Buddy the Elf, What's Your Favorite Color?

Civic engagement can come in an abundance of forms. This Christmas, instead of phoning our Senator urging the passage of health care, a few respectful citizens and I took up an equally important cause, Elfing. The local chapter of the Jaycees raises funds by charging patrons a nominal fee to get their picture taken with Santa at the Ballston Commons, a futile attempt to coalesce enough trinket shops to earn the stature of mall. In order to make this cost-effective, they rely on a well-mobilized volunteer force (enter Elves).

So Valerie and I donned our sprite-like attire, Elfed in everything except the pointed leaf-shaped ears. Remy and Megha got into a tussle over who would go as Mrs. Claus, and compromised in the end. They both went as Mrs. Claus. I thought Santa had higher morals than this, or maybe he’s just a fundamental Mormon at heart.

From my limited exposure braving the onslaught of candy-cane-eating children (ergogenics at its best), I have successfully categorized all Santa-see-ers into the following three categories:

The Eager Beavers: These rambunctious firecrackers have been waiting since becoming zygotes to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. Their list of holiday hankerings exceeds the allotted Santa-time, and their faces radiate gingersnaps and sugar plums. They often return every five minutes to make sure Santa’s still there and shout out an additional gift idea or two.

The Fake Outs: Synonyms for this genre include little rascals and jackanapes. From the hundred yard line, they scream for Santa, but something sets them off right outside the end zone and the fury is unleashed. Maybe it’s just cold feet, or maybe Santa’s beard is more scraggly than they remembered, but whatever the cause, the consequence is always the same; Tears. If I hadn’t received a decent education, I would have guessed the Trail of Tears was actually the spot from Santa’s lap to the nearest mall exit.

The Dazed and Confused: This group of children is either (a) star struck and speechless (b) too young to know who Santa is or (c) asleep. No matter, they are the easiest category to corral for a picture.

By the end of my shift, I also came to realize that there was a category in a class of its own:

You’re Too Old to Sit On Santa’s Lap: The outcome of paralyzing Santa from the waist down has negative externalities for us all. A handicapped Santa certainly can’t shimmy down the chimney to deliver presents to all the eager beavers, fake outs, and dazed and confused.

Let's Fa La La La La La La La La

The time between Thanksgiving and the New Year is hands-down my favorite time of year. The holiday spirit warms the winter months and is a time where even the pessimists can cherish a bit of positivity. However, no matter how much I find myself wrapped up in holiday cheer, I can’t seem to find the appropriate gifts to wrap.

Confession: I’ll come clean. I have a gift-exchange complex. It can be in the form of Secret Santa, White Elephant, or just general one-for-one gift exchanges. It likely stems from a White Elephant gift exchange I participated in with some friends from high school where, instead of being the Grinch who stole Christmas, or at least the Grinch who stole someone’s gift, I opted to end the game by opening the final gift...a Polly Pocket. Ever since this traumatic milestone, I have had a gift-exchange complex.

This gift exchange complex did not serve me well the other day. And to make matters worse, it was combined with my new-employee-judgment-phase phobia. As December rolled in, I rolled onto a new consulting project, finding myself surrounded by a new group of soon-to-be friends, or so I hoped. Approximately three hours into my first day of work I received my first test; an invitation to participate in the office Secret Santa.

Sidebar: I was first acquainted with this new-employee-judgment phase in my first week with the firm. A fellow young employee approached me on Friday afternoon and asked if I would participate in an inter-firm game of flag football. Eager to make new friends and demonstrate my ability to be a part of a team, I blocked off my entire Saturday. I was told the game started at 1pm, so I arrived fifteen minutes early, erring on the side of caution, only to find that my teammates had been there “warming up” for the past hour. Someone forgot to tell me our team was warming up. Whoops. No sweat. Jamming out to Final Countdown on my drive to the field was a comparable warm up. Once the game got started I was keen on demonstrating my superb athletic ability, but faced my second set-back of the afternoon upon entering the huddle. Apparently the entire team had also been practicing for months and had committed the playbook to memory. Longhorn Split. No problem, I’ll just prance around the field and try not to draw too much attention. I guess I didn’t meet to the team’s expectations; the words flag and football have not been used in combination in my presence since this fateful Saturday afternoon.

But back to the gift-exchange. Seasons and festivities aside, the one thing I unequivocally struggle with is gift-giving. Maybe I’m just selfish (like the time I went Christmas shopping and the only gift I left the mall with was one for myself…) This year, instead of brainstorming thoughtful offerings for my roommates, I opted for the Something Store. The premise; I pay $10 and in exchange, the Something Store will send me something, which, in all likelihood, was probably more thoughtful than the something I would have found.

After drawing my Secret Santa, engaging many in friendly debate on gift-giving, I opted to give Lindsey Cranium. Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait until next Christmas to determine if I passed the new-employee-judgment test.

Wendy

Hair. It often says a lot about a person. People pay a pretty penny to get their hair styled like celebrities, entire lines of beauty products are devoted to its maintenance and upkeep. It can define an era (the Tina Turner), it can define a social class (the frat swoop), it can be a social phenomenon (the mullet). It can make or break you.

Which is why I’ve never been one to care at all about my hair. Frankly, in the words of Wendy (more on her later), I am low maintenance usually towel drying and using my hands as a substitute comb. I’ve never used any hair product despite the incessant encouragement and sales pitches by every Hair Cuttery in the metropolitan area. I also like to think that I’m pragmatic when it comes to haircuts. It is one of the few exchanges where I like to stick to a strict philosophy of transaction-based commerce, providing terse responses to any questions asked until it is implicitly understood that I’m not interested in learning about your burgeoning medical bills and not going to reveal my family history.

So, sparing the details, I went to get a haircut at a new barber shop, or as it turns out, more of a salon named Hair Reflections. And I don’t know what it is about me, but I’ve always had this special allure; something that emanates from my face, perhaps the twinkle in my eye (or more recently, the reflection of the braces). It’s like I cast a Harry Potter veritaserum everywhere I go that has strangers young and old revealing their darkest truths.

Enter Wendy. Wendy seemed convivial at first, asking for my name, which she promptly forgot and asked for again. I forgave her and provided her with an out by referencing a psychology study that explained that people often forget a newly introduced person’s name because the brain is busy processing all of the new visual stimuli.

Psychology was the key to pandora’s box. Well, if you took psychology, did you ever learn about the psychology of suicide? Excuse me? Wendy, remember how less than a minute ago you didn’t know my name? No, I did not learn about the psychology of suicide. The reason I ask is because my girlfriend has really been mind-f*&#ed because her last two boyfriends both committed suicide. A reminder: I pay $15, you cut my hair. I didn’t come to barter, one haircut for one counseling session please.

Wendy proceeded to inform me of all the other joys of her life, starting with birth. You see, in 1964 they gave her mother a laxative before birth. Consequently, Wendy was almost conceived in the toilet. The optimist in me chimed in to tell her that at least it was only almost. On the show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant a lady didn’t know she was pregnant until she actually birthed her child in the bowl. She was appropriately named Ariel.

I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. The first sign was when Wendy, instead of using the hair dryer on me, used it to wisp her own hair and stare longingly at her reflection in the mirror.

Well Hair Reflections, consider this my hair reflection. I ain’t coming back.

I Tip My Capotain to You

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. I mean, I honestly love everything about this holiday. Particularly because the premise of the holiday revolves around one of America’s greatest vices, gluttony. Something tells me that if the pilgrims knew that thanking God for the harvest would yield a 30% obesity rate 400 years later, they might have decided to thank God for something else, such as gainful employment.

In my family, the holiday has always been remarkably equable. Ever since I can remember, my immediate family has traveled to Delaware to spend Thanksgiving Day with the rest of the Gavrons (no, Brenda – not the Garvons). And each year without fail, my grandmother, whom I love dearly, brings a newly discovered morsel apportioned to each family member in a zip lock bag. This year, along with our dinner, we each received a nibble of some Dutch fruitcake that was apparently “winning awards all across Europe.” We were all really lucky she got her hand on one of these winning fruity delights. Frankly, I think my immediate family was just thankful that the soupcon did not contain peanut butter.

My sister, Lisa, has a strong allergy to peanut products. And apparently just as strong as my sister’s allergy is my grandmother’s determination to induce an allergic reaction. One year, my grandmother was doling out chocolates.

-Grandma, does this contain peanuts?

-Oh, no. There aren’t any peanuts in it. Try it. It’s delicious.

I guess my grandmother was found not guilty, since the chocolate center was, in fact, peanut butter, not a peanut. Needless to say, that Thanksgiving ran over on the giving and fell short of the thanks.

In more recent years, my college friends and I have started and tradition that neither words nor phrases, limericks nor haikus can describe. The event has come to be known as Dranksgiving. It’s a very simple concept; a Thanksgiving tailored for college students (and those still wishing they were in college). The event started four years ago, impromptu, at a buddy’s apartment with a boxed wine hour followed by a potluck Dranksgiving feast. This year, the event expanded to 50 of our closest dranksters and featured what later became known as poor man’s sangria, a combination of JOOSE (a caffeinated malt beverage) mixed with cheap red wine. The night lived up to its hype, and was certainly the yang to my traditionally predictable yin of a Thanksgiving.

Snow Day

My building anticipation for today could only be paralleled with a pupil’s anticipation for that ever-certain snow day. I had been invited to attend the first official state visit of President Obama’s presidency. I breathlessly counted down the hours until I would be hobnobbing with Barack and Michelle Obama, sharing a word, or song, with the Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, and observing the fanfare associated with the Arrival Ceremony on the South Lawn of the White House. Read: I was looking forward to being a distant member in the crowd.

So last night, instead of going to bed at a socially appropriate hour on a work-night since I was certain I would not be going to work in the morning, I spent the evening making (okay, maybe only attempting to make) sweet melodies and jamming out with Rock Band.

Side story: The day prior, our Mer-neighbors Megha and Valerie installed one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind – a 42” LG flat screen and Rock Band. So what started out as a small garage band, Shocking the Crustaceans, with roommate Hunter on the guitar, Megha on the drums, and me on vocals, turned into hours of musical dissonance. In our greedy attempt to earn enough money to hire a Merch Girl, we got lost in a sea of grungy 90s songs, if they can be called that.

I’m not sure where I was in the 90s, but apparently I was not the average angst-filled teen. My lack of 90s rock music is, as I found out, publicly embarrassing. It would be one thing if I were on the drums or guitar where, you can still succeed without knowing the song. But it is incredibly difficult to sing both the correct notes and lyrics when you have never heard the song before. I’m sorry, Rush, that I did not avidly listen to or illegally Napster your song about the maple trees forming a union and demanding equal rights from the oppressive oak trees…My performance was far from perspicuous; sounding similar to the dentist drilling while simultaneously vomiting.

Anyway – after touring with my band way past my bedtime curfew, and feeling much like a rebel pupil having avoided his homework, I proceeded to wake up with heavy eyelids and a phone call informing me that the Arrival Ceremony had been moved indoors and I was no longer an invited attendee. What a disappointment. So it was off to work after all, not even a two-hour delay? I guess that will teach me my lesson. Next time I’m invited to an official state visit I’ll make sure to wear my pajamas inside out the night before.

Gwen's Invasion

I have come to learn that one of the common occurrences of living in an apartment complex is the continued receipt of prior tenants’ mail. I’m not sure who is at fault here; the former residents who forget to forward their mail to a new address or the postal service for failing to forward mail to the correct address. What I am sure of is that, consequently, I have had some uncomfortable elevator encounters and certainly smug gazes from fellow neighbors.

Never has this been as true as earlier this week when we received an American Girl Doll catalog for our spurious roommate, Sarah. Desperately trying to conceal the catalog with the Bank of America and Wachovia statements (the first time I didn’t experience enviro-guilt about having not switched to paperless), I ineffectually jammed the Close Door button as the elevator filled with residents.

Once I was out of the elevator, safely locked in our man-cave of an apartment, and certain that my damaged manhood could not be further enfeebled, I decided to breeze through Sarah’s catalog. Well, nothing shouts economic recession like Gwen Thompson, the new American Girl Doll…who is apparently a victim of the current economy and happens to be homeless. Gwen can be yours for the mere price of $95…ironic perhaps?

My interest clearly piqued, I navigated to the digital world and perused a few reviews. Internet user cupcakelover writes Gwen is very pretty but I am disappointed because her sandal straps break very easily. No shit, cupcakelover. She’s homeless. Your shoes would be tattered and torn if you were homeless too. Oh well, I guess that means you’ll just have to buy the $12 Sporty Sneakers.

I only hope that Sarah was still able to find out about Gwen. Unless the reason she is no longer living in my apartment is because she lost her job and couldn’t afford to pay the rent, in which case, Gwen might hit a little too close to home.

Get Your Garv-on

A few years ago, my always-clever friends Chelsey and Bowman thought it would be nothing short of dexterous to rearrange the letters in my name, hence Brain Garvon. In an attempt to spread the good news, they promptly turned to Facebook, and consequently, the birth of my alter ego was delivered to the masses.

Well, the other month, Brain received a friend request on Facebook from what I thought would be a nudnik named Brenda Garvon. Boy, was I quick to judge. She recently sent Brain a Facebook message and that conversation has been anything but a bore.

Subject: are we related?

Brenda: do you have Polish relatives in Michigan?

[My initial thoughts: What about Brain’s profile gives you any indication that he’s a real person? The fact that his favorite quotation is Don’t be stupid, have a BRAIN, get your GARV-ON? Or was it the groups he’s subscribed to, such as I Have total cognizance of every synapse in my cerebral cortex or Pinky and the Brain’s World Domination Club? Or perhaps the fact that Brain is head (literally) over heels for and married to Sarah Bellum?...on second thought, shouldn’t the red flag have gone up with a name like Brain…but being the bigger person in this situation, or at least the more intelligent, I thought I would acquiesce.]

Brain: I was wondering the same thing? You're in Michigan, I see. I've never been to Michigan and don't know if I have any relatives there, unless Aunt Dot and Uncle Joe moved to Michigan (but I think they moved to Pennsylvania to a retirement center where they spend time dancing the polka). I am Polish, love pierogies, but don't know the Polka. So I guess this is inconclusive. We may or may not be related.

Brenda: I’m sure we were related in Poland because the name was Gawron and when Stanislaus got here with his wife and his daughter Annie, he changed it to Garvon. Other people changed it to Garvin but we are cooler.

Brain: We’re definitely cooler than the Garvins! I've heard of the Gavrons. Do you think we're related to them too? So many variations. Do you have any Thanksgiving traditions? We always eat kielbasa with our Thanksgiving dinner.

Brenda: I never met any Gavrons, but I bet we are related to them too. At thanksgiving, we just eat a lot of everything. Does your family eat pickled bologna and pickled everything else? Who are your parents and grandparents?

Brain: YES! We LOVE pickled everything! My parents are Rufin and Alina. Have you heard of either of them? I don't think they've been to Michigan either. Also, when did Stanislaus come to America?

Brenda: I think he came through Ellis Island around 1913 but not sure. I'll ask my dad if he knows Rufin and Alina.

I can’t be 100% certain, but I’m pretty sure this is what Chelsey and Bowman meant when they told me to get my GARV-ON. I mean, who does Brenda think she is? Apparently, my relative.

A Nautical Affair

The other weekend, I attended the 1869 Society’s Fall Fete at the Corcoran Gallery of Art. My friend, Bernard, sits on the Host Committee for the event, and he, along with his fiancé Liz, organized a group of friends to attend the fundraiser.

The annual fundraiser has been described as successfully…

… mixing the budding power brokers with those in the artistic and philanthropic worlds. As the rising crop of talent brushes shoulders, it becomes the next generation of Washington’s social and philanthropic elite. – Politico

The event draws…

…hundreds of Washington’s next wave of politicos, power players, socialites, and wannabes. – Washingtonian.

I’m still trying to figure out which category I fall into. I think I fall closest to the wannabes, but I don’t think I wannabe.

This swanky affair’s open bar loosened the dance floor and the nautical themed hour devoirs appropriately complemented the featured exhibit; Sargent and the Sea. The exhibition was a display of early maritime paintings, watercolors, and drawings of the pre-eminant American expatriate, John Singer Sargent.

The highlight of my evening: While perusing the exhibit, I stumbled upon two seemingly identical pictures.

After closer scrutiny, I developed a profound appreciation for John Singer Sargent. Not only is he a great American painter, but I posit that he was the inspiration behind the world’s best bar game, Photo Hunt. So what did I do? I told every politico, power player, socialite, and wannabe around that this was, in fact, a game of Photo Hunt, met with universal approval and participation.

Tinsel Teeth and Metal Mouth

I have come to the realization that I have hit my quarter-life crisis. I’ve done some research and found three symptoms that resonate.

1. Life crises often result in an impulsive purchase. Often this comes mid-life in the form of a Harley or a Porshe Boxster. My quarter-life crisis purchase: Braces. Yes, braces. No, not Invisalign. Braces.

2. Characterized by nostalgia for university life after entering the real world. I guess for me, I’m more nostalgic for middle school life, but school nonetheless. Braces are not a novel accessory for me. I first sported the fashionable metal brackets as a pubescent middle schooler. At the time, I thought my social capital would unravel. Now, I’m confident these braces have the potential to take me to new social heights!

3. Insecurity regarding the fact that all of one’s actions are meaningless. What is it you do? [enter chirping crickets]. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was known as the dude who lives with an Obama speechwriter. Well, with my new grillz, I will finally be known for something! I’ll no longer need to ride the coattails of my friends; I’ll now be known as that dude with braces.

A few questions:

A. Can braces set off the metal detector at the airport? No. The lightweight material used in braces won’t trigger the alarm.

B. Will my braces increase my chance of being struck by lightning? No. The odds in the US in any given year will still be one in 700,000.

C. Can my braces get locked with other braces? Yes. On second thought, I can’t think of a single legal situation where this problem might arise…

Life's Lemons

I was recently invited to a friend’s house for dinner. After they graciously prepared the meal, I thought it would be polite of me to offer to wash the dishes. Unbeknownst to me, one of the glasses in the sink was cracked and I ended up with a sizable incision. Months later, my finger still has a permanent battle wound.

More recently, as I was leaving my friends’ apartment, they asked if I would be so kind as to take out their trash. Sure, not a problem right? Wrong. When I went to throw the trash down the chute, the bag got jammed and so I gave it a helping nudge. What my friends failed to mention was that there was a broken glass bottle in the trashbag. I figured this out when it punctured one of my fingers.

Having now gone 0-2 in my battle with glass, I’ve done some root cause analysis and determined that it all stems from my deep sense of benevolence. So to combat such future lacerations and abrasions, I’m no longer lending an injured hand. Brian, will you please pass me the butter? No. Brian, I think it’s your turn to take out the recycling. No. I’m practicing altruistic abstinence.

Lesson learned: When life throws you lemons, make sure not to wash them or throw them in the trash.

Surprise!

In my attempt to look and act like a young professional, I’ve been living in an apartment complex known as the Meridian. (In reality it’s a front for people who are still in college. I roam the halls in my pajamas, go visit my college friends down the hall…the only difference is that instead of a Resident Advisor giving a Violation of the Standards of Conduct, the concierge calls the police.) To date, I’ve had a pleasant stay at the Meridian, or the Mer-palace as I sometimes call it, but I, along with my Mer-friends, have come to find humor in the Mer-management follies. The Mer-management has kept us on our toes with surprise after surprise.

First Folly: The other day, our apartment was informed that we received a noise complaint from our neighbors. Instead of coming to inform us immediately, mer-management came the following day. However, if the concierge had come to visit us at the time of the complaint, he would have realized that nobody was home. You’re in trouble. Surprise.

Second-guess: Recently, the Meridian has been institutionalizing widespread paint reform throughout the building. In an attempt to inform the residents of the painting, mer-management hangs a Wet Paint sign. Where is this sign placed? In the elevator. So which floor is it that got painted? Oh, it’s a surprise.

Third Time’s the Charm?: Our friends recently placed a maintenance request because their dishwasher was failing to properly perform its primary function. They returned to the apartment after a day of work to find a (a) the maintenance had been completed and (b) their dishwasher still didn’t work. Instead, the maintenance slip read “Your dishwasher works good. Try using a different soap.” On our website, we say customer service is our top priority...but we are only kidding. Surprise!

Imma Let You Finish that 10 Miler

I recently took a step up from running the standard 5k to a more taxing 10k. The 10k, known as the Lawyers Have a Heart (aptly named? Bringing out the competitive nature of the DC law community – the race pits summer interns against paralegals in a fight to demonstrate who has the stronger cardiovascular system), was a complete culture shock. This weekend, I’m taking it to the next level and am running in the Army 10 Miler. In an attempt to better assimilate with the running crowd, I’m taking some extra precautions for the 10 Miler.

Lessons learned from the Lawyers Have a Heart 10k:

1. Custom: Apparently it is customary to be well hydrated before the race. It’s blasphemous to not use the public restroom facilities to demonstrate having properly over-hydrated. The line wrapped around the entire Georgetown waterfront and was literally thousands of lawyers long. Faux pas: No matter how much I wanted to participate in the camaraderie, I couldn’t bring myself to stand in line. Or maybe I just got stage fright. Corrective Action: I plan to purchase a 7-Eleven Big Gulp on my way to the race.

2. Custom: Most races are designed such that there comes a time when the frontrunners are heading inbound past the stragglers still headed outbound. At this point, it is tradition to audibly acknowledge their superiority while they speed past with no regard for these cat calls. Word choice is at the discretion of the runner. For example, the lady next to me simply yelled “Lady” every time a female passed. I’ve decided she was either sexist or keeping track of her position in the race, which couldn’t be good if she was running next to me. In summary, you’re either a frontrunner and silent or your slow and heckle. Faux pas: I picked slow and silent; mixing and matching is not permitted. Corrective Action: When I’m on the running trail, I’ve been practicing by cat calling and grunting to fellow runners as they approach. Based on their posturing, I don’t think they appreciate it.

Knowing my fortune, I’ll probably show up to the Army 10 Miler having mastered the culture of the 10K and find myself awash in a transoceanic culture, in which case, I hope at least someone will throw me a paddle.

Roller Coasters and Rattletraps

My friend Ellen has an obsession with Kings Dominion, an amusement park approximately 90 miles south of Washington. I also love amusement parks, and having fruitlessly tried to cajole my friends into going in on $10 Six Flags tickets, I was excited to have a partner in crime. Luckily for me, my employer graciously rented out the park two days before her birthday.

As the day approached, Ellen and I began acting like kids in a candy shop, GEICOed out with our googly eyes, preparing for our peregrination. I had asked Ellen to do some reconnaissance and map out a course across the park so we could optimize our efficiency.

We were some of the first to arrive at the park, and successfully navigated the labyrinth of Kings Dominion by lunchtime. I quickly ranked my roller coaster preference and cut from afternoon-contention all three wooden coasters. The verbs roll and coast do not appropriately describe the jerky travail and tribulation of these rattletraps.

After a hearty all-you-can-eat buffet, we decided to ride the ferris wheel before trying our luck on a stomach-turner. Apparently, great minds think alike, so avoiding the long line for the wheel, we tried our luck on the carousel. I tried to mask my identity while waiting in line, so nobody from my office would recognize me and question why a group of mature young professionals were riding the merry-go-round. Although the carousel can be far more aggressive than I thought, spotting a boy who thought he was riding a bucking bronco vice a character from My Little Pony.

Having overexerted ourselves in the park, we made our way home all tuckered out. I guess I’m officially an amusement park highbrow. Getting to ride the same roller coaster twice in a row because there is nobody in line? Don’t mind if I do.

Hipsters at the Hirshhorn

The other evening I received a last minute email from a friend who happened to have an extra ticket to the Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum After Hours. Deciding to be spontaneous, I took her up on the offer to explore the cultured nightlife of DC. The After Hours event allows you to enjoy jazz in the sculpture gardens and explore a rotation of exhibitions, currently a Strange Bodies exhibit.

Once I successfully navigated the arduous entrance process, and passing for a Whitney Kenerly, my adopted identity from the extra ticket, I was able to take in the scene. The crowd was entirely hipster; I imagined everyone there as young, recently-settled urban middle-classers or older teenagers interested in non-mainstream fashion and culture. Girls in spandex, guys in vests. I felt compelled to go home and immediately subscribe to Clash and peruse the Pitchfork Media website. Which of these is not like the other? This guy in his pastel polo and khaki shorts.

Known for its figurative art, the Hirshhorn was presenting the rotating exhibit, Strange Bodies, and attempted to show how expressionistic and surrealistic impulses toward human representation have evolved in recent decades. I must admit that I was equally entertained by both the art and the overheard hipster analysis and interpretation of the art’s deeper meaning.

Something I couldn’t help but notice throughout the evening was that our group seemed to, at all times, have a 10 foot buffer from other patrons. And it wasn’t like we were exuding a skunk-scented haze. By the end of the evening, I was starting to believe that I was no longer looking at the Strange Body exhibit, but in fact, was the Strange Body exhibit.

Elephant Seals and Uphill Climbs

Vacation is often thought of as a good way to rejuvenate and energize the soul; an effective way to escape the mundane routine of reality. So I was literally jumping out of my seat the afternoon of July 9^th when the start of my vacation set in. California here I come. The vacation consisted of a reunion of college friends. We started our trip in San Francisco and worked our way down the Pacific Coast before flying back out of Los Angeles.

My only previous trip to California was to Anaheim to visit Disney Land. I was there in January of 1994 during the Northridge earthquake, which happened to be one of the highest instrumentally recorded in an urban area in North America. The hotel bathtub rattled my then-showering mother to the ground, my father’s scalding coffee pouring over his copy of the Los Angeles Times, while my bed marched with the furniture from one side of the hotel room to the other, or so I am told. I don’t remember because I slept peacefully through it all, probably dreaming of Thunder Mountain.

Having returned to the east coast donning cargo shorts, and adopting a diet of avocado and grilled fruit, I can officially say I’ve gone granola.

I’ve used my consulting skills to bucket my California memories into the following four H’s:

Housing: Our trip was founded on a number of pillars, the most important one was frugality. As such, I rented the cheapest hotel I could find in San Francisco, the Hayes Valley Inn. It was marketed as a European hotel. European hotel is defined as one in which you share a common WC with all parties on a given hall. I’ve never heard of a better way to get to know strangers. This was clearly overshadowed by our stay in Carmel. Having called every campground in the yellow pages and been informed that there were no places to pitch a tent west of the Rocky’s, our creative minds led us to call an RV park listed in our TomTom. As it turns out, they had an abundance of camping sites available, no need to reserve them because they would certainly not fill up. That should have been the first clue. The second clue was when the wiry groundskeeper had me sign a waiver indicating we would not feed the bobcats or mountain lions. But with no other options, we pitched our tent and settled in for a comfortable sleep. Comfortable minus the incessant rustling sound, whose origins I could not place as coming from one of my fellow campmates or from an adventurous external visitor.

Hiking: In an attempt to move our muscles and take in some salubrious air, we tried to explore the outdoors. I somehow always ended up as the navigator. Which I would suspect to be a relatively easy task – simply following a trail, how hard could it be? Apparently not my strongest skill. We would arrive at a decision point. I would ask “Do we want to go straight or left?” The group would reply “We want to go right.” Oh. Okay.

Hollywood: I was pleasantly surprised with how much I enjoyed the atmosphere in Los Angeles. Aside from the traffic, I think I would be able to live there. Actually, I would posit that if Los Angeles built a public transportation network, the decreased emissions would be enough to reverse the melting trends of the polar ice cap. But that’s beside the point. Hollywood presented the group with countless forms of entertainment. We made sure to hit up all of the tourist essentials, and even got a picture next to the Michael Jackson star. We saw the new Harry Potter movie at the famous Grauman Chinese Theater. And immediately afterward, we took a picture with our hands in the hand and wand prints of Daniel Radcliff, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint. Appropriately timed with my arrival back to the East Coast was a news article that declared the Grauman Theater as one of the world’s top five germiest tourist attraction. So when I die of the swine flu, we’ll all know why.

Highlight: Although I’ve been debating this for a while, the highlights of the trip were the seals. I didn’t realize California’s obsession with seals, but it seems that they had a presence in every coastal city. While in Santa Barbara, we went kayaking with the seals, where I nearly soiled myself with excitement. One of their favorite games to play is King of the Mountain in which the seals in the water try to jump on top of the seals resting on the lone buoy in the ocean. The futility of the seals in the water is almost endearing as they waste countless sums of energy trying to leap on top of their beached brothers, only to be nudged back into the water five minutes later. If I were a seal, I would certainly (a) wake up earlier and ensure my royal spot on the buoy, or (b) bag the buoy all together and just go lay out on the beach. But my favorite variety of seal was the elephant seal. These massive tubs of lard would worm their way out of the ocean and try to spoon with some of the other beached elephant seals. Once comfortably situated, they would use their flippers to flip sand onto their backs, perhaps in an attempt to blend in with their surroundings? The only drawback I see to being an elephant seal is that they have pretty low self-esteem. After all, they are named after another animal, the elephant. The only place in all of California I didn’t see a seal was at Seal Beach...which I believe is false advertising.

Kickball Andy

One evening, on my walk home from the Metro after the conclusion of my normal Tuesday evening kickball festivities, I struck up a conversation with a stranger, or rather a stranger struck up conversation with me.  Andy had noticed my kickball shirt and stopped me to ask about how to get involved with the league.  Being polite, I explained how to register, and we continued to banter for the next five minutes.  I learned that he was 26, married with a baby girl, and worked with some large companies, blah, blah, blah.  He appeared to fit the standard Arlington mold, so I felt comfortable exchanging numbers in case he had any questions related to kickball.

Two weeks passed, and I received a call from Kickball Andy, as I've saved his contact number in my address book.  During the conversation he asked if we could meet up and grab coffee to not only discuss kickball, but also about the possibility of me making some extra money on the side.  Disoriented and addled by his comments, I informed him that I would be leaving town for a ten day vacation and wouldn’t be returning until July 19^th.  I figured that was sufficient to deter any future correspondence of this kind.  I also wish my moral conscience permitted me to egregiously lie at a moment like this.

Sure enough, as predictable as the sun rising in the east, I received a call from Kickball Andy on July 19^th.  The voicemail was as follows;

Mr. Brian, what’s going on? It’s Andy ***********.  I met you out in Arlington and we were talking about some kickball and I asked you about the possibility of making some extra money on the side and just wanted to see if you could get together next week. I told you I’d call you tonight cuz you were out of town. I hope you had a safe trip brother.  If you can give me a call tonight, we can set something up and get some coffee this week.  I’d like to show you what I do, brother, if you’re down, you’re down.  If you’re not, you’re not. Alright brother.  Well let me tell you something, Andy. I'm not.

After brainstorming a list of every possible outcome of continued communication with Kickball Andy and determining that absolutely nothing positive can come from it, I did not return the call.

Texts from last night: You around big man?

I’ve yet to pin down what it is about me that invites strangers into my living room, but I’m pretty certain that in Andy’s case, it wasn’t the kickball.

Relay for Life

May 30^th arrived. It was time for Relay for Life. Relay for Life is the American Cancer Society’s largest annual fundraiser and is a community-affirming event about celebration, remembrance and hope. I had volunteered, through work, to be captain of our Relay for Life team. I quickly worked up a PowerPoint presentation with a consultative approach to maximizing our efforts at the Relay for Life event, and distributed it to our team. We then spent the better part of a month fundraising and preparing for the actual event. Since this was my first Relay for Life, or Relay as it’s condescendingly referred to among the veterans, I was not sure what to expect.

My first observation. I was the first person to arrive at the Relay. Either I was given the incorrect time, or the thousands of others were all fashionably late.

My second observation. Many of the teams were comprised of primarily high school students; which, as always, presented an opportunity for unrelenting humor while walking around the track of the local high school. There was always a gaggle of girls standing off to the side probably debating why Bobby was walking around the track with Kim instead of his girlfriend Sarah. Come 2am, Bobby will most likely not be dating Sarah and will probably be curled up in a sleeping bag next to Kim. Sorry Sarah.

My challenges at hand were different from those of my generic high school friend Sarah. As the team captain, I thought it best to lead by example. The one hiccup; I was still suffering from pneumonia and as a consequence, leading by example wasn’t going to be my style. Instead, I sat stationed in my folding chair for most of the evening. When everyone got up dance to Walk it Out, I sat it out. When everyone got up to dance the Electric Slide, I slid my cheeks further into the folding char. And when everyone got up to dance to the Cupid Shuffle I pulled out my camera and took a picture.

Around 5am we started debating politics. Some of the most stimulating conversations I’ve had in years. I only wonder if my pneumonia medication and delirium let me to believe that we were having a real conversation. In reality it was probably no more sophisticated than the gaggle of high school girls.