Overseen Overseas.

I spent a few weeks in Iraq a little while ago and I'm still sort of processing how I feel about the visit and the things that I saw while there. It was a good trip and I'm happy to be back. There are a lot of people there from all over the world doing all kinds of different work for just as many reasons. I'd like to go back see how things progress over the next few years.

I don't really have anything else clever or sarcastic to say about it at this point.

Career Opportunities.

It was the spring of 2005; I was unemployed and living with my parents.

I had been looking for temporary work on Craig’s List, ideally something that didn’t involve ‘amateur modeling,’ when I came across a post that offered $10 an hour for anyone who had an undergraduate degree. It didn’t matter what the degree was in, all you needed was proof that you had graduated.

I was a bit skeptical but I needed a job and more than that, I needed something to get me out of my parents’ house for 8 hours a day. So I drove out to Rancho Cordova and into a business park located on the decommissioned airbase out there. My group interview took place in a large warehouse that had been subdivided, seemingly infinitely, into small cubicles. The interview consisted of a middle aged lady examining our undergraduate transcripts and then signing us up on the work schedule for next week.

It was official; I was now a paid grader for mandatory standardized tests for elementary school children.
And yes, most of these tests are graded by a computer that scans all of their bubbled-in answers, but there are portions that require short essay type answers. This is where my undergraduate degree holding expertise would come in. For the next two months I would spend 8 hours a day in a cubicle in a warehouse on a former air force base grading essays from 5th grade students enrolled in the public school system of the state of Arizona.

The students had to write a one paragraph follow up to a given prompt. I suppose this was seen as a chance for them to do a bit of creative writing and show off their knowledge of the English language.

At first I diligently read through each response, carefully grading every student based on a set of standards we were all given on the first day. But over time I started to really appreciate the way these kids weren’t bound by the rigors of things like logical thought.

I now present to you my collection of my favorite responses to the prompt, “There was a mysterious knock at the door…”

-As you can see, I’m not very athletic or active
-the creature looked un-American
-Once a pond time
-then Ernesto said, “Holy crap. Space chicken!”
-there once was a man named cyborg. That man was me. I was at home upgrading my arm cannon
-approximately yesterday
-the monster looked like the monster from Harry potter. In fact, it was the monster from Harry Potter
-and that's when Mrs. Emering from gym class beat up that unicorn
-she was Irish, but was very intelligent
-read the next paragraph to find out what happens next
-extra-test-real
-thank you for your hospitalization
-I ran down into the back alley of Red Lobster
-please no flash photography until after the story
-the monster ate me lime by lime
-My favorite day of the week is Saturday, but today is Tuesday
-I opened my door surprised to see an Asian
-The knock at the door was my mom, back from jail after five years. She got stabbed in a fight with another lady in jail.
-then the creature suddenly returned to Alabama
-I ran away like a mouse, a very overweight mouse
-based on a true story
-then the creature said, “what up G”
-it was grabbing at his fudge pop
-oh, by the way, my name is Jesus
-the moral of the story was, DON’T MESS WITH FRANK

Politics and Industry

Or just a view of the Washington Monument that I really like. This is down next to 365 South looking past the power plant on Capital South. I only noticed it recently because the leaves have always been in the way.

I don't think L'Enfant intended for this particular sight line, but I like the contrasting monuments to America.

Primary.

One of the nice things about living in Southeast is that people have come to realize that a boarded up building doesn't have to be ugly. This building near Capitol South had a sign out front calling it a community center and even had a security guard trying to stay warm out front. I'm not sure if that means it's just under construction or this part of the building is closed.

Either way, it was nice to see a bit of art before I turned the block and found five DC bicycle cops questioning a group of kids in front of another brick housing complex. Just another lovely holiday weekend in Southeast.

Southeast Down Under

My sister's boyfriend is from Australia, so when she asked me to guess what he got her for Christmas I quickly responded with a list of possible gifts: A boomerang? Vegemite? A croc? A Subaru? A surfboard? A knife? (That's not a knife, this is a knife.)

"No," she laughed. "He got me an inflatable kangaroo that I can ride around the apartment."

I should have known. What still confuses me is how he managed to sneak down from New York and put these giant yellow Kangaroo ornaments in the trees over on Mass and 9th. However he did it, I bet a didgeridoo was involved.

Add it to the List.

What do you mean fail?! I put the quarters in and you give me time, that's how it works. And now that you've failed I don't even get to park for free and have to call some 800 number? I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen at all.

Stereotype Fulfilled.

My Netflix arrived in the mail today just in time for the long holiday weekend coming up. Perfect timing too. Now I can spend Christmas Day watching Downfall, a German film depicting Hitler's final days in his bunker.
It's the most wonderful time, of the year!

Spaced.

We had to drive all the way out to Rockville for a housewarming party. It took almost an hour to get there, but along the way we found a pretty decent thrift store and this space tower.

Abominable

I just don't understand Christians at all.

The Last Crusade

Resting on a bluff while contemplating the natural beauty of Petra?

Or just listening to Eminem ringtones while sending text messages?

Things I Saw: Amman Edition

Today it's just a closed up store front on a street but...


You know, for babies that really love geometry. We have all of your compass and ruler needs.

On the Road.

There was an accident somewhere on the freeway nine miles ahead of us. We later learned how many people had died and why they had to shut down the road, but at the time all we new was that traffic has come to a complete stop and remained that way for several hours.

I got antsy, bolted out the car into the cold and ran up to the top of this hill. All I could see was more traffic stretching around the corner and out of sight. But it felt good to get out for a few minutes and run around.

Stupid Randy.

Stop the Presses.

Do license plates still get made in prisons, or is that just something they do on tv and in movies? Because I would have loved to have seen the reaction from the incarcerated gentleman who made this plate.

They win my vote for stupidest vanity plate in DC. Anyone seen any better?

Recess.

I suppose when you have an elementary school located across the street from a liquor store, these things are bound to happen.

The Anniversary.

I spent two years living in the middle of nowhere, so I wasn’t surprised when I came back to the US and things seemed different. It’s been almost a year to the day that I’ve returned and some things still amaze me.
I simply cannot get over all of the airplanes and helicopters in the sky at all times. Back on my island, seeing an airplane caused so much excitement among the children in my family that they would run around the yard pointing at the sky and shouting “Oak Sohk! Oak Sohk!” (Literally, flying boat.)
When I moved back to Sacramento I was astounded by how many planes flew over my parents’ house every day. It turns out that the house I grew up in is only a few miles from an air force base; I just never really noticed all of the air traffic before.
Now that I’m in DC I’m constantly fascinated by the air traffic coming from DC National that flies so close to the Washington Monument. I’m also regularly distracted by the parade of helicopters from the military, local television stations and occasionally Marine One.
The other big change has more to do with living in a small isolated community than living in a foreign one. I had to relearn the basic rules of city life: don’t talk, don’t smile and don’t make eye contact. On my island everyone knew who I was. It was an unusual day when I walked all the way home without being offered a ride in someone’s car or truck.
Getting a ride home from work today is something that no one I know would ever even consider. Besides, I’m sure I’d be too busy talking on my phone or listening to my iPod to even notice if someone offered.

Keep That Door Closed.

I live in an old row house in Southeast DC which means that the windows in my living room are probably close to a hundred years old and cold air seeps in all winter long. It also means that we have a really creepy attic upstairs. And as if attics weren't creepy enough by their sheer existence, this one happens to be filled with wonderful artifacts like old x-rays and this typewriter.

Oh, and did I mention there's a children's swimming pool up there too? Well, that's a completely different story.

Lost in the Supermarket

I was in the dairy section of the grocery store, minding my own business and singing along with The Cure being broadcast over the PA. I was standing in front of the butter case, mesmerized by all of the different options (organic-unsalted-sweet cream-spreadable butter in a tub?) when I noticed this in the yogurt case.

And I realize that Pepe Le Pew is a beloved cartoon character, but maybe you should rethink a marketing campaign that puts a picture of a skunk on yogurt. Or really on any food product for that matter.

Drawn to it.

I cannot draw. I simply do not possess the ability to render recognizable objects on paper with ink. This has been true my entire life with one exception. In the 4th grade I somehow managed to sketch out a vague approximation of an alligator.

I was very proud of my alligator drawing, but my friend Geoff thought it was ridiculous and made a point of telling me so. Since that time my drawing skills have not improved at all but I still like to draw my alligator every now and then just to bother Geoff with how truly untalented I am.

We’ll be out at a dinner with friends and I’ll draw a little alligator on my napkin with a pen and his only response will be, “Oh you and your stupid alligator.” Because I am very immature, this never fails to amuse me.


Yesterday I received a package from Geoff in the mail. Tucked inside was a note that read in part, “I can’t believe these guys aren’t paying you royalties.” Beneath the note was this towel from Pottery Barn Kids.

Thanks Geoff, the towel is great. I’m not worried about royalties, I’m just glad that my artistic genius is finally being recognized.

More Learning.

At the Natural History Museum today in the section with the mummies and the cavemen:

"Mommy, what's that?"
"That's a caveman."
"Oh, are cavemen nice?"
"Well, yes most of them were."

Finding out that most cavemen were nice was oddly reassuring.

Navigating.

The old man crossed the sidewalk in front of me and gingerly stepped down from the curb. With his red tipped cane out in front, he tapped his way across the street. After crossing safely he folded up his cane, took out his keys and let himself into the driver's side of the shiny black Navigator. The car started up and he drove away.

When we were young.

We were 14 and bored and at home unsupervised for hours everyday after school. What else was there to do but read old copies of Spin and listen to our Rancid tapes over and over. Well, I guess we liked to play with fire too. But like many other children have learned over the years, it’s difficult to rebel when you grow up a privileged child in an upper middle class two parent home. What’s there to be upset about?
Liv and I liked to dress up in our finest thrift store punk rock outfits. She would work on her make up while I spiked my hair. She would tie the purple laces in her boots (the ones with spikes in the top of the leather) and I would put the safety pins back in the collar of my torn, striped sweater. And then we would walk down to the 7-11 to loiter out back, or if we were especially bored we would walk the half hour to the Tower Records to read the magazines.
On weekends we would ride light rail, or more often get a ride from our parents to mid-town. There we could spend the whole day wandering from thrift store to costume shop to record store. We always made sure to stop in on The Hindenburg, a tiny little record store on the second floor of a small commercial building in the back of a parking lot. I loved The Hindenburg because they sold punk rock 7”s, a true novelty to me at the time. Later, a different girlfriend of mine would end up living in the first floor of The Hindenburg on a couch for a few months. She always referred to it as, “the cutest little shooting gallery I’ve ever seen.”
But most days we spent at her house or my house, leafing through magazines and burning things out in the backyard.

The Press.

My friends made this website.

http://www.sacramentopress.com/

They put a lot of thought and effort into it and I think it turned out well. Go check it out if you want to see what they've been up to. It's still in its beta stage, but you can get a pretty good idea of what it can become.

And if you feel like contributing, just sign up.

Decided.

Some of my co-workers experienced 1 to 3 hour lines to vote in Maryland today. The Virginia voters didn't have any real excuses for being late, what with the early absentee voting that was allowed.

I was impressed by how long the line was at the polling place in my neighborhood. It stretches down this block and continues around the corner. All this so people can cast a vote in a part of the country that doesn't even have representation in Congress. It makes me proud.

Swamp Thing.

The Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens are a series of ponds set into the tidal marshlands on the upper Anacostia River. The ponds are set up to grow waterlilies and lotuses, but when I was there they were mostly inhabited by ducks, geese, heron and one sneaky little turtle.
The park is a bit hard to find and is bordered by a huge government housing project. That, plus the fact that they are not really accessible by public transit make the gardens a quiet place to visit on weekends that normally see big crowds at places like Great Falls.





Naturally, amid all of this scenic beauty I was most amused by this garbage can that looked like R2D2.

PSA

Don't drink and Blog; someone could get hurt.

Undecided.

It was the end of the day and I was on my way home. The darkening fall sky framed buildings and cars in a soft evening light. I slumped down in my seat and leaned my head against the cool glass window of the bus. We pulled up to a stop at a light and I glanced outside towards a grey concrete apartment complex.

A flash of movement caught my eye and I looked up to the roof where I saw a large man in a black puffy jacket pacing near the edge. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets and his hat was pulled down low over his face. He would take a step to the edge, look over and then turn back away. I watched him do this three times, each with a longer pause at the precipice.

The stoplight finally changed to green and the bus pulled away as the man turned back from the edge once more.

Kids These Days.

Middle-aged woman with a bad perm, riding the shuttle bus to the Coast Guard Headquarters building, “…Well my Seth is wearing these skinny little jeans now.”

Other middle-aged woman with a bad dye job, riding the shuttle bus to the Coast Guard Headquarters building, “You mean those Jonas Brothers jeans? My Tim used to squeeze himself into girls jeans, but now he wears those skinny ones for boys.”

Bad Perm , “Seth just doesn’t have the body for those things. I see him walking out of the house and his boney little butt is poking right out!”

Bad Dye, “It’s because all of those kids from High School Musical wear those skinny pants. But what can you do about it?”

Swamped.

We were only a little bit lost when we came across this pond. It was nice out and the weather had finally started to turn cool so there was no real rush to find our way back to the main trail.

However, I was very amused by the sign next to the pond warning us about the perils of ice skating.

Signs of the Times.

Southeast DC has a strong Democratic Party presence, so you have to be a bit weird to fill you yard with McCain/Palin signs to begin with. But can someone please explain what the fuck is going on with some of these things?

It took me a while but I finally realized that this is some sort of reference to Joe the Plumber. But what are you trying to say about him? You think he's good? You want to hang him from a tree? You hate plungers and they should be lynched? If you're trying to make a comment about a candidate's tax policy, you might want to consider something slightly more coherent.

And what the hell is going on here? Why are Obama and Hillary in A Chorus Line? Did Obama kick Hillary off a stool at some point, because I missed that debate. Would a grown up woman not have allowed Obama to join The Rockettes with Hillary while she had jelly legs? Because if that's the point you're trying to make I can't really argue with that.

Country/Gourd First.

Look, I realize that I'm living in a company town and we all owe our jobs to politics in some way or another, but can we please keep the politics out of our pumpkins. Halloween is not about 'Hope.' It's about pagan rituals and teaching kids how much fun it is to go into a diabetic coma.

A Grisham novel it was not.

I wish I had something much more interesting to write about my day as a possible juror at the Superior Court of DC. But really, the highlight of my day was eating lunch at the Cosi across the street during the two hour lunch break we were given. (Have you tried the wasabi beef sandwich? It’s quite good.)

Here is a brief overview of what I did today at the court:
I stood in a line.
I stood in a different line.
I waited in a room.
I was divided into a group of sixty and stood in a line.
I was re-divided into a group of thirty and stood in a line.
I waited in a different room.
I had a two hour lunch break.
I waited in a room again.
I spent 45 seconds answering questions from the judge and the two attorneys about my suitability as a juror.
I waited in the same room.
At 5:30 the jury was selected and I was told I could go home.

And even though I was not even considered for this trial, most likely I would have been kicked out anyway. It turns out that the (alleged) crime was committed about four blocks from my house. My legal advisor/roommate says that would have been enough to keep my off the jury even if I had been called up.

So I guess I did my civic duty and should be pleased that I was a part of civil society. I’m just happy to have gotten a lot of reading done. In a strange coincidence I received my jury summons the same day that I started reading a book about the Gulag system. It made for interesting reading at the courthouse.

To the Left of the Dial

In my second year of college I joined the college radio station, KCPR – Home of the Burnt Dog. KCPR was many things for me and I ended up working there for the rest of my time in college, eventually becoming a music director for the station. It was easily the most fun I had in college.

But when I first started I had to endure what every new DJ had to endure. Once a week I was live on the air for a three hour graveyard shift.

The quarter that I had to work the graveyard shift coincided with the same quarter that I had to take a 7-9am Intermediate Macro-Economics class. Some how I came up with the idea that it would be wise to do my radio show from 4am to 7am and then go directly to class. I mean after all, I was already awake right?

The night before my show I would go for a run or go skateboarding or both in an attempt to tire myself out and thus go to sleep early. Usually I would be in bed by eleven. Then my alarm would go off at 3:30am. I would pull on a heavy sweater and ride my bike in the cool, dark night over to the campus. The DJ before me would just be finishing his 1am to 4am shift and usually looked like he was about to fall asleep on the board.

DJing the graveyard shift on a small college radio station on the central coast to a small population was a great way to learn. At any given time in the night I had essentially zero listeners and I could make all the mistakes in the world. If I needed to run downstairs to get a soda out of the machine or if I was really tired and needed a quick nap on the filthy, tattered sofa I could just put on a 20 minute Mogwai track and not worry about anyone calling in to complain.

I did get the occasional phone call from insomniacs or late night drunks, but for the most part things stayed quiet. (Some of the female DJs got regular fan mail from the inmates at the nearby California Men’s Colony. At that time it was where Suge Knight was incarcerated but no one was so lucky to receive mail from him.)

By the time the end of my shift rolled around I was usually feeling pretty good. The sun was up and I had usually consumed a couple of candy bars and a 20oz Mountain Dew Code Red. I would bound into my econ class, usually humming whatever song I had finished my set with. The rest of the bleary eyed students must have hated me.
The only problem was that all of the caffeine and sugar would wear off by the second hour of class. My stomach would burn from the soda; my head would throb from the music and lack of sleep.

Pedaling home in the rising morning sun was excruciating and I would immediately fall into bed the moment I set foot in my room. Inevitably I would wake hours later, positive that I had somehow slept through class only to realize that I had a binder full of notes and no recollection of how they got there.
I loved working at KCPR.

Self Defense.

On the Metro tonight I rode home across from an old man. He had a grey and white beard and was wearing a pair of dusty old work boots. His baseball has was pulled down low over his eyes. He sat down with a groan and picked up a newspaper that had been left on the seat.

He flipped through the pages of the paper while in his right hand he gripped an orange box cutter.

Street Gleaning.

Every couple of weeks or so this box appears on the corner a few blocks from my house with this sign. I'm not sure if it's put out by someone who works at Safeway and is trying to help out hungry people or if it's just someone who is rethinking their purchase of a trailer full of potatoes, but it's always the same thing; a box of kinda old looking potatoes and a few other random food items thrown in.
The food and box are usually gone the next day.

Txt.

More Barbershop Wisdom.

"I tell you what; I lost a lot of money in the past few weeks. A lot of money. And this bailout thing for these big investment places? Please, I could have told you that would happen. The rich always find a way to stay rich. But the poor, well the poor have to stay on top of their game. Otherwise they’re going hungry.

But I lost a lot of money.

Hey, do you think I should get my hands insured? Some guy came in here and said I should get my hands insured because they’re my livelihood. I can’t cut hair with stumps!"

Multi-tasking.

If you want to put on a little bit of lipstick while riding the Metro in the morning, that’s really not a big deal. But when you decide to pull out your tackle box sized make-up case and start applying foundation things have gone too far.

The thick layer of foundation was followed by powder (which was spilled on my bag), then blush, then eye liner and then that eye lash thingy that looks like some kind of torture device straight out of A Clockwork Orange. Finally, the whole routine was topped off with the lip gloss. (Which for the record was neither poppin’ nor cool.)

Can we please make a deal? I promise not to shave or brush my teeth or put in my contacts on the Metro (and I hope it’s implied that I also promise not to spill any of the aforementioned items on you) if you promise to keep the mobile cosmetics to a bare minimum. Thanks.

Local News.

The only reason a camera crew would show up in my neighborhood? A crime report for the local 6 o'clock news.
Apparently a young woman who moved into the neighborhood last weekend was attacked in in her house while she was in the basement. After being stabbed 17 (!) times she fought the attacker off and is now in stable condition in the hospital with two punctured lungs and a perforated liver.
I walk by her house every day to and from work. This really bothers me.

Duckwin?

I guess you could just brush it off as life in Santa Cruz, but I'm not sure I will meet anyone soon with a pet duck that they take out to the beach for walks. His name was Darkwing (although I thought the woman said Duckwin, in my opinion a better choice) and he waddled along behind his owner just as happy as could be.

When I turned on the faucet to wash the sand off my feet, Darkwing scooted away in a hurry. John was full of really excellent questions about the whole thing, "How could a duck be afraid of water?" and "What's going to happen when he starts flying?"

I can only assume that he will start wearing a mask and fighting crime every afternoon on weekdays at 4:30.

Over the Weekend.

It was a really nice wedding. And jumping off the cliff into the ocean ended up being a lot more fun than I thought it would. After we had gotten out and dried off I told Dominic, "If you weren't getting married today, there was no way I was jumping in that freezing cold ocean." He smiled and thanked me while the rest of the guys piled into the car and we drove back into the mountains for the big event.

I'm not from around here.

Um, could someone from the South please explain to me what Tub Trim is and why you would want to pay $11.75 for it?

Is this perhaps the scariest place in the world?

Mild Hiatus.

I'm going to be traveling a bit for fun and for work in the next week or two. I won't be posting during that time but will resume next month. In the meantime, here are a few pictures of things that caught my eye while in New York a few weeks ago.

I thought this was the funniest thing ever. My sister thought I was stupid.


Stencils are fun, even when people totally steal Banksy's aesthetic.


I think one of the heads is actually covered in uncooked beans.


They really do have excellent dumplings.


"You can just return your handgun when you're finished. Yeah, just slide it in through the slot and we'll check your name off the list."

Private Security.

Not everyone can afford Blackwater.

Out of Bounds.

We’re all wearing goggles, but the bright sun reflecting off the snow still makes me squint. And as soon as we step into the tunnel the contrast in the darkness engulfs us. Bryan and Val have been this way dozens of times before and proceed without stopping. They swiftly remove their goggles and head into the darkness.

It’s my first time taking this shortcut through the mountain and I insist that they pose for a quick picture before we lose all of the light. Actually, that’s not even accurate. The tunnel doesn’t go through the mountain and it’s not a tunnel at all. We’re about to walk into an unused train shed that was built to protect mountainous train routes from being covered by snow in the winter. The shed is at least 30 feet high and hugs the side of the mountain as it winds along the side. Bryan and Val and I are walking through it to traverse the side of the mountain without having to hike through hip deep snow.

I pack my camera back up and grab my gear. Bryan and Val have already started on ahead and I walk in quickly so I don’t lose them in the dark echoes of the tunnel. As the path winds around the side of the mountain we quickly lose the sunlight shinning in from the entrance. I’m pleased to realize that the wooden slats of the shed let in narrow shafts of light. They don’t fully illuminate the tunnel, but they enable me to keep up with Bryan and Val without slipping on ice patches on the ground.

And of course it cold inside the tunnel too. While the sun shines outside, I can see my breath in the slivers of sunlight that sneak through the spaces between the warped boards. I can hear Bryan and Val up ahead shuffling along the gravel and dirt, they’re talking to each other but I can’t make out the words.

But then Bryan shouts from up ahead and his voice echoes up and down the tunnel, “Make sure you follow along the wall for this next section, there are a bunch of rocks in the middle here.” And as I approach the approximate place that he called back from, I make my way to the left side of the tunnel and walk with my hand brushing along the coarse rock of the mountainside. I can barely see the dark outline of the rocks that Bryan warned me about.

After another dark section we come upon an opening in the wooden panels that is wide enough for us to crawl out. We all stop for a moment and peak out into the snow and the sunshine. Val kicks at the pile of snow spilling into the darkness and then heads further down the tunnel without a word.

We follow the gentle right hand turn of the tunnel a ways further until the darkness transitions to light. We’ve reached the other end and I make sure to put my goggles back on while we all squint in the sunlight.

We sit for a moment to warm up in the sun and eat a snack, and then we’re off; flying down to the bottom of the hill and the long trek back to the car.

Outside the Library.

I guess you have to get the thing home somehow.

More Things We Saw.

The Blackbird underwent testing for two years before the US Government acknowledged that it existed. During that time period the few people who lived near Groom Lake and saw the plane in flight assumed it was a UFO due to its unconventional shape. The Government found it convenient to allow people to have these theories rather than know about classified aircraft development. Here the SR-71 looks especially alien.

Why don't they sell replicas of this in the gift shop? I want this as a mobile in my room.

Mind Your Own.

Join 'em.

Last weekend there was neighborhood block party on my street. I was in my room trying to ignore humanity while reading my book about the fall of Berlin, but the band playing across the street was so loud that the windows in my house were rattling. I decided to employ the same tactic that I used during my freshmen year of college when my next door neighbor had a stripper over at 4am on a Tuesday; might as well see what all of the fuss is about.

And just like freshmen year in college, it was a good idea. Not only were there barbecues and a pretty good r&b band, but there was also a trampoline and clowns and lots of cute little kids.

Southeast continues to surpass all expectations.