Let me cut to the chase: we're moving. Again. There's no need to rub your eyes. You're vision is good. And no you didn't accidently land on any of my posts from a few months ago. You're safely here in the present. But we are moving. Again. Remember this? And this? Or how about this this? Seems like it was just, I don't know, a month ago, doesn't it? In reality, these moments were all just part of a strange, three-month dream. Like when JR was shot. We've all woken up now and — yeah, okay — we feel a little cheated, but what the hell. We'll get over it. Let's move on, shall we?

But why are you moving? You guys just bought a house! Good point. And here's where the good news comes in: C got a promotion! It's a great opportunity with the same company she's at now. But here's the catch - it requires a move to New Jersey. Normally, this would have been a no-brainer for us. It's a pretty nice area of New Jersey, a short train ride from NYC — which is definitely appealing. And we're a pretty mobile unit, as couples go. We have no small people accompanying us, yet. And aside from a few large-ish pieces of furniture, we're remarkably lightweight. We carry easily. But, as great opportunities are apt to do, this one landed smack dab in our laps at a pretty inconvenient time: the day after we closed on our house in Baltimore.

And that's where things got complicated. Selling our house a month after we bought it was going to be tricky. (Read: costly.) We didn't know how this would all turn out, and so we waited . . . first to see if C got the job and second to see if they would make this feasible for us. On Tuesday of last week, the first question was answered. Then on Thursday, the second got resolved, thanks in no small part to the fact that C is an expert negotiator!

And so there it is: in another month or two, our Baltimore stint will be a short-lived blip on the map of our lives. Soon we will be residents of New Jersey.

And all I can say is thank God because, despite the job offer and the fact that we're really going to miss our friends and family who live in the area, there's actually only one reason we're getting out of Maryland: license plates. We've been hesitant to trade in our DC plates for Maryland tags, and if you live in the DC metro area and you drive and you're from Virginia or DC, then you'll understand the reason why: We didn't want to become that which is most loathed and despised on the roads of this region — Maryland drivers. We've been wondering how we were going to deal with this ignominy, and thankfully, we'll be able to avoid it altogether. Problem solved.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Moving 

Have you heard about Oscar the Cat? Animals with a sixth sense for sickness freak me out. I've also heard of dogs who avoid people with cancer. It makes me suspicious of being on the receiving end of Puffy or Fido's affection or disdain. Is that cat loving on me because I have a special way with the kitties? Or is it just because I'm about to die? Is that dog barking at me because I scare him, or is it the malignant tumor in my brain? It's not like you can ask them, you know?

link to this | comments (1) | File:  News  Pets 

This weekend we broke in our new shiny red grill. I haven't had my own grill since we moved from Dallas almost four years ago. So as you might expect, I was a bit rusty in the art of grilling, not just because it had been so long since I used one, but because the only type of grill I had any experience with was of the gas variety. And this time I had made the switch to all-charcoal. Now I've observed the act of charcoal grilling countless times. My dad, my grandfather, friends, acquaintances. I figured the whole thing would be instinctual on some primal level. That if I just gathered the raw materials - grill, charcoal, lighter fluid, matches - that nature would just take it's course. Puppies don't need to be told where they can find food when they first enter the world and grown men don't need to be told how to grill. I stood there on the deck and waited for the intuitive knowledge to happen. But I felt nothing. I tried scratching my balls. I farted. Strangely, none of this seemed to help.

On the ground were the instructions that had come with the grill. I eyed them suspiciously. Looking around me to see if any of my neighbors were watching from their yards, I inched closer to the manual, feeling more and more emasculated the closer I got. Casually, I kicked it open with my foot. Then, with my back to the yard so the neighbors couldn't see what I was doing, I knelt down and scanned through the 'grill preparation' section.

Looking back, I have to say the manual gave some interesting 'suggestions,' but I quickly determined that - because I only had two turkey burgers to grill and not steaks for twenty - I would do things differently. Clearly, these instructions were for people with many mouths to feed. This was just two burgers for C and me. Surely, I'd be able to cut a few corners. And I was right! I'm not selfish when it comes to information, so I thought I'd go ahead and share my special method with all of you:

First, even though the instructions tell you to use enough charcoal to cover the entire bottom of the grill with a single layer of briquettes, you want to actually use the smallest amount of briquettes possible. Because, after all, you're only grilling two turkey burger patties. It's hard to give an exact measurement, here. You really just have to go with your gut. As a rule of thumb, try to use an amount that you would almost describe as "woefully inadequate." Then, place the briquettes in a small pyramid in the center of your grill.

Next, apply the same rough measurement of lighter fluid, or less, to the briquettes. You might even try something more in the ballpark of "laughably not enough." Basically, you want to make sure that the briquettes burn out shortly after you light them. Then, even though the instructions tell you never to apply lighter fluid to lit or hot coals, go back and pour a liberal amount of the stuff on top of those babies. Use the smallest Bic lighter possible to light the coals, making sure to put your hand up nice and close so that the resulting poof of flame singes the hair from your forearm.

The next step is crucial if you're going to get the right flavor and consistency to your burgers. Even though the instructions might tell you to wait a good 15 to 30 minutes for the grill to get nice and hot, you should actually wait a fraction of that time. You'll know you've done this correctly if you put the patties on the grill and there is absolutely no sizzling sound. You can verify the correct temperature by holding your hand down near the coals. You should be able to keep it there for several seconds without having to withdraw it.

Now, keep the patties on the grill with the lid closed and the vents open, slow-smoking those suckers for a good 10 or 15 minutes per side. Wait until they've reached a nice brown color on the outside, but are still a bit raw in the middle. You'll know you've kept them on long enough when your pride and stubbornness begin to cave to the growling sound in your belly. At that point - and not a second sooner - remove them from the grill and cook them all the way through on a gas range using a skillet which your wife has pre-heated for you. (You can also use an electric stove, but the end results may vary.)

Prepare your favorite side-dishes separately and serve.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Weekend  Ho_Hum 

Just got Rilo Kiley tickets for their September show at the 9:30 Club. Yee-haw!

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Music 

There's no such thing as a mistake, only lessons. If you aren't making mistakes, then you aren't doing anything. Success comes from failure. If at first you don't succeed . . . you can blend your favorite and serve chilled, with salt on the rim and a side of chips. It feels real good going down. And after three or four of those babies, it's all good. Until morning. And you find it still kind of stings.

As clichéd as it sounds, it's true: We do learn a lot from our mistakes. And when it comes to acts of home improvement, I've done learned me a few gems of late.

Last week's mission was to hang some drywall to cover up this wall. There were several logistical steps along the way, beginning with the acquisition of materials. Thanks to Al and his pickup truck, which he let me borrow, getting the drywall proved to be no problem. However, getting those two 4' x 10' pieces up a narrow staircase and into the room where they would be hung proved to be much more challenging. C and I tried using sheer muscle (did I mention drywall is friggin' heavy stuff?). Then we tried tele-porting them. Neither of those methods worked, so next we tried prayer. We knew we were asking a lot of God, especially since the only religion we practice anymore is the twice-annual Christmas and Easter variety. As we thought might happen, God only laughed and told us we were on our own. Only not in so many words. Sure, God loves all of us equally, despite our faults, but I'm pretty sure he only does small miracles for those extra good, every-Sunday people.

So I wound up cutting the drywall in the living room, which wasn't the plan, but turned out to be a perfectly fine solution, or so I thought. It seemed fine at the moment, anyway. We had already planned out how we were going to cut the pieces for hanging, so we made our measurements, drew our lines, and made our cuts. Once that was done, the pieces were much easier to get up the stairs. It had taken us pretty much all day, but we had gotten the drywall and transported it to the hanging location. So far so good.

Mat came over on Tuesday to help with the actual hanging. (Thanks, Mat!) I thought with the wall cleared and the pieces cut it would only take a few minutes per piece. That was my first mistake: never make a guess on time. You're just asking for disappointment.

Shortly before Mat came over, there was an incredible thunderstorm that hit Baltimore. My electricity went out. Just my side of the street, mind you. Not the other side. I think God was still pissed over that request to miraculously transport the drywall upstairs.

It turns out there are several things that don't work without electricity. The A/C is a big one. Having no cool air in the house hurt something fierce because Baltimore was in the middle of a pretty thick heat wave. Even with the A/C on, our second floor gets hot in the middle of the afternoon. So with it off, we were in for some major sweating. Most sane people would have postponed the drywall hanging. But Mat and I reasoned we'd be okay. We were tough. We'd just use lots of fans.

Well dang it all if fans don't require electricity, too.

Once we fully absorbed what we were in for, I explained my strategy to Mat: we would hang the top piece of drywall, get it screwed in, then hang the lower half. Easy peasy. But as we were putting up the top piece, we realized that the ceiling wasn't really level, and the piece wasn't going to fit flush against the moulding as I had thought. So the moulding needed to be taken off. That would allow us to push the drywall to the ceiling and then replace the moulding to cover up the slant. No problem. Should have done it this way to begin with. Pulling off the moulding meant more dust and debris from old plaster. Add dust to a balmy, un-air-conditioned room and you begin to realize conditions that resemble hell. I swept up some of the debris then got the vacuum cleaner out to suck up the rest.

For those of you taking notes, another thing that requires electricity is a vacuum cleaner. Normally, I would have come to this conclusion before actually plugging it in and clicking on the button. Honestly. I blame the heat. It's hard to think straight in this kind of climate.

Alright, dust be damned. We were half way through. Time to hang the second sheet. This one would be easier. Just place it flush against the wainscoting, like this, and then it should fit up snug against the upper piece . . . unless - of course - we had taken off the moulding, causing us to move the top piece up. You know, like we had just done. In that case, there would be a big ol' joint between the two pieces. And I should mention here that the bigger the joint, the harder it is to cover up.

So even though it was necessary to cut the drywall before bringing it upstairs, ideally (and for future reference) I would have cut piece one, brought it up stairs, hung it right then, measured for piece two, cut piece two, then hung it right then. Oh well. Next time I'll know. For now, I'll just be applying a lot more joint compound.

Oh, and one final lesson I learned last Tuesday: if you leave your house while the electricity is off - and you stay away for, oh, about five hours. You know, to escape your non-A/C'd house. If you do that - and why shouldn't you? - then you should definitely unplug (or at least turn off) the vacuum cleaner you fired up earlier when the juice was off. Because the electricity might come on about an hour after you leave. And then your vacuum cleaner would run for four hours or so while nobody was home. And man, that would be stupid.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Renovations  House 

We'd been wanting to see Spiderman 3 on the big screen ever since it came out May 4th. But between moving and rental preparations, we just never got around to it. So when we looked last Friday and found that it wasn't playing at any of the major theaters near us, momentary panic ensued. Had we missed it? Were we doomed to watch this special-effects extravaganza on our 32" TV? Please, please, say it ain't so.

Then we found a listing at a dollar cinema, Beltway Movie 6 in northeast Baltimore. Seemed promising, but I was skeptical. No stadium seating? Only six theaters? What kind of place was this, anyway. I promptly turned my nose up at the very idea of setting foot anywhere near this so-called 'theater.'

But C was insistent. Which meant this was not a thing that was open to discussion. I don't mean to imply I didn't have a choice in the matter. Clearly, my choices were: Spiderman 3 at Beltway Movie 6 or a lifetime of quiet pain and suffering.

Going to the 'dollar cinema' these days will actually cost you somewhere in the ballpark of $3.50. Still, seven bucks for two people - I actually thought the guy had made a mistake when he quoted me the price. Seven bucks? It seemed entirely improbable. Maybe he hadn't realized C was with me. When you pay seven bucks for a movie, you tend to have low expectations about the quality of the theaters. Especially when you've come to see twenty bucks as the norm. I figured the theater would smell of sweaty little kids. I figured my shoes would stick to the floor. I figured I'd be greeted by a cold damp seat cushion, a gift from the prior occupant's spilled coke.

But all those expectations turned out to be wrong. The theater was really well maintained. It even smelled . . . good. And the layout of the entire building was refreshingly simple. You walk back to the ticket taker and there are three theaters on the left, three on the right. And you can see every movie title from that one vantage point. No endless, labyrinthine hallways. No need for a compass and plenty of water. Wow. So quaint. I'd almost use the word 'cute.' It lifted my thoughts right out of 2007 and all its worries and set them quietly down smack dab in the middle of 1984. I thought of the great movies I'd seen in places like this. Indiana Jones. Cloak and Dagger. This was escapism at its finest. And the movie hadn't even started yet. Hell, we hadn't even sat down. I'm a dollar-cinema convert.

And the movie? It was great. A bit sappy, even for a Spiderman movie. But holy crap there were some incredible effects going on. The Sandman stuff was great.

The only down side of the evening turned out to be the crazy old man who sat down behind us just as the trailers started. He had a long white beard which lay like a grizzly old blanket over his extended belly, right down to his navel. I could hear several of the kids in that row whisper the word 'Santa Claus.' "That's right kids, I'm Santa Claus. So you better be good during the movie, or no gifts this year." He had a sharp, cigarette-tinged voice. If Kris Kringle had retired from gift-giving to drop acid and dance naked back in the 60s, then this might have very well been him. But I had a hunch this was somebody altogether different. The only thing he had in common with Santa Claus, aside from his beard of course, was his booming voice. He made loud sarcastic comments during the movie, laughed (loudly) at inappropriate times, and insisted on yawning (again, quite loudly) anytime things slowed down a bit in the action. C came very close to saying something to him, but we figured engaging this man might make it worse for us in the end. So we put up with it. Mostly, the movie was loud enough to drown him out, anyway. We got our money's worth, and some.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Movies  Ho_Hum 

I was having a debate discussion about DRM and music recording rights just last Tuesday. My feeling is that, rather than control everything, record companies should re-work their business model and 'let go' a bit more. Adapt. I know it's easier said than done, though. Luckily, established artists like Prince are helping to show the way.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Music 

Virginia tells us all the things that are wrong with the iPhone. I think you'll be shocked.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  iPhone 

When I was a kid, every July 4th there was a big parade in our neighborhood. All the adults would team up by block and compete for who could build the best-looking float. And the kids would have their own competition by decorating their bikes with red, white, and blue crepe streamers and pinwheels. And lots and lots of American flags. I went all out on this decorating business, which is strange when I think about it now. I don't normally get too in to decorating or dressing up for holiday functions, like Halloween costume parties. But man oh man, the first year in that parade, I made my Incredible Hulk 'Big Wheel' the most patriotic looking Big Wheel the Norchester subdivision had ever seen. And I actually won a prize: a frisbee. I was proud as hell. I wish I had the pic of me sitting on that decked-out Big Wheel, frisbee in hand, huge smile on my face. But it's no doubt living in a shoebox or photo album somewhere in Texas.

One thing I realized that first year was that the other kids were giving up their Big Wheels in favor of sporty new bicycles with training wheels on them. I still thought my Big Wheel was pretty dang cool. So I wasn't really self-conscious or anything about cruising around the hood in that low rider while the other kids towered above me on their bikes. But I do remember being a bit frustrated that I couldn't go as fast as they could.

The next year, I had a bike. And like the previous year, I dressed it to the nines for the big day on the 4th. I'm not sure if I won a prize or not that year. But I do recall that my bike had training wheels. By then, of course, most of the kids had lost their extra bike appendages and were doing a strictly two-wheel thing. But I was always a bit slow in giving up any safety apparatus. Simply put, arm floaties were for swimming. And training wheels were for biking. These things were as plainly evident to me as 'the sky is blue' and my personal favorite fact, which I learned around age three or four, that men go pee standing up, while women go pee sitting down. I was endlessly fascinated by that knowledge and waxed poetic on the subject to anybody who would listen.

I was never really embarrassed about using my training wheels or riding my Big Wheel. I was remarkably unselfconscious about all that back then. I guess we all start out that way. I think it was my dad who finally realized he should probably help his son lose those wheels and join the ranks of the other kids. He was always the voice of reason. With him, wearing my cowboy boots to bed was not an option, and there was no way I could continue riding my bike with training wheels. If it were up to my mom, I might still be wearing my boots to bed, and peddling around Baltimore on a tricycle. I don't know how old I was when those wheels came off for good, but my guess would be five or six. I remember my dad running beside me as I shakily steered my way down our street, thoroughly freaked out.

Holy shit, that was invigorating. And altogether scary. And fun.

The next Fourth of July, I was no-doubt riding my bike in and out of the parade crowd with my best friend, Paul. And that year, I probably still decorated my bike, but not with the flourish of past years. Not because I was too old or too cool or anything like that. If anything, I cut back on the decorations because they got in the way of me doing my wheelies, skids, jumps, and other tricks. It's hard to be a hot-rod with crepe paper stuck in your spokes.

This weekend, I bought a bike. It's the first bike I've had in over ten years. And as I test drove it around the parking lot at REI on Saturday, I felt a little bit of that exhilaration rush through me again. For a moment, I was six years old, wind against my face, a little shaky, but a lot powerful. It was tremendous.

Now I wonder if there's a bike parade somewhere I can join. I'd be the tallest little kid there.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Childhood  Chewing