that during the 2004 NFL draft, when the San Diego Chargers drafted Eli Manning first overall and then traded him to the Giants for Phillip Rivers and a bunch of draft picks, Salisbury actually asked why, if Sand Diego wanted Rivers all along (which, after the trade, they claimed that they did), they didn’t just draft him first all along. Seriously. He asked that question. Man what a douchebag. I tried to find the clip on YouTube so that I could hyperlink it, but was unsuccessful. Believe me though. It happened. Salisbury is an idiot.
- I’m in the “coffee club” at work, which means I no longer have to patronize evil corporate giant Starbucks and their overly bitter, $2 coffee. Unfortunately, the coffee club has been inoperative for a couple of weeks now (for reasons unclear to me, and I’m too lazy to actually go make the coffee myself), so I’ve had to start buying my coffee again. But, because of my new metro stop and route to the office (see previous post, below), I now pass directly by an Au Bon Pain, which has what I refer to as a “coffee bar” (I put it in quotes because my friend says calling it a “bar” is stupid). It’s a set up of four types of coffee, you fill your own cup, and you make it yourself. It’s pretty amazing. But now I see how other people make their coffee, and it’s just weird. I saw a lady put six packets of sugar into a small coffee cup before filling it. My teeth hurt just thinking about that. And I saw a guy fill his cup nearly a third of the way with cream. Seriously? That’s disgusting. But I deal with it, because the coffee is pretty good (I recommend the “morning blend”) and I like the feeling of being in control of my coffee experience. But a lot of times the coffee isn’t hot enough, and in the ten-minute walk it gets cold and I can only drink half of it before it’s totally undrinkable. It’s really upsetting because I’ve always believe in ABP, and because they can’t make hot enough coffee, faith is really shaken. Jesus this story is pointless. Anyways, I am thinking of applying for a job at ABP, because I think that’s the only way I can enjoy a full cup of hot coffee.
- I went to get my eyes checked today at “Mr. Eye Doctor” in Arlington, Virginia. The place was so weird. Everyone who works there, including the optometrists, dresses like they’re going clubbing. I’m not kidding. My optometrist was dressed in all black, as was the girl who did my paperwork after the fact. She was wearing heavy makeup and a tight Dolce & Gabanna shirt. The manager of the store (the place also sold glasses) was dressed like one of the “Roxbury” guys. Fortunately he didn’t try and freak me. But it was all very stupid. And I spent WAY too much money on a pair of Prada frames. So I’m even stupider.

I’ve changed the route I take to work, getting off one metro stop earlier (McPherson Square) so that I can walk through a park with a fountain and some trees. It’s peaceful, it’s pretty, and what can I say, I’m a sensitive guy. Because the park is so pretty, a lot of people hang out there, including people who don’t really have other homes. Meaning there are usually a lot of people who sleep on benches and in the grass. Which is fine - there’s plenty of space. The other day though, I saw the strangest thing while walking through the park on the way home from work. There was a guy sleeping on the grass, with tons of space all around him. Literally no one within a ten-yard radius. Nonetheless, another guy comes up and starts screaming “that’s my spot! You’re in my motherf*ckin’ spot!” In and of itself, one guy screaming at another about a random spot of grass is amusing enough, but what made it funnier was the fact that the guy on the receiving end of the yelling was totally unphased by it all. He barely even moved. I don’t know if that pissed off the screaming guy more, although I know that if I was the screaming guy, I would have been annoyed. He just kept on yelling, and the other guy just kept on sleeping. That doesn’t mean the screaming was ineffective though. I know I won’t sleep there.

Over the past month I’ve felt like a heroin addict going through withdrawal. The constant cravings, itching, babies crawling on ceilings (sorry - my only experience with heroin withdrawal is “Trainspotting”)…it has been just horrible. But, thankfully, as I was getting close to overcoming my addiction, on Thursday, we got our computer back, and I’m happy to say that I’ve falled off the wagon horribly. I’ve been aimlessly surfing the net ever since we got the laptop back, and I couldn’t be happier. My retinas are burning and begging me to close my eyes, but I just can’t. There’s so much to see!

Not to mention write about - including a topic I’ve wanted to address for months: Washington DC tourists. It’s taken me some time to get adjusted to living out here, but as my hatred for the tourists grew, I began to feel like a real Washington DC-ite (jesus I don’t know what they’re called). I felt like I belonged. I know it’s cliche to hate tourists (I probably sound like a typical asshole New Yorker), but I have three legitimate reasons for my enmity: 1) their dress; 2) their escalator etiquette; 3) their behavior on the morning metro (actually, the metro is pretty much the only time I see them, so these reasons are pretty much all metro-related).

1) All the DC tourists dress the same in the summer when it’s grossly humid and hot here. They wear shorts, often denim, with ugly t-shirts, and colored socks pulled up to mid-calve with sneakers or (the horror!) sandals. Plus they have ugly hats on, and butt packs. I didn’t even know people wore butt packs anymore. I assumed they went out of style when my parents stopped wearing them in 1991. It is all very awful and I find it very upsetting. Why don’t tourists watch “Project Runway?” Have they no self-respect? It should be showing on a big monitor at Reagon National when the planes land. If Tim Gunn saw one of those those tourists in socks and sandals, he’d probably beat them to death with some low-cost fabrics he purchased at Mood (that’s an awesome Project Runway joke - you need to start watching). If you saw these people, you’d understand that my anger is totally justified.

2) They don’t know how to use the escalators. Maybe this doesn’t sound like a big deal, but I take DC’s metro to work every day. The metro is underground. Often times, it’s way underground, meaning there is a lot of escaltor usage. And savvy DC-residents such as myself know that usage calls for those who want to walk up the stairs to do so on the left side, and those who want to stand to stay to the right. Normally the system works fine and if you need to rush to catch a train or something, you don’t have to worry about being delayed on the escaltor because there’s always a steady stream of traffic on one side. But when the tourists are in full effect? Forget about it. They’re all over the escaltor, a family of four standing side by side 2×2, making it impossible to quickly slip through. If you want to get by, you have to put your head down and charge. It’s just awful. And infuriating. The tourists make no effort to move or learn our ways. They just look around obliviously, taking in the beauty of the metro while putting their maps back into their buttpacks and adjusting their socks in their sandals.

3) Mornings on the metro are, in my opinion, a time for quiet reflection, and a last chance for some quiet and mental solitude prior to beginning the word day. For that reason, I avoid, at all costs, talking on the metro in the morning. It’s just not right. I think most people agree with me - morning metro rides are generally a pretty quiet affair. Occassionally you’ll have a bunch of people in town for a meeting or a convention or something, and sometimes they’ll talk, possibly even loudly, but for the most part, eveyone plays by the rules. But not the tourists. Oh no. The tourists are so excited to be in our nation’s capital, and they want everyone on the train to know! They can’t decide what they want to see first! They need to figure out what stop to get off at for the White House! They haven’t been to DC in so long and they can’t believe how much it’s changed (it hasn’t changed at all since you visited 15 years ago. I mean, there are more condo buildings, but they aren’t being built inside the Smithsonian, so you aren’t seeing them)! They just talk sOOO loud and much. Any really about nothing.

This post has made me realize that I’ve turned into an East coast jerk, but maybe that was unavoidable. And maybe it’s me trying to adopt to the mentality out here. For that, I think I deserve a pat on the back. I’m making an effort. And if you’re a tourist, or a potential DC tourist, I’m making an effort to make your trip more enjoyable by ensuring you aren’t mercilessly mocked for your crappy attire and poor public transportation etiquette.

You should be thanking me.

Dear readers - I write this post to assuage the widespread fear that the blog has come to an end, as evidenced by my lack of recent posts (though given this blog’s history, I’d argue that the monthlong silence is merely consistent with past posting habits). There have been a number of things I’ve wanted to write about over the past month, including the horrific trip to San Francisco that led me to conclude that if the United States airline industry is a human body, US Airways is its taint; how a neverending discovery dispute in my day job has me considering jumping out of my office window (fortunately, they don’t open); and how I’m a lazy fatass who played tennis with my cousin and lost 6-1, 6-0.

Unfortunately, I cannot write about any of these fascinating things because our home computer got some crazy disease that causes it to shut off uncontrollably and convert TEXT TO ALL CAPS AND NO PERIODS ONLY THESE ARROW THINGS> SERIOUSLY, NO PERIODS> IT IS SO INCREDIBLY FRUSTRATING> And now the computer is pretty much dead. I choose not to blog from work (this post notwithstanding) because 1. I don’t want to get fired and 2. I don’t want to get fired. So for the most part, my hands are tied for the time being.
Interestingly enough, that I’m a lazy fatass is especially relevant to this post because I just haven’t taken the computer in to get it fixed (or, hopefully, replaced) because on the weekend there is TV. You understand. But I hope to do so this weekend because I know you all miss me, and I miss me too. My words are like magic, and we’re all being deprived of them. Life isn’t fair. But you all know that. As evidenced by the fact that Harry Potter died.

At last week’s Tiger tournament, Neha and I were following my man Vijay Singh when who wandered up next to us? Michael Wilbon, the star of the award-winning ESPN series “Who’s Now?” Naturally I was incredibly excited and I couldn’t help myself and started yelling “Wilbon! Wilbon! Who’s more Now? Me or my wife (pointing to Neha, who was naturally mortified)? And who’s more Now? You or Kornheiser? And what about Vijay? How Now is he? Do you think he’s more now with our without his goatee?” Wilbon did his best to ignore me, but couldn’t and just walked away.

Okay, so none of that happened. But Wilbon was there watching Vijay with us. He’s really tall.

I’ve figured out the end of Harry Potter, and I thought I’d share it with everyone (sorry, but a secret like this is too good to keep to myself):

Hermione gets pregnant when Ron pokes her with his Weasley.

In my effort to post more, I thought I’d do a “random thoughts” post…

-We went to the AT&T National Golf tournament hosted by Tiger Woods today. It was fun, but for the fact that it was nearly 100 degrees and my main man Vijay Singh played like crap. Though I worship the guy, I’m his harbinger of doom. Every time I go watch him play, he sucks. I should start putting for him or something. Anyways, on one of the holes, this incredibly annoying woman was loudly talking about Tiger Woods and how he had made “birds” on various holes, apparently not realizing that they’re called “birdies.” And then she started horribly mispronouncing the names of the Asian players on Tour, calling Shigeki Maruyama “Maru Maru” and K.J. Choi, “K.J. Choo.” For some reason I can’t deal with people mispronouncing names. Maybe I’m hypersensitive because of my own name, but it really bothers me. And this woman was KILLING me. There really wasn’t anything I could do though. I would have smashed her in the face, but I didn’t have a frying pan.

-I recently watched the movie “A History of Violence.” It’s a decently entertaining popcorn flick, and it’s got a wonderfully gratuitous nude scene with the secretly smokin’ Maria Bello. But there was just one little plot point I couldn’t deal with. In the subplot dealing with Viggo Mortenson’s kid, the school bully wants to beat the kid up because, well, the kid caught his flyball in a gym softball game. It’s just absurd. The bully is all cocky about potentially winning a game of gym softball (which, in and of itself is totally implausible), and then hits a routine popup directly to the son - who didn’t even have to move to catch it! Nonetheless, this leads to much brooding and stalking until their final fight. Just total bullshit. I don’t ask for a lot. But I need more than just gym softball. Although if that’s the price to pay for Maria Bello nudity, I guess it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

-City-wise, I haven’t found a lot in Washington DC that is better than Chicago, but I’m comfortable saying that the sushi here at Sushi Taro is better than at any Chicago joint. It’s sad but true. Plus at Sushi Taro you can sit on the floor, Japanese-style. I’m a sucker for the authenticity that I’m sure none of these restaurants have. But hey, at least they’re trying.

-”Random thoughts” columns are lazy and gimmicky. They’re amongst the basest forms of writing (sorta like blogs. Ha ha just kidding!). I’m looking at you Larry King and Bills Simmons. Get your acts together.

-I’m not afraid to say that I’m totally feeling all of Gwen Stefani’s new music. And it’s crazy that I was listening to No Doubt my senior year in high school. She’s been around forever, and her music is palatable. I’m saying, that at least in terms of staying power, she’s this generation’s answer to Madonna. I’m willing to say it. Also, I hate Madonna.

-I figure I can crank out two more of these “random thoughts” columns together before I make myself vomit.

For reasons previously stated, I’ve written off ESPN for the most part, and try and get my sports news elsewhere if possible. With the internet, that’s not hard to do. Every now and then, however, while flipping through channels, I’ll stumble across ESPN and leave it on for a few minutes, before I feel the seizures coming on. Today was one of those days, and I was fortunate to watch a segment called “Who’s Now” (or was it called “who’s next?” Really, who cares?). On this thing, Stuart Scott was leading a discussion with Keyshawn Johnson, Kirk Herbstreit and Michael Wilbon (why Wilbon, why?!?) about who would win in a matchup between Tiger Woods and Matt Leinert. Tiger was the #1 seed, Leinert #8. But the matchup, you see, didn’t pit the two of them in a round of golf or some abbreviated game of football, but was instead a determination to see who was more…”now.” And so the discussion featured Keyshawn talking about how Tiger Woods is awesome and wins everything and has nearly $1 billion. Tremendous point. Stuart Scott (who, God bless him, is probably the closest thing we’ve got to Edward R. Murrow in this day and age), aptly rebutted, “what about the fact that Matt Leinert has been connected to Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, and Jessica Simpson’s publicist? Doesn’t that count for something?”

At this point, I involuntarily started punching myself in the face. My parents just moved into a highrise in downtown Chicago, and I was tempted to jump off the balcony, but I had to know THE VALUE OF LEINERT’S CONNECTION TO JESSICA SIMPSON’S PUBLICIST.

Seriously, what the f*ck? I know this is a slow time for sports, but how can ESPN look itself in the face every morning? How does Stuart Scott have a job? And it’s one thing Keyshawn Johnson and Kirk Herbstreit to appear on this nonsense, but Michael Wilbon is a respected journalist who writes for a reputable newspaper, the Washington Post. I wonder how much it cost ESPN to get Wilbon to pretty much take a dump on his credibility? And how does anyone at ESPN think this is a good idea? What is the fucking point? I’m sorry about the profanity, but ESPN just drives me nuts, and I’m not kidding, I was watching for no more than 5 minutes. Why can’t ESPN report sports scores, show sporting events, and have Erin Andrews pose in a swimsuit? Why is any of this other nonsense necessary? Oh, and by the way, Woods and Leinert were seeded in the “Michael Jordan bracket.” Thank you, ESPN, for including the hero of my adolescense in monstrosity of a “news event.”

Well this was the last straw. From here on out, I get my sports scores only from this guy.

This post is (unsurprisingly) a couple of weeks late, but I just turned 29 and I figured it was worth writing about. Especially since year 28 was pretty eventful, and likely one of the most formative years of my life. At 29 I’m only a year away from 30, at which point I’m officially old. Seriously. 30 is indisputably old. If you’re over thirty and you’re reading this, you’re old - deal with it. Shit at 29 I have a bad back, tendinitis and chronic pain in my left shoulder. At thirty I’ll probably need hip replacement. But enough about 29. Let’s look back at some of the significant happenings in the super-eventful 28th year of my life:

- Canceled my subscription to Sports Illustrated. This might not seem like much, but for me it was a pretty big deal. I’ve been reading SI since I was 13, and there was a window of at least ten years when the only thing I could think about each Wednesday was the fact that the magazine would be in my mailbox when I got home from school. When the Chicago Bulls were in their dynasty years back in the 90s, I was in my SI-reading prime, and since each issue invariably had some sort of Bulls/Michael Jordan related feature, I was thriving. Even better than that? Back in the heyday of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the magazine wouldn’t airbrush out exposed nipples. So it was highly educational. My cancellation reflects , to some extent, my age and the fact that I don’t need to read a sports-only magazine each week, but probably also is a result of the fact that I’m sitting in front of a computer at work all day and have instant access to all sports and other related news that is constantly being updated. Also exposed nipples. The magazine no longer provides (much) new material. Damn you internet, for robbing me of my youth.

-Started watching “The Sopranos.” I didn’t actually start watching this show until last July/August, when I had a month of between jobs (see infra), and finished the first 5 seasons in about three weeks. There’s not a whole lot to this, but since it’s become one of my favorite shows, it’s worth mentioning. When the last episode aired last week, one of my friends reflected upon the fact that the show had basically been a part of his life for ten years. Though for me it was more like ten months, I could totally empathize. Except for the “part of [my] life” and “ten years.” Still - monumental nonetheless.

-My nephew, Sohum was born. This, obviously, is a legitimately big deal - almost as big as the cancellation of SI. Sohum is my parents’ first grandkid (my brother’s son), and is totally amazing. He’s given my family something to talk about at all times. In a wonderfully cheesy way, he’s brought us closer together. Each passing day has taken on a significance it never had before, and everything is measured in Sohum-time. Meaning everyone knows exactly how many months old he is and there are enormous milestones at the smallest events - his first making of eye-contact, his first smile, his ability to crawl, eat solid foods, etc. It’s all pretty awesome. And I’d imagine, going forward, that most milestones in our life will be measured in Sohum-time, to some extent. 2006, and my 28th year, begin PS - post-Sohum.

-Neha and I started new jobs, and moved from Chicago to Washington DC. The jobs we’ve taken are ones that, potentially, we could be in for a long time. So that means, potentially, we could be settling down for good in DC. And that means we’d be living on the East Coast, which would automatically make us assholes. Not like New York City assholes, but assholes nonetheless. People who seemingly always lived someplace ended up there at some point in their lives. For us, if we’re in DC 30 years from now, we’ll look back to this past year as the time when we moved out here and set up camp. It’s scary, really. But exciting too. Or something. So clearly, year 28 was a big deal.

Was this post sappy and a bit maudlin? Probably. But it had to be said.

I miss Sports Illustrated.