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.

Barnes and Nobles, Where the S is Silent

I suppose that I knew I had an addiction.  They say the first stage is denial, a stage I remained in for about a six months before confronting my crisis.  One night, I finally admitted defeat and began seeking intervention.

It started out with just a page here, a book there, and progressed to the point of having an exorbitance of unopened books.  The defining moment came after spending a night out on the town.  Some people have their late night indulgences; Julia’s Empanadas on Connecticut Avenue is a popular one, finding a gem on eBay, another. I even knew of a man who purchased next-day plane tickets, only to wake up and realize he had missed the flight that he didn’t remember purchasing. But I digress.  On this evening, I returned home and found myself ordering books from Barnes and Noble.  Really? My late night hedonist tendency is buying books online.

With much work and restraint, I have cleansed myself of such a late-night folly.  As a consolation, I permit frequent visits to Barnes and Noble.  I have never been happier.  And who knew that trips to Barnes and Noble could produce such great encounters.

The first man I eavesdropped on was informing his friend that he recently became unemployed.  But his recent unemployment allowed him to spend his days at Barnes and Noble catching up on all the latest science fiction novels. If he’s lucky, I heard they are hiring skilled lightsaber-men in the Gelactic Republic.

And even better, I found a collectively rotund couple, pegged in their mid 50s, going through recipe books and toothily scribbling down the ones that appeared palatable.  At a time in my life where I feel my youthfulness fighting to escape from me, I am comforted to know that I haven’t resorted to this yet.

On another outing, I encountered a family of four, each sitting in a chair around a mahogany table, each reading a book.  This family outing quite remarkably resembled a family dinner, less the food and a bit more taciturn.  What a family adventure!

At this point, I am intimately familiar with the seasonal displays, similarities, and variations of each Barnes and Noble in DC Metro area.  If I eavesdrop on conversations at the Customer Service kiosk, I have found more times than not, that I could direct the patron to the appropriate section.  The only downside to having this wealth of knowledge as I see it, not that I’ve asked, is that none of these Barnes and Noble branches are hiring.

Beach H(e)aven

Memorial Day is a day that commemorates the men and women who have died while in military service.  More commonly, Memorial Day has come to symbolize the commencement of summer, with the opening of the pool and the extended weekend.  The holiday gives Americans the chance to sit in traffic not observed since last Thanksgiving, all in attempt to dim the effervescent shine of the sun’s reflection off the wintery-pale skin.

As such, Kyle and I had been invited to our college friend Kristen’s beach house on Long Beach Island in the quaint, traditional beach town of Beach Haven, New Jersey.  The plan was to be out of the apartment by 6am to avoid the parking lot of I-95. Perplexed by the sun edging its way into my tenebrous interior, I turned to my clock to realize that it was 9am.  So much for avoiding the traffic.

Our arrival perfectly coincided with the groups’ retirement from the beach.  As it turns out, sleeping through my alarm was the first blessing in disguise.  As the day progressed, each sand-snoozer’s hue transformed into tomato-patch red, not the bronze they had been desperately praying for.  I’m not talking about a tender-skin sunburn, I am talking about the kind that prohibits you from walking like a normal human and results in the zombie-swagger, arms elevated, legs apart to avoid all skin-to-skin contact; the intensity that merited medical attention.

That evening, the group displayed the zombie-swagger en route to the Hudson House, more commonly referred to as the Hud.  This house is the best dive bar on Long Beach Island.  A house in the middle of a residential development converted into a bar, it is like an old pair of shoes, slightly warn and tattered, but comfortable and dependable.  We pumped some money into the jukebox, sat down, and observed the surroundings.  I spent most of the evening observing the punch-o-meter, where men (and women) dumped dollars to demonstrate they were the alpha male of the mid-thirties bar crowd.

The second weekend blessing in disguise:  While the company in Beach Haven was honorable, my health was not.  Although I missed my chance to bake in the sun, I suppose God wanted me to commiserate with the group, and consequently, gave me pneumonia.  I am still waiting to discover the blessing.