(Shamelessly borrowed from The Link, but it's a picture of my friends Stephanie and Hunter, so it just begs to be used)
31 December 2005
The pic says it all
(Shamelessly borrowed from The Link, but it's a picture of my friends Stephanie and Hunter, so it just begs to be used)
22 December 2005
Holiday Message
I’m heading to Columbia tomorrow for the holidays, but before I left I just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Winter Solstice, and (for all you Atheists/Agnostics out there), happy last few days of December.
Much love to you all.
Much love to you all.
18 December 2005
Was he flirting?: update. (Well, kind of an update)
This morning I went to the church that I spoke about in the “Was he flirting” post. I was hoping to have a new church experience, be around fellow young people in church (I’m one of the few young people at my current church), and get a chance to talk to Sam again.
The service was, well, have you ever seen the movie “Saved?” Yeah, it was like the high school auditorium scenes; heavy on the “praise and worship” and the “who’s down with G-O-D.” Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but the service today did spend a considerable amount of time singing “praise and worship” songs. There was a time in my life where this kind of service was what I needed in my relationship with God, and while it’s a perfectly legitimate way to worship the Lord, I’m just not in that space anymore.
On top of this, the pastor made thinly veiled swipes at Catholics for their reverence for the Virgin Mary. His brief mention on this issue allowed the congregation to misconstrue that Catholics worship the Virgin Mary on the same level as Christ, which either means the pastor has a deep misunderstanding of Catholicism or purposely prevaricated the issue—either doesn’t sit well with me.
Plus, I didn’t get the feeling that this could be a church that I would feel comfortable attending in regards to my sexuality. I also have no interest in doing mission trips in foreign lands (but I’m suppose to think about it apparently), or watching a video recording of several strangers’ baptism.
So yeah, I doubt I’ll be going to that church again. And to top it all off, SAM WASN’T EVEN THERE. So not only did I spend my Sunday at a service that I didn’t enjoy, feel comfortable at, or feel would help me “grow in Christ,” I didn’t get to talk to Sam. Also, since I won’t attend this church, my chances of seeing Sam greatly diminish.
All of this put me in a funk for the rest of day, and revived my perennial doubt of having a romantic relationship any time soon. No worries, I’ll probably be in a better mood tomorrow.
The service was, well, have you ever seen the movie “Saved?” Yeah, it was like the high school auditorium scenes; heavy on the “praise and worship” and the “who’s down with G-O-D.” Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but the service today did spend a considerable amount of time singing “praise and worship” songs. There was a time in my life where this kind of service was what I needed in my relationship with God, and while it’s a perfectly legitimate way to worship the Lord, I’m just not in that space anymore.
On top of this, the pastor made thinly veiled swipes at Catholics for their reverence for the Virgin Mary. His brief mention on this issue allowed the congregation to misconstrue that Catholics worship the Virgin Mary on the same level as Christ, which either means the pastor has a deep misunderstanding of Catholicism or purposely prevaricated the issue—either doesn’t sit well with me.
Plus, I didn’t get the feeling that this could be a church that I would feel comfortable attending in regards to my sexuality. I also have no interest in doing mission trips in foreign lands (but I’m suppose to think about it apparently), or watching a video recording of several strangers’ baptism.
So yeah, I doubt I’ll be going to that church again. And to top it all off, SAM WASN’T EVEN THERE. So not only did I spend my Sunday at a service that I didn’t enjoy, feel comfortable at, or feel would help me “grow in Christ,” I didn’t get to talk to Sam. Also, since I won’t attend this church, my chances of seeing Sam greatly diminish.
All of this put me in a funk for the rest of day, and revived my perennial doubt of having a romantic relationship any time soon. No worries, I’ll probably be in a better mood tomorrow.
15 December 2005
Et tu, Brute
The other night, I was hanging out with my friend Yendelela and her friend Adrian. At one point, I sided with Adrian in a minor disagreement, to which Yendelela jokingly said, “Et tu, Brute?” I laughed, and she expressed glee that I understood the literary reference. Apparently, she feels that the people who could understand the reference are few and far between. Once, she even had to explain the “Ides of March” to a Duke University Law student.
All this makes me wonder if the typical American has knowledge of similar scholarly references and facts. I know such knowledge is sort of inconsequential, but my God I hope the American education system hasn’t failed the populace that badly (or that the American populace has failed itself).
All this makes me wonder if the typical American has knowledge of similar scholarly references and facts. I know such knowledge is sort of inconsequential, but my God I hope the American education system hasn’t failed the populace that badly (or that the American populace has failed itself).
12 December 2005
Was he flirting?
Yesterday, I went to a Christmas party in an apartment upstairs. I had previously met one of the roommates in the apartment complex gym a while ago, but I had not met his other two roommates yet.
So yeah, a party of about 30 people, and I only knew one of them. It was a little awkward, but it was also a lot of fun.
At the party, Ryan, the guy I knew, introduced me to Sam. Now, while I talked to plenty of people at the party, Sam and I talked a lot. To be more precise, Sam seemed to engage me in conversation. He knew few people at the party also, but he was too sociable and friendly for me to imagine that he was avoiding the social awkwardness of meeting a mass of new people. I just couldn’t see him being nervous talking to anyone else there.
So, I’d say 85% of the conversations I had that night were with Sam one-on-one. Our conversations were full of quick banter and jokes—really good stuff.
As the night progressed, I thought, “Wait, is he flirting?” I couldn’t figure it out, and I had no safe way to flirt with him beyond maintaining the conversations. Since I have not come out to Ryan (the guy who invited me to the party), or Ryan’s two roommates (who knew Sam), I could not ask them if Sam is gay. Coming out to someone you just met in order to ask them to give you dirt on guy you think is cute is not exactly kosher. And I couldn’t ask Sam for his number, because if he is straight, that would just be incredibly awkward and uncomfortable for both of us.
So, I’m left with not knowing if he’s gay or straight, or if he was flirting or what. I’m probably making a bigger deal out of this than it is, and more than likely, he is straight, because that’s just the way my life works (btw, grrrr). Nevertheless, since, Sam, Ryan, and a lot of the people that I met that night go to the same church in Durham, hopefully I’ll see Sam in the near future. Then, maybe I can get a better sense of what the hell is going on.
Oh the trials and tribulations of the gay man’s life.
So yeah, a party of about 30 people, and I only knew one of them. It was a little awkward, but it was also a lot of fun.
At the party, Ryan, the guy I knew, introduced me to Sam. Now, while I talked to plenty of people at the party, Sam and I talked a lot. To be more precise, Sam seemed to engage me in conversation. He knew few people at the party also, but he was too sociable and friendly for me to imagine that he was avoiding the social awkwardness of meeting a mass of new people. I just couldn’t see him being nervous talking to anyone else there.
So, I’d say 85% of the conversations I had that night were with Sam one-on-one. Our conversations were full of quick banter and jokes—really good stuff.
As the night progressed, I thought, “Wait, is he flirting?” I couldn’t figure it out, and I had no safe way to flirt with him beyond maintaining the conversations. Since I have not come out to Ryan (the guy who invited me to the party), or Ryan’s two roommates (who knew Sam), I could not ask them if Sam is gay. Coming out to someone you just met in order to ask them to give you dirt on guy you think is cute is not exactly kosher. And I couldn’t ask Sam for his number, because if he is straight, that would just be incredibly awkward and uncomfortable for both of us.
So, I’m left with not knowing if he’s gay or straight, or if he was flirting or what. I’m probably making a bigger deal out of this than it is, and more than likely, he is straight, because that’s just the way my life works (btw, grrrr). Nevertheless, since, Sam, Ryan, and a lot of the people that I met that night go to the same church in Durham, hopefully I’ll see Sam in the near future. Then, maybe I can get a better sense of what the hell is going on.
Oh the trials and tribulations of the gay man’s life.
09 December 2005
All Hail the Hatchback Trunk
Recently I went outside to warm up my car, but when I came back to the car to leave for work, I found a problem—I couldn’t open the door. My engine was running, but the car would not let me use the remote “key fob” (thanks Robby for teaching me that term) to open the door. No problem right, just use the key? Well, the key would not turn; due to the cold the keyhole was kinda frozen.
Now, while I appreciate Ford Motor Company’s concern my safety, and thus making it impossible to use the key fob to open the door while the car is running, such a safeguard is a pain at times like these. I had no time to castigate (GRE WORD!) this safeguard however; and knew of only one way to get into my car—through the trunk.
For some reason (probably the raised rubber that surrounds the key hole) my trunk was able to open using the key. This little tidbit would have done me no good if I didn’t have a hatchback automobile. As you know, a normal sedan’s trunk is enclosed and does not allow access to the car’s cabin, but a hatchback allows full access to the cabin after removing the little roof thing (see attached picture).
So, imagine, a random black guy, crawling through the trunk of a car, and over the backseats. Yeah, even I couldn’t help but laugh. Thank God for my agility, flexibility, and relatively slender body. Soon after navigating the cabin of my car, I was off to work, being very glad that I purchased a hatchback.
Btw, someone told me about an aerosol-type can that is used to defrost keyholes. Does anyone know where I can purchase this—besides Wal-Mart, because, you know, Wal-Mart is evil.
Now, while I appreciate Ford Motor Company’s concern my safety, and thus making it impossible to use the key fob to open the door while the car is running, such a safeguard is a pain at times like these. I had no time to castigate (GRE WORD!) this safeguard however; and knew of only one way to get into my car—through the trunk.
For some reason (probably the raised rubber that surrounds the key hole) my trunk was able to open using the key. This little tidbit would have done me no good if I didn’t have a hatchback automobile. As you know, a normal sedan’s trunk is enclosed and does not allow access to the car’s cabin, but a hatchback allows full access to the cabin after removing the little roof thing (see attached picture).
So, imagine, a random black guy, crawling through the trunk of a car, and over the backseats. Yeah, even I couldn’t help but laugh. Thank God for my agility, flexibility, and relatively slender body. Soon after navigating the cabin of my car, I was off to work, being very glad that I purchased a hatchback.
Btw, someone told me about an aerosol-type can that is used to defrost keyholes. Does anyone know where I can purchase this—besides Wal-Mart, because, you know, Wal-Mart is evil.
04 December 2005
I just wanted it noted...
...that I spent 4 years in college and never participated in a keg stand, or watched an entire game of beer pong. I've lived in Chapel Hill two and half months, and I've now done both.
Also, before tonight I've never seen someone build a chair fort to throw peanuts, but that's another story.
Also, before tonight I've never seen someone build a chair fort to throw peanuts, but that's another story.
21 November 2005
Michael Jackson and the homeless
So, I was out in Raleigh the other day and a homeless man approached me and my friends asking us for money. Not an unusual occurrence for a big city, until he started making jokes about Michael Jackson in effort to gain our trust and approbation (GRE word!).
While I won’t repeat the jokes here (because ewww), you can imagine that the jokes were about Michael Jackson’s fondness for young boys.
What is surprising and interesting is that this homeless man knows that anyone he comes across will both understand and be receptive to Michael Jackson jokes. He knows that jokes about Martha Stewart, Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, Paris Hilton, Hilary/Bill Clinton, or George W. Bush will not get the same universal acceptance.
People, Michael Jackson has gone from being lauded by the media and public as the King of Pop, to being ridiculed by the homeless. That fact would be sad, if it wasn’t so damn funny.
While I won’t repeat the jokes here (because ewww), you can imagine that the jokes were about Michael Jackson’s fondness for young boys.
What is surprising and interesting is that this homeless man knows that anyone he comes across will both understand and be receptive to Michael Jackson jokes. He knows that jokes about Martha Stewart, Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, Paris Hilton, Hilary/Bill Clinton, or George W. Bush will not get the same universal acceptance.
People, Michael Jackson has gone from being lauded by the media and public as the King of Pop, to being ridiculed by the homeless. That fact would be sad, if it wasn’t so damn funny.
18 November 2005
Origins of my Boston Market boycott
At my job the other day, we were having a catered lunch by Boston Market. I’ve never eaten at a Boston Market restaurant, and since I was getting this meal for free, I was fairly excited.
Well, lunch was to be served at 12:30, but a little before that time we found out that the truck would be a little late. No problem, right? Well, at 12:45 we still had no food; same for 1:00. In fact, our lunch did not arrive until 1:15—45 minutes late. Well, as we got in line for our Boston Market, word started to spread that there was no chicken. CHICKEN. Chicken is one of the things that Boston Market is known for, how does anyone who works for this company forget to include the CHICKEN for a catered meal?
Well, despite the late, chicken-less meal, I and everyone else dug in. After gobbling down the ham, stuffing, green beans, and meatloaf at unhealthy speeds (because I was hungry you see, my meal being 45 minutes late and all), I realized that the meatloaf was not so great. I looked down at the meatloaf and what I saw resembled uncooked spam, and so I decided to not finish this lard otherwise known as meatloaf. Then word spread that someone’s meatloaf was a little too red—you know, “undercooked red.”
So, my first Boston Market meal was late (strike 1), chicken-less (strike 2), and undercooked (strike 3, you’re outta here). In addition, when one of my supervisors called the Boston Market that catered the meal, the person on the other hand responded that our experience was “too bad.”
Now, while I understand my experience was the result of some less-than-professional Boston Market employees, I take this as an example of the company’s professionalism, commitment to quality and respect for their customers. As such, I now officially begin my lifelong Boston Market boycott. If you want to go out for a meal with me one day, and you suggest Boston Market, you may go right ahead; I’ll be at the Wendy’s.
They did eventually deliver the chicken.
Well, lunch was to be served at 12:30, but a little before that time we found out that the truck would be a little late. No problem, right? Well, at 12:45 we still had no food; same for 1:00. In fact, our lunch did not arrive until 1:15—45 minutes late. Well, as we got in line for our Boston Market, word started to spread that there was no chicken. CHICKEN. Chicken is one of the things that Boston Market is known for, how does anyone who works for this company forget to include the CHICKEN for a catered meal?
Well, despite the late, chicken-less meal, I and everyone else dug in. After gobbling down the ham, stuffing, green beans, and meatloaf at unhealthy speeds (because I was hungry you see, my meal being 45 minutes late and all), I realized that the meatloaf was not so great. I looked down at the meatloaf and what I saw resembled uncooked spam, and so I decided to not finish this lard otherwise known as meatloaf. Then word spread that someone’s meatloaf was a little too red—you know, “undercooked red.”
So, my first Boston Market meal was late (strike 1), chicken-less (strike 2), and undercooked (strike 3, you’re outta here). In addition, when one of my supervisors called the Boston Market that catered the meal, the person on the other hand responded that our experience was “too bad.”
Now, while I understand my experience was the result of some less-than-professional Boston Market employees, I take this as an example of the company’s professionalism, commitment to quality and respect for their customers. As such, I now officially begin my lifelong Boston Market boycott. If you want to go out for a meal with me one day, and you suggest Boston Market, you may go right ahead; I’ll be at the Wendy’s.
They did eventually deliver the chicken.
14 November 2005
For Nick
While you've never commented on Kanye's predilection for "that one word," you're a white boy who likes Kanye, so this made me think of you. Love ya buddy.
10 November 2005
Kids are awesome, terrorist aren't.
So a few days ago, I decided to try to soak in the unusually warm weather that the southeast has been experiencing. Usually, that would mean that I would go for a run, but on this day, it meant going to the Weaver Street Market and studying the GRE outside. Weaver Street is a community-owned organic foods market with an open lawn full of tables, benches, and a fountain.
Heavenly huh?
What made this afternoon more heavenly were all the little kids playing on the lawn. As I was re-teaching myself Pythagorean Theorem, the sounds and sights of two to five year olds playing tag and climbing trees put me in a good mood. They played with such unadulterated pleasure; such abandon, that I couldn’t help but smile and feel warm by their joy. Ahhh, the youthful spirit is so contagious.
I also realized that when I become a father, I want to give my child(ren) all my energy, attention, and focus. That means that I need to experience what I think life can give me before I start raising a family. I need to get to that point where the fact that my life is no longer my own doesn’t matter. I need to get to that point where I’m comfortable and content with my life being all about fostering someone else’s life. That point lies somewhere in my 30s I suppose. I hope my future husband is okay with that.
So I spent the next 24 hours reveling in the warm mood that those kids playing put me in, and then I turned on CNN Wednesday afternoon and watched Wolf Blitzer report on the terrorist attack in the capital of Jordan. The warm mood officially ends as I am informed of the three hotels bombed and the innocent civilians hurt and killed. I watch as a city is gripped in chaos and its people are scared, confused, angry, and vengeful. I’m utterly disgusted by the fact that one of the suicide bombers detonated himself near a wedding reception—of all the inhumane, sick, despicable things to do. (To add insult to injury, the attack came on November 9th, and since the people of Jordan write the date as "the day then the month," the attack occurred on 9-11.) All of it just confirms my suspicion that terrorist are the lowest carbon-based life forms on Earth; they somehow got the opposable thumbs but missed the evolutionary jump of a conscience or the higher mental functions.
The attack on Amman also reminded me of the seriousness of the current terrorist situation. As I’m looking at grad schools, I am considering schools in Washington D.C., and while I certainly don’t want terrorist to control my life and dictate how I live it, I also like not having to particularly worry about being the victim of a terrorist attack. If I move to D.C., that’ll change, and while such worry wouldn’t dominate my daily actions, I will know every day that I live in a city that terrorist would love to strike. Do I even want to deal with that? I don’t know yet, it will require some soul searching I suppose.
So that I don’t end this post on a somber note, can I just bring up one thing? The three hotels attacked in Amman, Jordan were all American hotel chains: Radisson, Grand Hyatt and Days Inn. Who knew Days Inn was international? I mean, the only reason you go to a Days Inn in America is because the Red Roof Inn has no vacancy and the Motel 6 didn’t leave their light on for you. But internationally, the Days Inn is apparently a posh place to stay. WTF, mate?
Heavenly huh?
What made this afternoon more heavenly were all the little kids playing on the lawn. As I was re-teaching myself Pythagorean Theorem, the sounds and sights of two to five year olds playing tag and climbing trees put me in a good mood. They played with such unadulterated pleasure; such abandon, that I couldn’t help but smile and feel warm by their joy. Ahhh, the youthful spirit is so contagious.
I also realized that when I become a father, I want to give my child(ren) all my energy, attention, and focus. That means that I need to experience what I think life can give me before I start raising a family. I need to get to that point where the fact that my life is no longer my own doesn’t matter. I need to get to that point where I’m comfortable and content with my life being all about fostering someone else’s life. That point lies somewhere in my 30s I suppose. I hope my future husband is okay with that.
So I spent the next 24 hours reveling in the warm mood that those kids playing put me in, and then I turned on CNN Wednesday afternoon and watched Wolf Blitzer report on the terrorist attack in the capital of Jordan. The warm mood officially ends as I am informed of the three hotels bombed and the innocent civilians hurt and killed. I watch as a city is gripped in chaos and its people are scared, confused, angry, and vengeful. I’m utterly disgusted by the fact that one of the suicide bombers detonated himself near a wedding reception—of all the inhumane, sick, despicable things to do. (To add insult to injury, the attack came on November 9th, and since the people of Jordan write the date as "the day then the month," the attack occurred on 9-11.) All of it just confirms my suspicion that terrorist are the lowest carbon-based life forms on Earth; they somehow got the opposable thumbs but missed the evolutionary jump of a conscience or the higher mental functions.
The attack on Amman also reminded me of the seriousness of the current terrorist situation. As I’m looking at grad schools, I am considering schools in Washington D.C., and while I certainly don’t want terrorist to control my life and dictate how I live it, I also like not having to particularly worry about being the victim of a terrorist attack. If I move to D.C., that’ll change, and while such worry wouldn’t dominate my daily actions, I will know every day that I live in a city that terrorist would love to strike. Do I even want to deal with that? I don’t know yet, it will require some soul searching I suppose.
So that I don’t end this post on a somber note, can I just bring up one thing? The three hotels attacked in Amman, Jordan were all American hotel chains: Radisson, Grand Hyatt and Days Inn. Who knew Days Inn was international? I mean, the only reason you go to a Days Inn in America is because the Red Roof Inn has no vacancy and the Motel 6 didn’t leave their light on for you. But internationally, the Days Inn is apparently a posh place to stay. WTF, mate?
04 November 2005
02 November 2005
Halloween, Chapel Hill style
I hope everyone’s Halloween was fun and safe, and fun. Mine was all three. I would have posted about my Halloween night earlier, but Halloween did a number on my sleep schedule, and I still haven’t recovered. Why you ask? Well, because Chapel Hill likes Halloween a lot.
You see, every year for Halloween, Chapel Hill shuts off Franklin Street (the main road in downtown) so people can walk around in their Halloween best. This isn’t a few people mind you, but rather close to 50,000, according to Town Hall. From what I understand, it’s one of the biggest parties in the nation, and people come from all over to attend. While I didn’t meet anyone from North Dakota or anything, I still had a grand ol’ time.
After a 25 minute walk from where I parked (because I’m not paying $7 for parking), I arrived on Franklin Street, and was immediately bombarded by costumes of every kind. Some were good, some were great, and some deserved mention:
-10 or so guys, dressed all in white, running in a straight line, with the words “Fallopian swim team” emblazoned on their chest. That’s right, they were sperm.
-A guy dressed as a picture. He had a very large frame surrounding a picture of a general of something, and his head and hand stuck through. I’m not describing it very well, but it was cool.
-A walking Haunted House.
-a guy dressed as a Red Bull can.
-Two guys: one as someone’s facebook profile, the other was someone’s facebook “wall” with all the quotes. I probably like this one so much because I just got addicted to facebook, as some of you know.
Back to my night—so there I was, walking up and down a street I’ve driven on a million times, feeling a little weird because I knew I shouldn’t be able to stand in the middle of Franklin and Columbia, the busiest intersection in Chapel Hill. I mean, when the traffic lights turned from red to green, I had to fight the instinct of getting the hell out of the way of nonexistent oncoming traffic.
It was also a little weird because of the makeup of the crowd. Before this night, I thought Chapel Hill was diverse, but I now realize that this perception was based on the fact that I’ve never been around so many people of Asian or Indian/Pakistani decent. However, when I’m a little shocked from Chapel Hill’s sudden increase in Black and Latinos, I decided that Chapel Hill is quite homogenous ethnically. What the hell am I talking about? Yeah, I don’t know either, ignore me.
So, all during this night, I was awaiting calls from two friends. However, when it was 11:30, and I hadn’t heard from either of them, I decided to call. Come to find out that my calls could not be completed because all the lines were busy (that’s what thousands of people, in one area, trying to use their cell phones, will do). No incoming or outgoing calls would be going through the cell anytime soon. Damn.
"Can you hear me now? What, 'call can not be completed,' what the..."
Eventually, I got in contact with Andy R., and eventually I met up with him. I should mention that I haven’t seen Andy since high school graduation, but through the glory of facebook, I got to see him this night. And whenever you get to see a friend dressed as a right breast (or was he the left), it’s a good day. Plus, he bought me a beer, so go Andy.
After seeing an almost-bar fight and watching a guy climb a light post, Andy, his crew, and I made a late night run to Time Out Chicken. This is the local 24 hour “greasy spoon,” which was also Michael Jordan’s favorite place back when he went to UNC. How he stayed in shape AND ate there is a mystery to me. What’s also a mystery is why I decided to actually eat something at 1:30 am, but oh well.
Remember how I said I haven’t seen Andy since high school? Well, let me transcribe a little conversation for you:
Me: Andy, I need to tell you something.
Andy: Yeah?
Me: Um…I’m gay.
Andy: Okay. And?
Me: Um…yeah, that was it.
Yeah, that’s an awesome response. I’ll say it again, go Andy.
After walking back to Andy’s friend’s house, I had my first experience of holding someone up while they did a (pitiful) keg stand. How did I make it through four years of college without ever doing that? Oh yeah, I went to Furman.
And so, finally, around 3am, after a night of Halloween craziness and 4.5 hours on my feet, my head hit the pillow. Two last things. First, much love to the Chapel Hill Police Department; they were everywhere, and I felt safe, even if their restrictions on plastic pitchforks and knifes was a little Nazi. Second, for Halloween, I went as Jay-Z.
People enjoyed the costume, except probably all the guys I passed who were wearing something similar, but weren’t wearing costumes. Awkward.
You see, every year for Halloween, Chapel Hill shuts off Franklin Street (the main road in downtown) so people can walk around in their Halloween best. This isn’t a few people mind you, but rather close to 50,000, according to Town Hall. From what I understand, it’s one of the biggest parties in the nation, and people come from all over to attend. While I didn’t meet anyone from North Dakota or anything, I still had a grand ol’ time.
After a 25 minute walk from where I parked (because I’m not paying $7 for parking), I arrived on Franklin Street, and was immediately bombarded by costumes of every kind. Some were good, some were great, and some deserved mention:
-10 or so guys, dressed all in white, running in a straight line, with the words “Fallopian swim team” emblazoned on their chest. That’s right, they were sperm.
-A guy dressed as a picture. He had a very large frame surrounding a picture of a general of something, and his head and hand stuck through. I’m not describing it very well, but it was cool.
-A walking Haunted House.
-a guy dressed as a Red Bull can.
-Two guys: one as someone’s facebook profile, the other was someone’s facebook “wall” with all the quotes. I probably like this one so much because I just got addicted to facebook, as some of you know.
Back to my night—so there I was, walking up and down a street I’ve driven on a million times, feeling a little weird because I knew I shouldn’t be able to stand in the middle of Franklin and Columbia, the busiest intersection in Chapel Hill. I mean, when the traffic lights turned from red to green, I had to fight the instinct of getting the hell out of the way of nonexistent oncoming traffic.
It was also a little weird because of the makeup of the crowd. Before this night, I thought Chapel Hill was diverse, but I now realize that this perception was based on the fact that I’ve never been around so many people of Asian or Indian/Pakistani decent. However, when I’m a little shocked from Chapel Hill’s sudden increase in Black and Latinos, I decided that Chapel Hill is quite homogenous ethnically. What the hell am I talking about? Yeah, I don’t know either, ignore me.
So, all during this night, I was awaiting calls from two friends. However, when it was 11:30, and I hadn’t heard from either of them, I decided to call. Come to find out that my calls could not be completed because all the lines were busy (that’s what thousands of people, in one area, trying to use their cell phones, will do). No incoming or outgoing calls would be going through the cell anytime soon. Damn.
"Can you hear me now? What, 'call can not be completed,' what the..."
Eventually, I got in contact with Andy R., and eventually I met up with him. I should mention that I haven’t seen Andy since high school graduation, but through the glory of facebook, I got to see him this night. And whenever you get to see a friend dressed as a right breast (or was he the left), it’s a good day. Plus, he bought me a beer, so go Andy.
After seeing an almost-bar fight and watching a guy climb a light post, Andy, his crew, and I made a late night run to Time Out Chicken. This is the local 24 hour “greasy spoon,” which was also Michael Jordan’s favorite place back when he went to UNC. How he stayed in shape AND ate there is a mystery to me. What’s also a mystery is why I decided to actually eat something at 1:30 am, but oh well.
Remember how I said I haven’t seen Andy since high school? Well, let me transcribe a little conversation for you:
Me: Andy, I need to tell you something.
Andy: Yeah?
Me: Um…I’m gay.
Andy: Okay. And?
Me: Um…yeah, that was it.
Yeah, that’s an awesome response. I’ll say it again, go Andy.
After walking back to Andy’s friend’s house, I had my first experience of holding someone up while they did a (pitiful) keg stand. How did I make it through four years of college without ever doing that? Oh yeah, I went to Furman.
And so, finally, around 3am, after a night of Halloween craziness and 4.5 hours on my feet, my head hit the pillow. Two last things. First, much love to the Chapel Hill Police Department; they were everywhere, and I felt safe, even if their restrictions on plastic pitchforks and knifes was a little Nazi. Second, for Halloween, I went as Jay-Z.
People enjoyed the costume, except probably all the guys I passed who were wearing something similar, but weren’t wearing costumes. Awkward.
30 October 2005
Miss Rosa
Tonight, Rosa Parks lies in state in the Rotunda, becoming the first woman, first non-government official, and second African-American to lie there. These are the moments where I’m so proud of my elected officials, so proud of my nation and so proud of where America is going. Washington—and the nation—is paying tribute to a little old lady from Alabama.
But she was more than a little old lady, because she had more courage than most of us. One woman sitting firmly in her seat, lead to a bus boycott, which lead to national exposure for Martin Luther King, Jr., which lead to sit-ins, Civil Rights/Voting Acts, de-segregation, the end of Jim Crow, and so on. It’s not overly dramatic to say that without her, I would not be where I am; nor would Oprah, Al Roker, Barack Obama, Colin Powell, Condoleezza Rice, Clarence Thomas, and yes, even Nelson Mandela.
Without this little old lady, America wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps the Civil Rights Movement would have started a little later; maybe it would have never started at all. Maybe Jim Crow would be alive and kicking in 2005. But for whatever reason, God saw fit that Rosa Parks—and her refusal to move from her seat— should be the catalyst for the American Civil Rights Movement. Thank God for her courage, her resolve, her gumption, her intolerance of intolerance. Thank God for her.
Thank you Miss Rosa.
But she was more than a little old lady, because she had more courage than most of us. One woman sitting firmly in her seat, lead to a bus boycott, which lead to national exposure for Martin Luther King, Jr., which lead to sit-ins, Civil Rights/Voting Acts, de-segregation, the end of Jim Crow, and so on. It’s not overly dramatic to say that without her, I would not be where I am; nor would Oprah, Al Roker, Barack Obama, Colin Powell, Condoleezza Rice, Clarence Thomas, and yes, even Nelson Mandela.
Without this little old lady, America wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps the Civil Rights Movement would have started a little later; maybe it would have never started at all. Maybe Jim Crow would be alive and kicking in 2005. But for whatever reason, God saw fit that Rosa Parks—and her refusal to move from her seat— should be the catalyst for the American Civil Rights Movement. Thank God for her courage, her resolve, her gumption, her intolerance of intolerance. Thank God for her.
Thank you Miss Rosa.
27 October 2005
Poor poor Harriet Miers
I should go to bed, but I have to comment on the news of the day.
You know, I do feel for Harriet Miers; the poor woman was just doing her job as White House counsel (and her other job of being a lap-dog to George W. Bush) and then the president nominates her for the Supreme Court. Who the hell turns that down? Welp, she should have. I mean, I took a political science class once, and I probably know as much, if not more, about the Constitution than she does. I gotta say, I may not want an ultra-conservative Court Justice, but if I’m going to get one, I want them to be a well qualified ultra-conservative Court Justice. She should not have been nominated, plain and simple, and George W. Bush’s belief that his personal endorsement would be enough to outweigh Miers’ lack of experience did her a disservice. Now, Miers is this national joke and another sad example of cronyism gone bad (the latest after that Arabian horse Commissioner). Poor Harriett, I can only hope that soon, a bigger news story will come along, otherwise her name may become synonymous with “an unqualified lackey appointed in a position that your experience does not warrant.”
And you know what; a bigger news story may come along. Tomorrow, we should finally hear who will be indicted in the CIA leak case. Will it be I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby, Karl Rove, and/or anyone else? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty anxious. If you know me, you know I’m not the biggest fan of the current administration, and one of the things that irks me the most about the administration is this pompous, “we can do no wrong, we are always right, believe what we say because we said it, if you attack us or our position, you’re thickheaded, unpatriotic, and don’t like bunnies” mentality. It’s looking like maybe, just maybe, with everything that’s been happening the past few months (e.g. Hurricane Katrina, FEMA, 2,000 dead in Iraq, high gas prices, Miers nomination debacle, and possible CIA leak indictments for White House staff) that pompous mentality may get some long-overdue comeuppance. A liberal can only hope.
Btw, how does a man with a nickname of “Scooter” actually end up having any sort of professional career? I mean, you’ve gotta be kidding me…“Scooter?”
You know, I do feel for Harriet Miers; the poor woman was just doing her job as White House counsel (and her other job of being a lap-dog to George W. Bush) and then the president nominates her for the Supreme Court. Who the hell turns that down? Welp, she should have. I mean, I took a political science class once, and I probably know as much, if not more, about the Constitution than she does. I gotta say, I may not want an ultra-conservative Court Justice, but if I’m going to get one, I want them to be a well qualified ultra-conservative Court Justice. She should not have been nominated, plain and simple, and George W. Bush’s belief that his personal endorsement would be enough to outweigh Miers’ lack of experience did her a disservice. Now, Miers is this national joke and another sad example of cronyism gone bad (the latest after that Arabian horse Commissioner). Poor Harriett, I can only hope that soon, a bigger news story will come along, otherwise her name may become synonymous with “an unqualified lackey appointed in a position that your experience does not warrant.”
And you know what; a bigger news story may come along. Tomorrow, we should finally hear who will be indicted in the CIA leak case. Will it be I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby, Karl Rove, and/or anyone else? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty anxious. If you know me, you know I’m not the biggest fan of the current administration, and one of the things that irks me the most about the administration is this pompous, “we can do no wrong, we are always right, believe what we say because we said it, if you attack us or our position, you’re thickheaded, unpatriotic, and don’t like bunnies” mentality. It’s looking like maybe, just maybe, with everything that’s been happening the past few months (e.g. Hurricane Katrina, FEMA, 2,000 dead in Iraq, high gas prices, Miers nomination debacle, and possible CIA leak indictments for White House staff) that pompous mentality may get some long-overdue comeuppance. A liberal can only hope.
Btw, how does a man with a nickname of “Scooter” actually end up having any sort of professional career? I mean, you’ve gotta be kidding me…“Scooter?”
25 October 2005
Homecoming (for lack of a better title)
Funny story: When I graduated from high school, the school was only like seven years old. Thus, when it was homecoming, there were no elderly people suddenly attending the football game; the eldest Dutch Fork alum would have been around 26. So you can imagine that I had NO FREAKING IDEA why this “homecoming” event and subsequent game was such a big deal. Furman University is 179 years old, so I now understand what a homecoming is; a good thing to, since I just attended Furman’s Homecoming this past weekend.
Hannah and I left the Triangle Friday afternoon, and after a stop at Wendy’s (yay!), beaucoup conversations about life, love, patriotism, “Augustine’s Confessions,” Pat Robertson, and calling almost every Furman person in our cell phones, we ended the four hour drive. I dropped Hannah off, and I headed to my home for the weekend, Brooklyn’s apartment (thanks again Brooklyn, you know you’re my favorite Republican, even before John Mccain, Tucker Carlson, and Arnold Vinick).
Brooklyn and I got our self prepared for the night ahead (i.e. mixed drinks) then made our way to the mall. For all you non-Furman folks, on Homecoming, the main road is covered by carnival rides & food, organizations making floats, and there are people as far as the eye can see. The night was spent riding rides, laughing, running into people I haven’t seen since who knows when, jamming to Florez, and other such fun moments. Gotta say, it was nice being one of the few people in the crowd who actually attended Furman when Alex, Eric, Dana, and Dusty were there, and Alex remembers my name! Eat it freshmen!
Robby, Frosty, Brookie, and I planned to leave the mall, and we did, after we ran into about 76 more people. We didn’t know it, but if we didn’t see someone on the mall, we’d see them downtown at the City Tavern (formerly Tassey’s). Yes, I do mean everyone. The classes of 02 through 05 shut City Tavern down. Then, everyone just kept hanging out…right outside the door of City Tavern. Good times.
Saturday brought a little visit to the University Center where Hannah and I met up with some folks and got free shirts (can’t get enough long sleeve cotton t-shirts, ya know). Then, we went to the psychology department drop-in, which featured former psych majors, the professors, and a 5-month pregnant Nicole B. (formerly, Nicole L.). Someone from our class getting married is one thing, but people getting all pregnant and stuff? When did I get THAT old?
The game: First off, thanks for the free ticket Frosty. Furman vs. Elon was your typical Furman football affair: keys jingling before a punt, the letters F and U screamed many times, people socializing more than watching the game, etc. Even members of SWAC (Students Who Actually Cheer) didn’t seem too into the game. The one exception to the typical affair was the thundersticks, these plastic bat things you blow in to, and then beat together to make a deafening sound. It was a pretty fun 10 seconds, then The Man came and took them away, something about NCAA regulation about noise makers. Still, congrats to the student activities board and their president, the one & only Brad R., for getting an otherwise uninterested student body energized for the game. Oh yeah, we killed Elon, 45-6. FU All the Time!
With the game done, Brooklyn, Robby, Frosty and I went for some good ol’ fashion calzones at Barley’s, then a game of darts upstairs. It was pretty fun, and some of my darts actually made it to the board and not the floor. We then went to the block party downtown, enjoyed the tunes of a Beatles cover band, and rocked out to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” After some of us crashed the Homecoming dance and some of us spent too much cash on a midori sour (grr Hyatt Regency), we stepped on over to Connelly’s. It was basically the same crowd from the night before, only with more people. Seriously, I called Connelly’s “The Fire Hazard” before the night ended, but I had my first Red Bull and Vodka there, so I can’t hate too much. Really, the problem was that people haven’t learned to not stand and look around when they should be going down the stairs.
Eventually we left “The Fire Hazard,” I encouraged Chris & Robert to become the first pasty, white boys of R&B, gave Jodi a hug in the middle of an intersection (there were no cars coming, I think), decided not to pay $5 for a Furman alum’s private party at Corner Pocket, and basically ended the night at Blue Ridge Brewing Company. Now that I write this, it seems like the very end of my Homecoming weekend was a little lackluster, but I loved every minute of it. And don’t worry Brooklyn, next time, we’ll find him.
And now—stealing an idea from Robby’s blog—your moment of zen:
(gay guys get all the hot lady action)
Hannah and I left the Triangle Friday afternoon, and after a stop at Wendy’s (yay!), beaucoup conversations about life, love, patriotism, “Augustine’s Confessions,” Pat Robertson, and calling almost every Furman person in our cell phones, we ended the four hour drive. I dropped Hannah off, and I headed to my home for the weekend, Brooklyn’s apartment (thanks again Brooklyn, you know you’re my favorite Republican, even before John Mccain, Tucker Carlson, and Arnold Vinick).
Brooklyn and I got our self prepared for the night ahead (i.e. mixed drinks) then made our way to the mall. For all you non-Furman folks, on Homecoming, the main road is covered by carnival rides & food, organizations making floats, and there are people as far as the eye can see. The night was spent riding rides, laughing, running into people I haven’t seen since who knows when, jamming to Florez, and other such fun moments. Gotta say, it was nice being one of the few people in the crowd who actually attended Furman when Alex, Eric, Dana, and Dusty were there, and Alex remembers my name! Eat it freshmen!
Robby, Frosty, Brookie, and I planned to leave the mall, and we did, after we ran into about 76 more people. We didn’t know it, but if we didn’t see someone on the mall, we’d see them downtown at the City Tavern (formerly Tassey’s). Yes, I do mean everyone. The classes of 02 through 05 shut City Tavern down. Then, everyone just kept hanging out…right outside the door of City Tavern. Good times.
Saturday brought a little visit to the University Center where Hannah and I met up with some folks and got free shirts (can’t get enough long sleeve cotton t-shirts, ya know). Then, we went to the psychology department drop-in, which featured former psych majors, the professors, and a 5-month pregnant Nicole B. (formerly, Nicole L.). Someone from our class getting married is one thing, but people getting all pregnant and stuff? When did I get THAT old?
The game: First off, thanks for the free ticket Frosty. Furman vs. Elon was your typical Furman football affair: keys jingling before a punt, the letters F and U screamed many times, people socializing more than watching the game, etc. Even members of SWAC (Students Who Actually Cheer) didn’t seem too into the game. The one exception to the typical affair was the thundersticks, these plastic bat things you blow in to, and then beat together to make a deafening sound. It was a pretty fun 10 seconds, then The Man came and took them away, something about NCAA regulation about noise makers. Still, congrats to the student activities board and their president, the one & only Brad R., for getting an otherwise uninterested student body energized for the game. Oh yeah, we killed Elon, 45-6. FU All the Time!
With the game done, Brooklyn, Robby, Frosty and I went for some good ol’ fashion calzones at Barley’s, then a game of darts upstairs. It was pretty fun, and some of my darts actually made it to the board and not the floor. We then went to the block party downtown, enjoyed the tunes of a Beatles cover band, and rocked out to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” After some of us crashed the Homecoming dance and some of us spent too much cash on a midori sour (grr Hyatt Regency), we stepped on over to Connelly’s. It was basically the same crowd from the night before, only with more people. Seriously, I called Connelly’s “The Fire Hazard” before the night ended, but I had my first Red Bull and Vodka there, so I can’t hate too much. Really, the problem was that people haven’t learned to not stand and look around when they should be going down the stairs.
Eventually we left “The Fire Hazard,” I encouraged Chris & Robert to become the first pasty, white boys of R&B, gave Jodi a hug in the middle of an intersection (there were no cars coming, I think), decided not to pay $5 for a Furman alum’s private party at Corner Pocket, and basically ended the night at Blue Ridge Brewing Company. Now that I write this, it seems like the very end of my Homecoming weekend was a little lackluster, but I loved every minute of it. And don’t worry Brooklyn, next time, we’ll find him.
And now—stealing an idea from Robby’s blog—your moment of zen:
(gay guys get all the hot lady action)
21 October 2005
the state of the district
I keep meaning to post about all that's going on in Washington, D.C., but it would require me to set aside a pretty good chunk of time. Luckily, Tom Toles has done an editorial cartoon that pretty much sums it up; and yes, the guy on the bike is supposed to be our president:
I'm guessing John Kerry wishes this was all happening last October.
I'm guessing John Kerry wishes this was all happening last October.
4 beers, Aquaman, and what to pack.
It’s been an interesting day. Somehow, my friend/co-worker Margaret convinced me to leave work early and go drinking with her—at 1 pm. I arrived at “P. Bob’s” at 3ish, and by 6:30 had consumed 4 beers. Not a lot, I know, but you know when you’ve consumed enough that you’re not sure how loud you’re talking, yeah, that was me. I don’t think I was talking loudly though, because Kevin C. didn’t complain when I had dinner with him at 6:30 (Hi, Kevin, hope I wasn’t loud).
Later on, I watched an episode of Smallville, where Aquaman came to stir up trouble for our future Superman. He also stirred up thinly veiled homoerotism, really bad acting, and spoon-fed Clark a clunky reference to the JLA (Junior Lifeguards Association….Justice League of America, get it?).
Don’t get the wrong idea; I did manage to be productive today. I discovered All Psychology Schools.com, which will be a BIG help in searching for counseling/clinical graduate programs in the southeast.
At the end of my day, I spent far too much time trying to decide what to take for my trip to Furman’s homecoming this weekend. Basically, autumn sucks because the temperature goes from fairly warm during the day to fairly cool at night. But how warm and how cool? I find that after three months of summer, you forget what 71 or 65 degrees feels like. Does that temperature mean sweater? Of course maybe I obsess over this stuff too much and should just pack t-shirts. But then I wouldn’t be me, now would I?
Tomorrow, I will hit the road, and it’ll be four hours with Hannah B., fun times! Perhaps I see you on the mall, at the game, and around. If not, perhaps I’ll return with stories to post. Either way, keep those fingers crossed.
Later on, I watched an episode of Smallville, where Aquaman came to stir up trouble for our future Superman. He also stirred up thinly veiled homoerotism, really bad acting, and spoon-fed Clark a clunky reference to the JLA (Junior Lifeguards Association….Justice League of America, get it?).
Don’t get the wrong idea; I did manage to be productive today. I discovered All Psychology Schools.com, which will be a BIG help in searching for counseling/clinical graduate programs in the southeast.
At the end of my day, I spent far too much time trying to decide what to take for my trip to Furman’s homecoming this weekend. Basically, autumn sucks because the temperature goes from fairly warm during the day to fairly cool at night. But how warm and how cool? I find that after three months of summer, you forget what 71 or 65 degrees feels like. Does that temperature mean sweater? Of course maybe I obsess over this stuff too much and should just pack t-shirts. But then I wouldn’t be me, now would I?
Tomorrow, I will hit the road, and it’ll be four hours with Hannah B., fun times! Perhaps I see you on the mall, at the game, and around. If not, perhaps I’ll return with stories to post. Either way, keep those fingers crossed.
18 October 2005
1st Obstacle Down
First off, much love to Mary W., for introducing me to a great little pizza place and gracing me with her presence tonight. Hope we didn’t talk about the healing farm too much.
So, I’ve told some of you that my apartment mate, Diana, is a manager of kid shoes at Nordstrom at the mall (for those who don't know, Nordstrom is an upscale department store. Think Belk's with a piano player). Well, she told me about her friend Patrick, a fellow Nordstrom employee who works in the young men’s section.
You see, Patrick is gay. Yeah, you heard me, gay. Remember that whole “wide range of possible outcomes” thing mentioned in the “Lime-green Lacoste polo” post; well, the range of possible outcomes is lessened when you know he’s gay beforehand. In other words, once you actually know your person of interest is gay, the first obstacle is down (and what an obstacle it is), and you’re left with the typical, “do they like me” concerns.
And that’s where I stood as I visited Diana at work early last week. I walked by the young men’s section (it’s called “The Rail” at Nordstrom, because they’re hip and upscale like that, ha), and spotted an attractive young man who I thought could be gay. And indeed, after finding and talking to Diana, I determined that this guy was Patrick (yay, I called it; “go go gadget gaydar!”).
You may also remember from the last post that I have a substantial lack of “game,” so my basic response was to go over “The Rail” and look at clothes, get Patrick to ask me if I need any help, blah blah blah fishcakes, introduce myself as Diana’s apartment mate, and strike up conversation. I hate to tell you, but my normal conversation skills fell apart, reducing me to pretty much criticizing Patrick for paying $200+ for designer jeans and complaining that I can’t afford anything in “The Rail.” Not the kinda of first meeting that you tell grandkids about, but hell, I CAN’T afford “The Rail.” $78 for a polo is just not in my budget. Oh, wait, I did buy some sweet sunglasses for $10 that can also serve as part of my Jay-Z Halloween costume, so that’s something.
But I digress. I left Nordstrom, went home, and decided that I was going to ask Diana to ask Patrick what he thought of me. And then I remember that I’m not in high school and should grow a pair. Thus, I changed my plans and decided that I would go to Nordstrom when Patrick was working and strike up another conversation with perhaps a dinner invite. I felt a little stalker-ish the next day as I asked a Rail employee when Patrick was going to be working next, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
I walked into the store on an afternoon that I knew Patrick would be there, saw him, and made my move to…the belts. I mean, I couldn’t seem too obvious, plus, they were Kenneth Cole brown/black reversibles for $25. Anyway, I got Patrick’s attention, made small talk, found out he’s a full time sociology major at UNC, and full time employee at Nordstrom. We had a quick banter about which was the truer science: psychology or sociology (psych so wins, btw), and then I asked if we could hang out sometime. He again mentioned the time constraints of school and work and then he mentioned that he doesn’t really have a cell phone—and neither do his roommates—so the best way to contact him was to call Nordstrom and leave a message for him, because he checks it often. Then Patrick gives me his card with the direct line to The Rail's phone.
Now, I don’t know if this was a convoluted brush off or a serious explanation of his current life situation—both are possible—but the fact is I basically don’t have an answer to that “does he like me” question. I will call Patrick, and I’ll let you know how it goes.
And there ends the three part series on “Warren stepping up to the plate.” Any questions, comments, suggestions?
So, I’ve told some of you that my apartment mate, Diana, is a manager of kid shoes at Nordstrom at the mall (for those who don't know, Nordstrom is an upscale department store. Think Belk's with a piano player). Well, she told me about her friend Patrick, a fellow Nordstrom employee who works in the young men’s section.
You see, Patrick is gay. Yeah, you heard me, gay. Remember that whole “wide range of possible outcomes” thing mentioned in the “Lime-green Lacoste polo” post; well, the range of possible outcomes is lessened when you know he’s gay beforehand. In other words, once you actually know your person of interest is gay, the first obstacle is down (and what an obstacle it is), and you’re left with the typical, “do they like me” concerns.
And that’s where I stood as I visited Diana at work early last week. I walked by the young men’s section (it’s called “The Rail” at Nordstrom, because they’re hip and upscale like that, ha), and spotted an attractive young man who I thought could be gay. And indeed, after finding and talking to Diana, I determined that this guy was Patrick (yay, I called it; “go go gadget gaydar!”).
You may also remember from the last post that I have a substantial lack of “game,” so my basic response was to go over “The Rail” and look at clothes, get Patrick to ask me if I need any help, blah blah blah fishcakes, introduce myself as Diana’s apartment mate, and strike up conversation. I hate to tell you, but my normal conversation skills fell apart, reducing me to pretty much criticizing Patrick for paying $200+ for designer jeans and complaining that I can’t afford anything in “The Rail.” Not the kinda of first meeting that you tell grandkids about, but hell, I CAN’T afford “The Rail.” $78 for a polo is just not in my budget. Oh, wait, I did buy some sweet sunglasses for $10 that can also serve as part of my Jay-Z Halloween costume, so that’s something.
But I digress. I left Nordstrom, went home, and decided that I was going to ask Diana to ask Patrick what he thought of me. And then I remember that I’m not in high school and should grow a pair. Thus, I changed my plans and decided that I would go to Nordstrom when Patrick was working and strike up another conversation with perhaps a dinner invite. I felt a little stalker-ish the next day as I asked a Rail employee when Patrick was going to be working next, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
I walked into the store on an afternoon that I knew Patrick would be there, saw him, and made my move to…the belts. I mean, I couldn’t seem too obvious, plus, they were Kenneth Cole brown/black reversibles for $25. Anyway, I got Patrick’s attention, made small talk, found out he’s a full time sociology major at UNC, and full time employee at Nordstrom. We had a quick banter about which was the truer science: psychology or sociology (psych so wins, btw), and then I asked if we could hang out sometime. He again mentioned the time constraints of school and work and then he mentioned that he doesn’t really have a cell phone—and neither do his roommates—so the best way to contact him was to call Nordstrom and leave a message for him, because he checks it often. Then Patrick gives me his card with the direct line to The Rail's phone.
Now, I don’t know if this was a convoluted brush off or a serious explanation of his current life situation—both are possible—but the fact is I basically don’t have an answer to that “does he like me” question. I will call Patrick, and I’ll let you know how it goes.
And there ends the three part series on “Warren stepping up to the plate.” Any questions, comments, suggestions?
16 October 2005
Lime-green Lacoste Polo
It’s been a busy day of studying for the GRE, running, cooking, watching “The West Wing,” and some more studying. Time Management y’all! And now, I should go to sleep, but I know you’re on pins and needles to hear about my other exploits in meeting boys, so…
Recently, I was at my new favorite study spot, Caribou Coffee, studying ye old GRE and checking out a fine member of the male species as he was studying. In our post-“Queer Eye” world, the line between straight and gay has been blurred by the meterosexual, and this guy, with his designer jeans and shoes, and a lime-green Lacoste polo, was walking the line precariously. Throughout the afternoon I tried the age-old “Eye contact” game, which is really the only game I got at this point. However, I wasn’t sure if he was playing, mostly because I’m still a novice at the sport. And now, I’m going to drop the “game/sport/playing” metaphor.
As my studying was wrapping up (i.e. my head was hurting and my eyes were glazing over) I made the bold decision: I’m going to ask him out! Now, my straight friends, you must understand the difficulty in this venture, because a wide range of outcomes are possible. He could respond with a “Yeah, sure” to a “What the hell, get outta my face you [insert unkind word here] before I kick your [other unkind words].” Some straight guys just don’t take getting hit on by another guy well, which I sorta understand. Sorta. Nevertheless, after some deep breathing and a little prayer, I made my move.
“Excuse me, I can see your studying hard, so I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner sometime?”
Shocked? Yeah, I was too, still not sure how I mustered the words to actually leave my mouth. He’s response:
“Um, thanks, but I’m not ‘that way’.”
Well, shoot. But he took it well. As my apartment mate Diana said when I told her this story, “Way to go UNC men for being open-minded.” I then left Caribou, my head a little higher because I actually just asked a guy out. It may not have turned out as I would have wished, but whatev, I did it. Plus, Peter (he told me his name, heh) knows he’s a hottie.
Next time, part 3. And here’s the kicker, I know beforehand that he’s gay. Dun dun dun.
Recently, I was at my new favorite study spot, Caribou Coffee, studying ye old GRE and checking out a fine member of the male species as he was studying. In our post-“Queer Eye” world, the line between straight and gay has been blurred by the meterosexual, and this guy, with his designer jeans and shoes, and a lime-green Lacoste polo, was walking the line precariously. Throughout the afternoon I tried the age-old “Eye contact” game, which is really the only game I got at this point. However, I wasn’t sure if he was playing, mostly because I’m still a novice at the sport. And now, I’m going to drop the “game/sport/playing” metaphor.
As my studying was wrapping up (i.e. my head was hurting and my eyes were glazing over) I made the bold decision: I’m going to ask him out! Now, my straight friends, you must understand the difficulty in this venture, because a wide range of outcomes are possible. He could respond with a “Yeah, sure” to a “What the hell, get outta my face you [insert unkind word here] before I kick your [other unkind words].” Some straight guys just don’t take getting hit on by another guy well, which I sorta understand. Sorta. Nevertheless, after some deep breathing and a little prayer, I made my move.
“Excuse me, I can see your studying hard, so I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner sometime?”
Shocked? Yeah, I was too, still not sure how I mustered the words to actually leave my mouth. He’s response:
“Um, thanks, but I’m not ‘that way’.”
Well, shoot. But he took it well. As my apartment mate Diana said when I told her this story, “Way to go UNC men for being open-minded.” I then left Caribou, my head a little higher because I actually just asked a guy out. It may not have turned out as I would have wished, but whatev, I did it. Plus, Peter (he told me his name, heh) knows he’s a hottie.
Next time, part 3. And here’s the kicker, I know beforehand that he’s gay. Dun dun dun.
14 October 2005
He calls her "SJP"...
Below are three stories of me and my flirting and gumption with the male species. A little background first.
So, here’s something that may be shocking: Columbia, SC, Furman University, and Mill Spring, NC are not the greatest places for a gay man to live. I will give credit where credit is due, Furman did have 5 out males in my senior class: go me, Jared (hi Jared!), Nick F., Ken S., and Adam B. Nevertheless, I’ve still been without a man for *cough* ever.
Now I’m here, in Chapel Hill, not exactly a gay Mecca, but certainly an area with better prospects as far as gay (boy)friends goes. For example, there’s a Gay Pride each year in Durham, the head of the Log Cabin Republicans spoke at UNC during National Coming Out Week, and this area is called “The Triangle”—ha! (If you don’t know why that last one is significant, ask me, I’ll give you a quick story about Nazis, the color pink, and the Pride movement).
So, with the potential of running into one of these “other gay people” I’ve heard so much, I’ve “stepped up to the plate” as it were.
Story 1: Friday of last week, the apartment mates and I stepped out to Speakeasy in Carrboro. It was your typical Carrboro crowd: kinda hippy, kinda funky, really chill. And in walks a guy that Diana and James both agree is the only one in the bar that is “my type”—i.e. preppy, well-dressed, cute. I try to do the eye-contact game, which is working with medium success. So, when this guy goes up to the bar, I make my way and end up standing next to him. We have a quick chat about what he’s drinking and who he is, which is John, an English/Drama double-major at UNC. Yes, English AND Drama. With that my gaydar really starts going off. Somehow—I’m still not sure how—he and his friends end up striking up conversations with me and my friends. There are six people discussing what young people discuss in bars which of course included “Sex and the City.” John expresses despair over Sarah Jessica Parker wearing a fanny pack in one episode. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of “Sex and the City,” but I don’t recall which episode John was referring to, nor do I call Sarah Jessica Parker “SJP,” but John does.
So after a detailed memory of “Sex and the City” episodes, a critique of the show’s fashion choices, revelation of nicknames for strong female icons, this English/Drama double-major introduces us to his freaking GIRLFRIEND Greer. What the hell, I mean, for real though.
So, we continue the conversations with laughs and good discussions abounding, and then the two groups go their separate ways. As we leave the bar, James remarks, “[John] was the gayest straight man ever.” It was decided that John is either in denial or hasn’t figured it out yet; but that does me no good, so the search continues.
There are two other similar adventures that I want to tell you guys about, but Battlestar Galactica is on and this post has become long enough…
So, here’s something that may be shocking: Columbia, SC, Furman University, and Mill Spring, NC are not the greatest places for a gay man to live. I will give credit where credit is due, Furman did have 5 out males in my senior class: go me, Jared (hi Jared!), Nick F., Ken S., and Adam B. Nevertheless, I’ve still been without a man for *cough* ever.
Now I’m here, in Chapel Hill, not exactly a gay Mecca, but certainly an area with better prospects as far as gay (boy)friends goes. For example, there’s a Gay Pride each year in Durham, the head of the Log Cabin Republicans spoke at UNC during National Coming Out Week, and this area is called “The Triangle”—ha! (If you don’t know why that last one is significant, ask me, I’ll give you a quick story about Nazis, the color pink, and the Pride movement).
So, with the potential of running into one of these “other gay people” I’ve heard so much, I’ve “stepped up to the plate” as it were.
Story 1: Friday of last week, the apartment mates and I stepped out to Speakeasy in Carrboro. It was your typical Carrboro crowd: kinda hippy, kinda funky, really chill. And in walks a guy that Diana and James both agree is the only one in the bar that is “my type”—i.e. preppy, well-dressed, cute. I try to do the eye-contact game, which is working with medium success. So, when this guy goes up to the bar, I make my way and end up standing next to him. We have a quick chat about what he’s drinking and who he is, which is John, an English/Drama double-major at UNC. Yes, English AND Drama. With that my gaydar really starts going off. Somehow—I’m still not sure how—he and his friends end up striking up conversations with me and my friends. There are six people discussing what young people discuss in bars which of course included “Sex and the City.” John expresses despair over Sarah Jessica Parker wearing a fanny pack in one episode. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of “Sex and the City,” but I don’t recall which episode John was referring to, nor do I call Sarah Jessica Parker “SJP,” but John does.
So after a detailed memory of “Sex and the City” episodes, a critique of the show’s fashion choices, revelation of nicknames for strong female icons, this English/Drama double-major introduces us to his freaking GIRLFRIEND Greer. What the hell, I mean, for real though.
So, we continue the conversations with laughs and good discussions abounding, and then the two groups go their separate ways. As we leave the bar, James remarks, “[John] was the gayest straight man ever.” It was decided that John is either in denial or hasn’t figured it out yet; but that does me no good, so the search continues.
There are two other similar adventures that I want to tell you guys about, but Battlestar Galactica is on and this post has become long enough…
13 October 2005
The Millennium Chapel
Big props to Nick "Skippy" C. for helping me figure out how to post the picture of me that you see to your right.
Now, to the post proper: I just wanted to tell you about the "Millennium Chapel"
If you live in or near Chapel Hill/Durham, NC, or ever visited, you'll notice there are NO tall buildings. Even downtown Durham lacks the skyscrapers of your typical American city. It's pretty much civilization behind trees, which is actually very calming. There is one exception to this rule, and it would be the building you see to your left.
Imagine, driving down a busy highway (e.g. 15-501) , and the horizon is just trees. Suddenly, out of no where, is this large, shiny, building. I swear, it's a surprise every time I pass by it.
Now, some people call this building "The Phallus" which I can understand, but come on, pretty much any tower is going to be phallic, so that's just not a good name for it. Some people call it by its real name, which is University Tower. Boring.
I call it the Millennium Chapel. Why? Well, I like to think of it as the future's solution to housing places of worship in an ever crowded metro area. Plus, with all the glass against the sky, it seems almost heavenly.
Ok, yeah, I may be a bit crazy, because, really, it's an office building. But "Millennium Chapel" is certainly better than saying, "The Phallus," ya gotta admit.
12 October 2005
Ginormous?
So last night, I left an away message up asking about the origins of "ginormous." You see, I used that word once in Chapel Hill, and the people I was with looked at me as if I just said the sky is polka-dot pink with little ribbons hanging down. However, last night, my friend Jennifer P. used it, and I had to wonder, is "ginormous" one of those words from Furman University that everyone used so much that I never realized it snucked into my daily lexicon?
So, my friend Brooklyn responded, saying she believed that Furman students did come up with the word and the Will Ferrell movie "Elf" that uses the word stole it from us. Cool little thought. But....
Now I don't know from what source that diachronic linguistic came from, but it was sent via IM from someone I respect as far as random intellectual information goes (i.e. he's smart and reads a lot). So, unless this diachronic linguistic just doesn't mention that one of the uses of "ginormous" was by a Furman alum, Brooklyn my friend, I fear we do not have the monopoly on the word "ginormous."
But hell, I can use ginormous (notice it's not in quotes anymore) without fear: it's a word dammit, and it's been in use since 1948, so EAT IT!
So, my friend Brooklyn responded, saying she believed that Furman students did come up with the word and the Will Ferrell movie "Elf" that uses the word stole it from us. Cool little thought. But....
ginormous, adj., slang: [f. GI(GANTIC a. + E)NORMOUS a.]
Very large, simply enormous; excessive in size, amount, etc. (esp. in comparison with one's expectation).
1948 in Partridge Dict. Forces' Slang. 1962 W. GRANVILLE Dict. Sailors' Slang 53/2 Ginormous, acronymous adjective descriptive of something really impressive: a brush with the enemy; a raid upon the enemy's shipping or coastline, or merely a particularly ‘heavy’ party in the mess. 1970 A. REID Confessions of Hitch-hiker vi. 45 We went to a posh café...The prices were ginormous. 1976 Scotsman 20 Nov. 10/2 How about froggies filled with pot-pourri from small to gi-normous, as Just Us describe them. 1977 Economist 8 Oct. 98/3 The state company Egam, declared bust last spring,..is going to cost considerably more than the £500 billion..earmarked by the government last June, probably a ginormous £1,700 billion. 1986 Sunday Express (Colour Suppl.) 23 Mar. 70/3 Since Brands Hatch, doors have opened and it's possible to make gi-normous money.
1948 in Partridge Dict. Forces' Slang. 1962 W. GRANVILLE Dict. Sailors' Slang 53/2 Ginormous, acronymous adjective descriptive of something really impressive: a brush with the enemy; a raid upon the enemy's shipping or coastline, or merely a particularly ‘heavy’ party in the mess. 1970 A. REID Confessions of Hitch-hiker vi. 45 We went to a posh café...The prices were ginormous. 1976 Scotsman 20 Nov. 10/2 How about froggies filled with pot-pourri from small to gi-normous, as Just Us describe them. 1977 Economist 8 Oct. 98/3 The state company Egam, declared bust last spring,..is going to cost considerably more than the £500 billion..earmarked by the government last June, probably a ginormous £1,700 billion. 1986 Sunday Express (Colour Suppl.) 23 Mar. 70/3 Since Brands Hatch, doors have opened and it's possible to make gi-normous money.
Now I don't know from what source that diachronic linguistic came from, but it was sent via IM from someone I respect as far as random intellectual information goes (i.e. he's smart and reads a lot). So, unless this diachronic linguistic just doesn't mention that one of the uses of "ginormous" was by a Furman alum, Brooklyn my friend, I fear we do not have the monopoly on the word "ginormous."
But hell, I can use ginormous (notice it's not in quotes anymore) without fear: it's a word dammit, and it's been in use since 1948, so EAT IT!
11 October 2005
What's in a name?
So, I should probably explain why I named this blog "missing lunchbox." Welp, it's a reference to John Mayer's song entitled "83":
Whatever happened to my lunchbox
When came the day that it got thrown away
And don't you think I should have had some say in that decision.
"83" is about John's nostalgia for the simpler days of life ("I wish I could be 6 again, Oh make me a red cape, I wanna be Superman", "If heaven's all we want it to be, send your prayers to me, care of 1983").
I too have a pining for the days before bills, taxes, friends who live in different time zones, graduate school applications, GREs, and boys (or lack of at the moment). I definitely wish I didn't have the knowledge of the horrors of the world: wars, the impact of natural disasters, political corruption, and Paris Hilton (yeah, cheap shot).
So, at some point, my lunchbox went missing, and I just letting you know about the resulting upheaval...
P.S. John Mayer is an artist under Columbia Records. I'm not sure how to properly note the lyrics' copyrighted status, so, um, yeah...I love John Mayer, he's the best ever, he has good songs, cool lyrics, and his record company would never sue or fine a fan!
Whatever happened to my lunchbox
When came the day that it got thrown away
And don't you think I should have had some say in that decision.
"83" is about John's nostalgia for the simpler days of life ("I wish I could be 6 again, Oh make me a red cape, I wanna be Superman", "If heaven's all we want it to be, send your prayers to me, care of 1983").
I too have a pining for the days before bills, taxes, friends who live in different time zones, graduate school applications, GREs, and boys (or lack of at the moment). I definitely wish I didn't have the knowledge of the horrors of the world: wars, the impact of natural disasters, political corruption, and Paris Hilton (yeah, cheap shot).
So, at some point, my lunchbox went missing, and I just letting you know about the resulting upheaval...
P.S. John Mayer is an artist under Columbia Records. I'm not sure how to properly note the lyrics' copyrighted status, so, um, yeah...I love John Mayer, he's the best ever, he has good songs, cool lyrics, and his record company would never sue or fine a fan!
See Ya Schroder
Today, Germany got it's new chancellor, and she's a she! (my friend Judy calls her the "chancellorina"). Indeed, weeks after the Germany people didn't give any party the majority in the Cabinet, Angela Merkel's party and the party of Gerhard Schroder (the now former chancellor) struck a compromise. Merkel's Christian Democratic Union get the "chancellorship" while Schroder's Social Democrats get control of 8 of the 14 ministries.
What does this mean for you and me. Very little so far. What I do know is it's pretty cool that the German leader is a woman. It reminds me of that episode of "Saved by the Bell" where Jessie complains that Britain has had a female leader, but America hasn't. Yep, we've had 228 years of rule by old white, rich men. Even Kennedy being Irish Catholic doesn't help America's case, we're still far behind the progressive times.
(I know what you're going to say, and no Hillary Clinton does not count as a woman president. Gosh, that joke is sooooo old.)
The other way that Germay's election affects us: we won't get to hear Gerhard Schroder's name pronounced on TV anymore. I don't know about you, but I always found his name kinda comical. I mean "Jar-hard Scrow-der," it just sounds made up.
Oh , Angela Merkel, you may be the first woman German chancellor, and you may turn out to be a pretty good one, but your name, it lacks that certain giggle quality.
(If you want an actual professional report on the election, Google it, or if you're lazy and/or you're not reading this weeks later, click this)
What does this mean for you and me. Very little so far. What I do know is it's pretty cool that the German leader is a woman. It reminds me of that episode of "Saved by the Bell" where Jessie complains that Britain has had a female leader, but America hasn't. Yep, we've had 228 years of rule by old white, rich men. Even Kennedy being Irish Catholic doesn't help America's case, we're still far behind the progressive times.
(I know what you're going to say, and no Hillary Clinton does not count as a woman president. Gosh, that joke is sooooo old.)
The other way that Germay's election affects us: we won't get to hear Gerhard Schroder's name pronounced on TV anymore. I don't know about you, but I always found his name kinda comical. I mean "Jar-hard Scrow-der," it just sounds made up.
Oh , Angela Merkel, you may be the first woman German chancellor, and you may turn out to be a pretty good one, but your name, it lacks that certain giggle quality.
(If you want an actual professional report on the election, Google it, or if you're lazy and/or you're not reading this weeks later, click this)
10 October 2005
Test
This is a test for yours truly. If you're reading this, one of three things as occured:
1. You're me...HI ME
2. You've gone to beginning of the blog. Welcome.
3. I decided not to blog, but you're still seeing this, which must mean you're so bored you decided to do that whole "let me type random things in searches and see what pops up." If this is the fact, go take a nap, it's better for you and will take up time until something interesting happens.
BTW, while I wrote the above, I fell victim to the dreaded "Insert" curse. You know the "Insert" key, upper-left hand key in that group of 6 above the arrow keys. You probably also know what happens if you press it by mistake. Trouble. Confusion. You hit backspace to correct a mistake, try to retype what you meant to say, but letters disappear as you write. It usually takes a few seconds to realize your mistake, but it's still a pain in your side for those few seconds.
My question(s): When is the "Insert" key useful? Furthermore, who uses it, why do they use it, who would want to use, and why does it even exist?
Forget "What's the meaning of Life," "Was there a magic bullet," or "Were the Red Sox cursed, or just really bad," my "Insert Key" questions are the one I want answers to!
1. You're me...HI ME
2. You've gone to beginning of the blog. Welcome.
3. I decided not to blog, but you're still seeing this, which must mean you're so bored you decided to do that whole "let me type random things in searches and see what pops up." If this is the fact, go take a nap, it's better for you and will take up time until something interesting happens.
BTW, while I wrote the above, I fell victim to the dreaded "Insert" curse. You know the "Insert" key, upper-left hand key in that group of 6 above the arrow keys. You probably also know what happens if you press it by mistake. Trouble. Confusion. You hit backspace to correct a mistake, try to retype what you meant to say, but letters disappear as you write. It usually takes a few seconds to realize your mistake, but it's still a pain in your side for those few seconds.
My question(s): When is the "Insert" key useful? Furthermore, who uses it, why do they use it, who would want to use, and why does it even exist?
Forget "What's the meaning of Life," "Was there a magic bullet," or "Were the Red Sox cursed, or just really bad," my "Insert Key" questions are the one I want answers to!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
