Never Question My Methods

So small that mine is somewhere around here . . . This is the first iPod I’ve ever lost, and it happened about five hours after I bought it. Very cool gizmo, but I reccomend *not* trusting the little metal clip, because it appears to be no match for whatever powerful wind blew the little guy away.

I had it clipped to the pocket of my jeans, without the headphones on, and I think I must have brushed it off somehow. In any case, I am sorely tempted to buy one again, because it was a really neat little object. The metal switch is a very nice to the touch, and the black casing is ridiculously nice to look at.

I know it’s everywhere. I just love this video.

Up until I started working full-time, business cards seemed ridiculously important, and I think I made a different one at least once a year.

Let’s just pick a year at random, shall we?

How about the year 2000?

OK, let me dig into the Rolodex . . .

Just one minute.

You see that card? That is the most impressive business card I have ever seen. It’s mine. It took me probably two minutes and maybe a liter of Mountain Dew to design.

And, like all business cards, it has a story. You see, when I headed off to the big city, there were a lot of things going on in my life, all of which are reflected in this card:

1. I had just acquired a computer, and a large number of fonts.*

2. I was moving to Brooklyn.

3. I was a monster.**

I found the last remaining card of this design in my letter drawer a few months ago and was just dumbstruck by how it came to be.

Speaking as the person who created such a wretched piece of stationary, the most befuddling thing about this card isn’t the font. I had unreasonable attachments to stupid fonts for about a year and half year into my career as a production assistant for a small publisher — and then I hated almost all typefaces, except for seven, which still holds true today.

No, it isn’t the font. It’s the color. It’s purple and I don’t know why. I’ve never been a huge fan of purple, and used in combination with the typeface, my name looks like some kind of stitched-together aubergine that’s gone berserk and is ready for blood.

Happily, this card was never used professionally. This was just meant for friends, who I hope to god, took advantage of the crease-holding 60# Strathmore stock and tore them up. And threw them in the garbage.

What you see above is a simulation, because the original file was in Appleworks.

*One of which was Chankenstein

**I’m kidding. Society was the monster.

During the time that my wife has been in Boston, I’ve had two exceptionally great roommates and met a lot of potential roommates. And in that time, there have been some confusing mis-communications, a few eccentrics, stuff you might expect. Nothing too unusual.

What I’m trying to say is that up until this weekend, no one has ever sent me a spreadsheet of their living requirements.

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to fill it out when I respond or not. Nor am I clear as to why things are grouped the way they are. Is this a horizontal or vertical chart? Is “Fridge” underneath “Internet”, or is it after Washing Machine & Dryer?

Or maybe these are ranked in importance by row or column?

With the exception of the washing machine and dryer, we’re there. I surely am One Male Roommate, and it is just bright enough for me to read books, without being bitten by bugs, or their cousins, the insects.

As far as that special loud noise from outside? That’s New York. Wake up and smell the special scent.

• Left Field Cinema Is a hit-the-podcast running review of stuff that might not be considered high art. My favorite show is The First Five Minutes of Die Hard, which is just a fabulous title for a McSweeney‘s story, as well as a clever analysis of just how much exposition can be done in such a short period of time. My second favorite show is The Worst Film of 2008, Can you guess what it is? Can you? Here’s not so much a hint, but an appreciation of said film.

• There is a Papa Loves Baby blogspot for those of you who can’t get enough of this tagger. Which, judging from the stats, is a fair number of you.

• I had spicy ox tripe two weeks ago and I’m practically starving for it now. If you’re ever in Camberwell, go here. If you haven’t been to Camberwell, GO. It is the second best neighborhood for food that I’ve been to thus far.

• Tank Riot has this podcast about Nietzche and Watchman that almost, almost, and another big almost, makes me want to see it. Except when I’m outisde the Lowe’s theatre, I look at the marquee and think “Nah.”

Every time I see a new movie that is supposed to be “fun” or “edgy” I end up thinking way too much about American foreign policy or worse, homeland security.

For the last two years, my wife and I have commuted back and forth from Boston and New York City to see each other on holidays and weekends. It was stressful, time consuming, and I really wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Really.

At the end of May, this pilgrimage comes to an end, and thankfully, we can spend more time under the same roof.

For the first two months, I rode Greyhound, succumbing to the idea that surely this national bus company must really have this New York-to-Boston thing down. Many of these were possibly the strangest bus experiences I have ever endured.

But now, I will relay just some of them for you.

Hear now, of the two months of the Greyhound.

THE PILLY GIANT

So much of a successful bus ride depends on your seatmate. Ideally, you do not have one at all. Failing that, they are asleep and unobtrusive. Failing that, they are friendly and have food or water to share with you. Failing that, they’re quiet for most of the trip.

Failing that, they don’t kill you.

But the Pilly Giant was an impressive counterbalance to all these qualifiers. He was truly in a class by himself.

He was a large, alert man with a thick neck beard, wearing a pilly polyester lumberjack shirt, smelling of Febreze. His legs were kept open at an obtuse angle of about 130º, his left arm jutted into my side. The right arm extended into the aisle, hooking anyone who traveled to the bathroom.

In between mucous-laden coughs, he would swig Pepsi from the two-liter bottle in his lap, belch, and then stare at me. Probably because I was staring at him.

This uneasy seating arrangement lasted a very, very long time. But we managed to not ever speak to each other, instead, staring at each like rival box turtles in the same aquarium.

THE GREAT COMPOSER

Let’s talk about the typical make up of the New York to Boston bus ride before we go any further. Most of them are not like the Pilly Giant. Most of them are freshmen who are visiting their friends and family in Boston. These are usually a chirpy wholesome bunch. Among their ranks are probably a few girls in their pajamas/sweat pants, who are going to sleep the entire trip; some guys who are going to display their radio-voices and their biceps (Dude! We should go out for some beer!); some people who clearly have some kind of inconvenient family outing; and a few individuals like myself who are clearly going to see their significant other.

But then, there was the Great Composer. Take your average gawky college freshmen, and add a huge dose of Brad Pitt in 12 Monkeys.

Now imagine that he is forever taking off and putting back on a sweater that really should have been destroyed by a bear in a remote part of America.

He’s writing on ruled paper, some kind of elaborate musical score that looks like it’s going to take awhile. The creative process agitates him, sometimes he will hit his hand against the paper, or gesticulate towards the heavens, marveling at his own cognitive power.

Now imagine that he is getting a call every ten minutes from his mother or father, as he writes in musical notation on ruled paper.

When he talks on the phone, he scratches his head as if he had been handcuffed for seven years or so.

During that seven years, he was unable to wash his hair.

Finally, he holds up his cell phone and screams, “Could someone tell my father that I’m not driving the bus? Thank you!“

I am now taking the time to tell his father that he was not driving the bus.

JESUS WEPT

A guy who was maybe 22, mock-screamed “Satan” in an effort to sound like what he thought a heavy metal band might sound like if he was at the helm.

Ha! Ha! For five hours.

I think there was some discussion in between, I could be wrong.

1. Riding the Falcon

To procrastinate, improvise in a futile fashion, or meander.
“Oh my god, while we were riding the falcon, the enemy regrouped.”

2. Outer Band Individuated Teletracer

The internet.

3. Reckless Monocle

To embrace luxury goods with little or no provocation.
“I realize it has a pretty jar, but ten dollars for jam is a bit too reckless monocle for me.”

4. In the Time of the Giant Scorpions

A former trend or sensation whose time has passed.
“I used to read that website . .  you know, in the time of the giant scorpions.”

5. Rainer

1. An effusive, ebulliant personality tending towards self-promotion 2. A reclusive misanthrope 3. A bohemian 4. Someone who typically forgets their umbrella 5. A primadonna 6. Poet 7. Film critic 8. Average man-in-the-street 9. Casual acquaintance.
“I know him. He’s kind of a rainer.”

Dear Reader

I was in London last week and am still trying to remember how to spell “colour” correctly, or whether I want my coffee “to take away” or “to go.”

Also, I have no idea what time it is.

A few more days and we’ll have this weird blog walking upright, or at least, blindly staggering.

Sincerely,

Mr. Evan