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.