Fashion 911

I'm at a loss.

My weekend will be spent in Chicago celebrating the 29th birthday of my old college roommate. This will be fun. However, my confusion relates to the instructions I have received regarding what it is that I need to bring. Besides a swimming suit, the only clearly specified items are "dress shoes and a button-up shirt so that we can get into the clubs."

Much as one often has no idea what "dress casually" means in wedding-speak, I am clueless as to what these "dress shoes" are supposed to be. What kind of crazy clubs are there in Chicago that would require me to don my shiny black tuxedo shoes? Or is this just code for "bring something other than your g-nasty old sneakers"? I discussed the issue with another attendee who has decided that the tuxedo shoes are the way to go, but this seems utterly ridiculous to me.

So what do I bring? True, fancy dress shoes? Loafer-style brown shoes? Trendy black quasi-sneakers? HELP!

Why Dissertate When You Can Drink-ertate?

Working off the theory that one should know a little bit about the history and origin of one's standard/signature/fallback drink, I have done a little research.

The current front-runner, the gimlet, is of British origin (1 demerit) and was first developed by recruits of the Royal Navy as a means of fighting off scurvy (10 merits). The name actually refers to the corkscrew-like tool [pictured below] that was originally used to open containers of vitamin-rich lime juice (1 demerit for [pun alert] boringness). And Wikipedia tells me that "gimlet-eyed" can mean sharp-eyed or squint-eyed (2 merits).









Apparently, there are two big gimlet-related, white-glove-tossing controversies raging within the cocktail community. The first is whether to base the drink with gin or vodka. Until the 1990s gin was the standard, so drink purists get all enraged and nay-saying when "vodka gimlets" are discussed. Today, however, vodka has become far more prominent, and it seems that contemporary barkeeps are likely to sneer if you request a gimlet with gin.

The second controversy, more easily resolved in my opinion, is whether to use fresh lime juice (tasty) or Rose's Lime Juice (historically accurate). I side with taste over history on this one.

Overall, it seems that the gimlet has a reasonably interesting history and even remains controversial today (this is good). And as evidenced by recent trials, the drink tastes WONDERFUL. The only remaining question is what claiming the gimlet really says about a person. Inquiries last night revealed the following suggestions:

"Cheers. I'm from the 1930's and am likely to bore you to tears with my rather fey discussion of boring stuff from the 1930's."

"Hello. Don't I think I'm special with my gimlet and lime wedge. Oh, is that a Miller Lite in your hand?"

"Hi. I like the Gremlins. Because that kind of sounds like the Gimlets."

A War By Any Other Name?

Apparently the "global war on terror" is no more. Instead, the Bush administration tells us that we are now fighting a "global struggle against violent extremism."

Huh? I realize that these sorts of changes in nomenclature happen all of the time, but I just don't understand this one. I mean, if the goal was to indicate our steely resolve, surely the move from "war" to "struggle" is backpedaling. And I could understand it if the administration wanted to define the war/struggle more clearly and thus try to avoid embarrassing situations such as that time the Prez admitted that we would never win a war on terror. But to me, an enemy of "violent extremists" is even more vague and nebulous than the "terrorists" moniker was. This is not a step toward clarity and precision.

So is this just a bizarre and ill-conceived marketing ploy? An attempt to broaden the list of American enemies beyond the traditional terrorist pool? Regardless, I just don't see the Rush Limbaughs and Bill O'Reillys of this world giving up on their precious "war on terror" quite this easily.

RIP, Old Spice

I found out very recently that my first undergrad advisor and the leader of my study abroad program in the Middle East died a little over a week ago.

I won’t pretend we were exceptionally close, but Dr. Grubb nonetheless had a substantial influence on me. Not only was he the leader of what ended up being one of the most foundational experiences of my life, but it was he who (for better or worse) was largely responsible for my decision to go to grad school. Plus, he and his lovely wife taught me how to play bridge, a lesson which will reap great dividends when I enter a retirement community someday.

Flipping through my TIME (Term in the Middle East) photo album, I dug up a few old memories of our fearless leader. First, for someone who had led numerous trips to the Middle East and elsewhere, he had a shockingly poor grasp of foreign languages. He was no more able to pronounce “tesekur ederim” [“thank you” in Turkish] than the rest of us. We, of course, thought this highly entertaining.

And I had forgotten about this, but there was this obnoxious environmental conference taking place for several days in our Istanbul dormitory [hilariously, the group was called VOICES: Vision Of an International Charter on the Environment by Students]. I remember my appreciation for the Grubb-ster increasing exponentially the day he walked out to their chanting group and asked, “Do you have a policy on noise pollution?”

So hat’s off to you, Dr. Grubb. Yes, we may have made a bit of fun of your physics-defying belly. And, yes, you had a tendency to call me “Trevor.” But I know we all respected you. You made an impact, and you will be remembered.

History is Funny

My favorite dissertation-related quote is still a reference to a "whirligig of revolutionary dictators" in Haiti, one of whom failed because he "neglected to buy as many votes as was customary." Hee.

Also amusing, though, is the 1914 American intervention into Mexico at Veracruz. For some reason or another, a handful of American troops were arrested by Mexican authorities for an hour and a half. Oops. President Wilson was not happy and demanded -- get this -- that the Mexicans perform a 21-gun salute to the American flag as an apology. President Huerta refused. The United States intervened. Bizarre.

Project Drinking: The Semi-Finals

I would hereby like to announce that my summer-long project to find a new standard bar drink (replacing the gin & tonic) has officially reached the semi-final stage. After two months of sampling drinks both tasty (the Alabama slammer) and terrible (that Tabasco thing), I have narrowed the candidates to the following eight libations:

1. Whiskey Sour: One of only two whiskey-based drinks that managed to disguise the whiskey fully enough to become palatable (unlike, say, the Manhattan or the Rob Roy). The danger here is apparently that many bars make these drinks with a mix or something, meaning that the quality may vary widely.

2. Gin Rickey: A very good drink that may very well bear too close a resemblance to the gin & tonic to move past the semi-finals.

3. Old-Fashioned: The second whiskey drink and the second drink encumbered with a mix in many bars. To speak in statistics, the quality likely has a high variance.

4. Daiquiri: I'm not talking about the super-sweet strawberry thing, but rather a traditional daiquiri made from white rum, lime juice, and a small amount of fine sugar. My Esquire magazine told me that it is a drink on the verge of hipness.

5. Black Russian: I never actually got around to sampling this one this summer, but it is a drink that combines my enjoyment of drinking with my love of coffee. It must be considered.

6. Tom Collins: Another drink that I never got around to trying, but it certainly sounds good -- and it doesn't seem to quite cross that precarious frontier into girly-drink territory.

7. Gimlet: A simple drink. But simple is often what one wants in a standard drink.

8. Negroni: Yes, it tastes like ass. But it's interesting and perhaps it's one of those things that grows on a person.

So that's the list. Comments and tasting outings are both welcome and encouraged. Finalists will be announced in August and will be served at a party in my new apartment.

Continuing on the Necrophilia Theme...

I saw the trailer for Tim Burton's Corpse Bride while escaping from the humidity and viewing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory this evening. When did death lovin' become so trendy?

Speaking of trailers, though, I never learn my lesson. They always fill me with giddy anticipation, even if I know that most of them will turn into movies that I ultimately avoid any contact with and make fun of others for seeing. Of the trailers I've seen recently, I'm most excited for the Johnny Cash movie (with Reese Witherspoon!), the Harry Potter movie (with Harry Potter!), Proof (with academics!), and the Reese Witherspoon/Mark Ruffalo dramedy (again, with Reese Witherspoon!).

Both King Kong and that Fifty Cent thing fill me with interested trepidation. Cameron Crowe's Elizabethtown just might be a bit much. And I'm anxious to see whether the W brothers could possibly make a movie that sucks more than the Matrix sequels (with V for Vendetta).

That's only a taste of the trailers, but I absolutely love knowing that any one of these movies this fall may give me chills and become one of my favorite movies ever. I just hope it doesn't star a Baldwin. Or an Affleck.

"Be What You Will/And Then Throw Down Your Life"

I learned a lesson today. Sometimes it's a good idea to listen to the lyrics of a song before you declare your love for it and put it on mix CDs for everyone you know.

Former roommate Socrates asked me yesterday about the necrophilia song I put on one of his CDs. I scoffed at him. "Necrophilia?" I said (with an eye roll, even). "Surely you jest."

Oops. Today I listened just a little more carefully to "Staring at the Sun" by TV on the Radio, a song that I used to think was just about a fun time on the beach (or something) and gazing up at the life-giving sun. Not so much. Even with the lyrics in front of me, I'm not entirely sure what it DOES mean, but it is clearly something distressing.

Here are some sample lyrics:

"Cross the street from your storefront cemetery
Hear me hailing from inside and realize"

[What the hell is a "storefront" cemetery and to what does the "from inside" refer?]

"Oh my own voice
Cannot save me now
It's just
One more breath
And then
I go down"

"Beat the skins and let the
Loose lips kiss you clean
Quietly pour out like light
Like light, like answering the sun"

[And here's the chorus]

"You're staring at the sun
You're standing in the sea
Your mouth is open wide
You're trying hard to breathe
The water's at your neck
Your body's over me"

I May Never Sleep Again

That? Was seriously messed up.

I mean, the thing in the bag? The "deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper"? The... tongue?

I cannot in good conscience actually recommend this movie to anyone, but if you're the type who's all "Misery? Yawn." or "I wish Silence of the Lambs was less of a picker-upper," then I may finally have a film to shake you up a bit.

It' s Japanese. It's called The Audition. Feel free to call me at 5:00 a.m. anytime this week. I will be curled in a ball and rocking in the corner.

I'm a Rock Star, Get Me Out of Here!

So I watched that new Rockstar: INXS (or INXS: Rock Star or something like that) show last night. The format is, of course, instantly familiar. A bunch of poseurs sing. The fraud-ience screams. One person is eliminated each week. The winner is the new lead singer for INXS. Standard stuff. Equally obviously, I could not help but compare the show to American Idol, and I must say that the comparison yielded some surprising results.

On the one hand, this INXS thing is obviously superior. The contestants can actually sing and are aged and talented enough to know how to do reasonably interesting things with the songs they perform. And, of course, it helps that the singers are backed by a live band and that this show, through some sort of Mark Burnett genie magic, has a MUCH better catalogue of songs than AI. Furthermore, it is an immense relief to see the contestants reveal their personalities through their singing rather than through shudder-inducing montages about their poverty-ridden childhoods or eternally supportive/eternally unsupportive grandparents/fathers.

On the other hand, the soulless hosting of Brooke Burke and the more-worthless-than-used-kleenexes "judging" by Dave Navarro and the ancient INXS bandmembers made me long (yes, long) for Seacrest, Cowell, Abdul, and Jackson. I can't believe I just typed that. I HATE the Seacrest preening, the Cowell faux-bitchiness, the Abdul nonsense, and [shudder] the Jackson "Dawgs." But the stuff here was even more terrible. Might it be possible that I've misjudged this whole thing and that reality show hosting and judging is more difficult than I imagined?

Regardless, it's too early to tell which show is more annoying. Probably AI, but we'll see how earnestly the INXS "rockers" believe in their own rock-ness. That could tip the scales.

Nelson is a Nielsen

For the past five days, I’ve been an official Nielsen family. Ah, the power. Will viewer-deprived shows like Arrested Development live to see another day? I decide. Will new shows such as that reality show about rich spoiled brats who might lose their allowance or that other reality show about deluded people who want to be Hiltons joins the ranks of Survivor and its ilk as America’s favorite reality-based programming? I decide.

Actually… it’s not really like that. Oddly enough, I’ve become somewhat paralyzed by the responsibility. I don’t want the Nielsen people to know that I’ve been watching Judge Judy or yet another Seinfeld rerun. And at the same time I don’t want to lie and pretend I’m just watching PBS – thereby degrading the process [take note, AK, if you read this]. So, instead, I watch nothing.

Of course, by watching nothing, I guess I’m sort of lying as well, since the pressure of being observed has made me deviate from my normal patterns of behavior. I guess this may be a web of lies from which I will not escape.

On the plus side, though, Nielsen sent me $10 (in CASH!) for my trouble.

Existential Dilemmas Over Margaritas

I suppose this isn’t really an existential dilemma exactly, but it is troubling.

After taking expected twists and turns through Karl Rove and Scientology, my Saturday night party conversation eventually landed on the whole “So, what kind of music do you like?” question. And I realized that I have NO IDEA how to answer this seemingly innocuous question.

Even if it’s partially true, I can’t just say that I like all kinds of music because I then come across as someone who really just listens to Top 40 radio but thinks he is eclectic and diversified because he’s also heard of Bach and Bob Marley.

I certainly can’t say that I have a strong affinity for the hip-hop/rap genre because I then become the complete white-boy poseur. As much as I would like to think otherwise, I can’t really pull off rap.

I guess I could say I like alternative/independent music, but even I don’t really know what that means. And if they then ask for examples, the dilemma gets even trickier. Do I list a bunch of recent bands that most will not have heard of and risk coming off as a pretentious snob out of a Nick Hornsby novel? Or do I list acts like Green Day and Beck and risk coming off as a rather laughable character who only thinks he likes true independent music?

In this case, I ended up babbly incoherently for five minutes and just listing many, many bands. It wasn't pretty.

Three Things That Annoy Me

1. Satellite TV. For at least two months now, satellite TV telemarketers have been calling the apartment every day. Yes, every day. It’s always a pre-recorded voice saying something like, “Do you know that your cable TV rates are about to rise… nine hundred percent?” or “Don’t hang up. You have been pre-selected to receive a fabulous free [satellite something-or-other].” Annoying. Yesterday, though, I was particularly up in arms about it and decided to finally wait and talk to an actual agent and yell at him/her to get my number off their damn list. So I wait for the end of the message, press “1” to “speak immediately to a customer service specialist”, and am promptly told that I will have to try my call again during their normal business hours. So… they are calling to sell me satellite TV during a time at which there are no employees available to actually make the sale? Is their only purpose in being to annoy me? If so, well played indeed, Satellite TV.

2. Back sweat. It is very hot. It’s the kind of hot that makes it difficult to overcome the overwhelming desire to do absolutely nothing but lay uncomfortably on the sofa. And while I’ll take the uncomfortably hot over the uncomfortably cold any day of the week, I must admit that I am tiring of the back sweat. I hate the fact that any shirt I put on is slightly damp within five minutes. And I hate the fact that it then takes me five minutes to take off the damp shirt that is now stuck like glue to my back. And let’s not even talk about how I annoyed I am at having to trudge outside to the Laundromat far too regularly carrying a big basket of nauseatingly damp shirt.

3. Horcruxes. I finished the new Harry Potter book this morning. I’ll save a review for another day but will just say for now that, as I tend to have some problems in general with the whole patience and delayed gratification thing, I’m HIGHLY annoyed that I don’t know the answer to all of the many puzzles (from Horcruxes to Snape’s motivation to whatever the hell is up with Lily Potter’s eyes) that were clearly NOT answered fully in this book. Patience is such an annoying virtue.

Only in Madison

From what I've read, there seem to be three primary takes on the rather delicious Karl Rove scandal:

1. Karl Rove did something very bad by outing C.I.A. operative Valerie Plame and thus endangering her life and the lives of other covert agents.

2. Karl Rove didn't do anything at all since he never actually used Plame's name.

3. Karl Rove did something very good by using Valerie Plame's identity to discredit an improper critique of the war effort.

This week's Isthmus adds a fourth interpretation.

4. Karl Rove did something very good by outing Plame -- because the C.I.A. is evil. Rove, suggests the Isthmus columnist, should be clapped "warmly on the back for his courageous onslaughts on the cult of secrecy" and its sixty years of "uninterrupted evil."

Huh. That's a new one.

Prelude to a Blogger

How humbling it can be to be confronted the writing of one’s youth.

My mother called me this evening, chuckling with apparent glee (that was almost a pun for those of you paying attention). And although my mother laughs regularly, she rarely chuckles, so I knew something was up.

It seems that when cleaning through storage, she discovered a journal I kept during a family trip to Europe. As a seventh grader. And she then proceeded to read the journal aloud to me in agonizing detail.

Why on earth did I feel the need to describe every minute detail of every morsel of food consumed on the airplane? Example: “I ate a ham sandwich. I did not like the bread. The cake was much better. We had a lot of drinks. My sister ate some peanuts.”

And did my vocabulary at the time really not extend beyond the word “nice”? Example: “Our bus is nice. But it is a little warm in back. Rolf is our bus driver. He is nice too.”

And finally, if I was going to go to all the trouble of writing about the packing and the plane and the stop in New York, could I not have written just a little bit about Europe? Apparently not, because the journal stops after two days.

How embarrassing.

Observations from a Night at Pedro's

1. Karaoke singing is bad. Karaoke rapping is… words don’t describe the horror.

2. Cycling during the Tour de France is apparently very chivalrous. For instance, if the lead cycling dude needs to stop and pee, everyone else just politely slows down, averts their eyes, and waits for him to catch up.

3. The Tour of France is also much more complicated than one might imagine. I always thought that it worked more like The Amazing Race. Guys on bikes lined up. Someone said go. First one across France, with some pit stops along the way, was the winner. How foolish of me. First off, there’s more than one winner. It’s actually kind of like a dog show. There’s one big winner (sporting a yellow jersey), one best sprinter winner (in a green jersey), one best climber winner (in a white jersey), and one best young person winner (in a comical polka dot jersey). I wonder if the other cyclists laugh at the polka dot guy behind his back. Oh, and get this. There’s actually this thing where if you win one of the special stages, they subtract time from your overall race. It’s kind of like if they had a rule in basketball where, if you scored a basket when the clock read “5:55” or something, they would add an extra ten points to your overall score.

4. Empty stomach + Mug-oritas + Greasy chips = Nausea

Smells Like Paul Anka?

There's something unsettling about hearing the line "Load up on guns/Bring your friends" sung by Paul Anka in full big band-style regalia. But what can I say? It makes me laugh.

Mr. Anka has released an album of rock covers, and in the midst of my DVD-lessness last night, I downloaded his version of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Believe it or not, it kind of works. Largely, I believe, because he treats the song like any other Sinatra-era standard without the slightest hint of a wink and smile.

Obviously, it's not up there with the emotional distress of Johnny Cash's cover of NIN's "Hurt," but it's enough to make me pleased to have some Anka on my iPod.

When Electronics Attack

I am going to have to approach my toaster with caution from here on out, as it appears that my electronics are in the early stages of what is sure to be an all-out war.

It started with the iPod. As documented below, it decided (on what seemed to be a whim at the time) to give "complete hard drive failure" a try.

Monday night, it was the... DVD player. "My, this West Wing DVD is taking a long time to load," I thought innocently. "Perhaps I'll try another." No good. No DVD will load. After a couple of minutes, I just get a sad "NO DISC" notice.

And as I'm sure the DVD player is aware, this malfunction comes just days after I decided to stop my cable for the summer. Last night, I had to flip between Access Hollywood and Jerry Springer. The Springer discussion of "women who prostitute themselves with their husband's best friends to feed their babies" just made me sad. On many levels.

And, no, the story is not done. Yesterday afternoon, I insert my floppy disc (innocently, again) into a lab computer. I had been working with this same disc all week and all morning. Now, though? "Disc needs formatting. Would you like to format now?"

Format NOW??? NO, I WOULD NOT LIKE TO FORMAT NOW! The CURRENT format has all of my CURRENT work on it. ARRRRRGH!!!

Deep breath. I don't think I ended up losing much actual work, but I am on edge nonetheless. And what is it that is most disconcerting? It appears that the electronics may have forged an alliance with the bathroom appliances. This morning, the toilet broke and the shower drain was even more clogged than usual.

Overheard at the Video Store

"This is my least favorite movie. Every time I see it, I wonder if I'm just not artsy enough to understand it."

She says as she checks out said movie.

Moral Qualms Over a Latte

It's time to be brave and admit it.

I've been to the Starbucks on State Street two times in the past week. That is two more times than I have been in my previous five years in Madison, and I feel that my steady resolve against all things chain may at last be eroding (not that I anticipate a dinner at Applebees anytime soon). Is this a good thing or a bad thing?

Here are what I see as the main arguments in favor of State Street Starbucks (SSS):

1. It's really close to the library.

2. The coffee tastes good.

3. Starbucks is a successful business. Shouldn't we reward successful businesses?

4. Apparently Starbucks treats its employees really well. And they, in turn, are friendly to me.

5. Same name as my hometown, so it's kind of like going home. Okay, not really.


And now, arguments against SSS:

1. The whole driving out other locally-owned businesses thing.

2. I HATE, HATE, HATE saying the word "venti" and try to get around it by ordering a "really, really big coffee." This is somewhat awkward.

3. The crowd tends to be a bit... frat/sorority. Not that there's anything wrong with that.


For now, I think I will solidly stick to never actually sitting in Starbucks, but I may still stop by to get a super-big coffee-to-go from time to time. Does this make me a bad person?

Alaskan Tigers in Bombay

I've been reading many novels lately -- much to the dismay, I'm sure, of my neglected Netflix and iTunes accounts. And as I am a man of projects (as well as freakish injuries), I've been trying to focus on prize-worthy novels from the past few years. Here's some of what I've read:

**********
Life of Pi by Yann Martel

PLOT: Young boy is trapped on a oceanic lifeboat with a Bengal tiger. Wacky hijinks do NOT ensue (as this is not a UPN sitcom). Instead, the keys to both survival and religious identity are sought.

MY REVIEW: Aside from the bizarre carnivorous island subplot, I liked this quite a lot. Not only did it cue into my childhood adventure-seeking side, but it had much to say about many of the religious questions I've pondered over the past several years.

LESSONS LEARNED: Religion is important, but the capital-T Truth of many religious stories may not be as important as the impact they have on us.

**********
The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx

PLOT: After a traumatic incident, our troubled hero flees to Alaska with his daughters and aunt. Blah, blah, blah. I eventually invoked the 100-page stop-the-novel rule.

MY REVIEW: I kind of liked the bitchy wife, but [SPOILER ALERT!] she died early. My interest waned.

LESSONS LEARNED: Don't move to Alaska. It seems dull.

**********
Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry

PLOT: Well, there's this kid called Urkel... just kidding, of course. Family in Bombay. Elder in the family breaks his ankle. Difficulties arise.

MY REVIEW: Very enjoyable, at times, but I was much more interested in the familial strife caused by one particularly terrible aunt than I was in the tales of political corruption in Bombay. Hm... I guess if there's a theme to be found in this post, it is that I tend to relish the bitchy, trouble-making characters (see also: Uriah Heep, Delores Umbridge) over the earnest, heroic characters. I guess I'm not surprised.

LESSONS LEARNED: Take care of your parents when they get old. Even if it involves some really g-nasty stuff.

Also read: The Hours, Brick Lane, and Waiting.

The Precious Has Returned

I am officially with iPod again. In fact, I am with a new and improved iPod. My previous pod happened to fitz out right as Apple was unveiling a new version, so my free replacement (thanks, Best Buy!) is an upgrade.

How, you might ask, does the new version compare with the old? All iPods are, of course, wonderful in their own way, but there are a few notable differences in the new version.

1. The screen is in color. My battery light is a refreshing green. The "here's how far you are into the song" line is a light, cool blue. So now my iPod soothes me visually as well as audibly.

2. Album art, when available, appears on screen as songs play. Last night, I spent half an hour scrolling through songs just to look at this art. I imagine, though, that the thrill of this feature will eventually wear off.

3. I can put photos on the iPod. And I don't care. I could also put my dissertation notes on it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to.

4. It is shiny.

Actually, that's all the differences I've found. It's just good to have the precious pod back.

P.S. This particular precious pod is named Eddie.

Rantings, Ravings, and Musings (and FAINTING)

I'm still figuring out the format of the new blog thing, but I anticipate it being primarily composed of rants (regarding, for instance, the last two excruciating minutes of both War of the Worlds and Howl's Moving Castle), raves (regarding, for instance, my new vegetable cookbook), and musings (regarding, for instance, my discovery of the very bacon-friendly policy of the Atlanta airport).

Today, it is a musing on the embarrassing injury (YET ANOTHER embarrassing injury) that I sustained today.

As a part of a larger self-improvement summer, I decided on a whim to give blood this afternoon. Yeah, me! I chatted with people. I wore a "First-Timer" sticker. I boldly answered that I had not had an organ transplant in the past 12 months.

Then it came time to give the blood. The main problem was that I got bored and started fidgeting. By the time the nurse yelled at me, something had probably already happened and an air bubble or something got into the tube, the consequence of which was that they couldn't use the vat of blood I have already pumped in the bag. Fine. Sad, but fine.

So I'm sitting and eating cookies at the refreshment table when all of the sudden I feel... weird. Kind of drunk-like, but without the pleasant buzz or the desire to apologize to those around me. Then I think, "Am I dying?"

The next thing I remember is opening my eyes to see a very large man waving his arms in front of my face and a crowd gathered on either side of me. Apparently, I had collapsed onto the floor and hit my head with a solid THUD. It was rather bizarre, actually. It felt like any one of those movies where someone gets an anvil on the head, sees God, and then awakes to bleary-eyed frantic waving. Except it was ME and MY HEAD.

Anyway, all appears fine. But I have a large bump on the noggin and another embarrassing story to add to the ever-growing list.

About the Title

So I'm a blogger now. I'll save the navel-gazing implications of all of this for a later date.

For now I will address the issue of the name of the blog. The story on this goes back to my days as a claims adjustor for a prominent national car rental agency. Each file that crossed my desk had an accident description written by the manager of the particular rental franchise. Usually, they were dull things such as, "First car rear-ends second car" or "Ran a red light. Crashed into motorcycle." In this case, however, the description simply read, "Hit a dancing pedestrian." I left the job before I got to find out what that meant or what really happened, but it's continued to fascinate me. Why was this pedestrian dancing? What was so notable about the dancing that it merited mention in the accident description? Was the driver annoyed at the dancing?

Anyway, I swore I'd use this dancing pedestrian line someday, so here it is. I present you with Dancing Pedestrian: The Blog.