Outage

I found myself meditating this morning on the powerlines outside the window of the yoga studio I go to.

You know how you get that instant of amazement when the power goes out? All the sudden it's dark, no clocks, the dryer stops, everything is suddently quiet. Then a sense of adventure sets in. You get out the flash light that you only use for camping and power outages. You light candles. You start thinking of what's in the freezer that you now have the perfect excuse to eat. And this Alice in Wonderland feeliing lasts for a few hours even, maybe. Then you flip on the lightswitch by instinct and nothing happens and you think, 'of course, stupid.' You had plans, you wanted to finish the laundry and email a friend, but those things require something that you don't have. You have no idea when you might have electricity again. You have come to rely on something that is ephemeral, a system that took years to build, and you have no good alternative to it.

And imagine if the power doesn't come back on. For weeks, you are bereft. You have all these patterns of your life that no longer work. You can't watch BBC's What Not To Wear, you can't google that thing you were thinking of but couldn't remember what it was called, the microwave doesn't work so the food in the freezer is pointless, 'of course, stupid.'

You are going to have to restructure your life. You have to find another way to play music, you need to make different meals, your time has to be spent very differently. Once you've resigned yourself to being powerless, you have to be creative. The electricity is gone. You have to become a sort of survivalist. And hope that the power comes back on.

Cheap Asses

I bought a ticket to "Giselle" at the Atlanta Ballet yesterday evening ($15 for ticket, $10 for ticketmaster) then heard on the shitty NPR station (Shitty = 91.1 during the commute, 99.5 the rest of the time) that they're dancing to canned music. Ballet Karaoke. Am I homesick and bitter? Yes. But this demonstrates that this town (note deliberate use of 'town') sucks by any objective measure.

I Love Footballer's Wive$.

More than anything in my life right now.

The 1st ATL post:

9/28/06

Installed. But here’s what I still need:
• Closet system (the old CF designer in me insists upon it, and IKEA will be happy to provide it)
• Dressers
• Shelves
• Credenza (have you sensed a storage theme yet?)
• A lighting design plan (and the lights to go with it)
• That Balenciaga bag (yes, I still think about it)
• A paycheck to cover it all (that won’t arrive until the end of the month, sadly)

I’m decidedly in nesting mode. Dad drove down in the Uhaul with me on Sun-Mon. The only real excitement during the trip was the gas pump that didn’t shut off automatically and doused the side of the truck and most of the ground with unleaded. That was a nervous moment turning on the ignition. That could’ve been a Hollywood style fireball. What kind of gas pump doesn’t have the automatic shut-off nowadays? This is goddamn modern times.

The only real excitement during the move was when I was in my leasing office signing paperwork and realized that I had absolutely packed my checkbook. I had to go rushing all over town to get a cash advance and a money order. Handing over $1000 in cash in an Atlanta gas station to get a money order is something I hope never to do again.

And lately it has just been getting settled. Last night I went out with Maritime’s Roger for dinner. I love getting to co-opt M’s dates. We went to an adorable little place by my place that Roger very aptly described as ‘vegetarian comfort food.’ The downside: this cute place is being driven out of business due to the rising rents of gentrification, a process of which I now have to face up to that I’m a part.

But today, I’m in my Coffee Shop, which features a comfy, relaxed, modernist Room & Board vibe that I’m loving. What it apparently doesn’t feature is WiFi. Where’s the gentrification now? (Do I realize that I’m a terrible yuppie elitist? Yes. And I’m not proud. But I am very comfortable. And it seems that I’ll trade pride for comfort, which makes me even more despicable. I’ll just have to sooth my conscience with charitable donations and numb myself with wine. Ack, the further I go with this the more yuppie become. I’m stopping.) So I’ll have to post this at a time and place TBA.

...Or Lose Me Forever

The one peice of furniture that I will spend the most time on is proving to be the most difficult to buy. Where is my perfect bed? Is it at Select Comfort? Waiting for me with no interest and no payments for a year? Or is it at the Original Mattress Factory? With the better-than-Stearns-&-Foster construction at wholesale prices? I've been doing quite a bit of research but maybe not enough lying down. Time to put down the packing tape and do some productive resting.

The Weekend

Friday night: drinking
Saturday night: drinking
Tonight: drinking considerably less

Not at all sure that my liver will hold up under the final ten days in MSP. Not sure my heart will hold out either, leaving the loved ones behind. Last night I soothed myself with a fantastic triple creme that 'Kovsky brought to #2's place. Then we sat out under the lightning at Barbette and shared the fab Banana Nutella Crepe (without bananas, for my sake. 'Kovsky excused our order to the heartthrob waiter, saying that I didn't like potassium) and didn't get a drop of rain until our walk back. We had two conference calls with Maritime while there and it was v. close to the commraderie we've always enjoyed at our favorite little sidewalk cafe. But no costieres de nimes; it seems to go the way of white after labor day, perhaps the truest sign of autumn.

Tonight the tenor changes slightly for a viewing of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas with Blissa, Gabby, and the Redhead. I'm making pizza. Maybe even making Blissa's favorite if the squash in the market looks good. In my great debate about whether to devote my final northern days to the things I've missed or the things I've loved, the old favorites are winning in a landslide.

Two years ago around this time I had a stunning bowl of moules mariniere at A Rebours with Preston and Dan. Each one was tender, covered by a sheen of the butter-rich sauce. I savored the last one more than the first and we all sopped up the last drops, fragrant with white wine and shallots, with crusts of baguette. I knew, obviously, that they'd bring the next course, and I told myself that it would be delicious, but I didn't even want them to take the empty bowl away.

Mukluks for only $2

I'm deep in garage sale at the moment. Trying to offload as much of my crap as I can so that I can buy new crap in ATL. The TV/VCR and the wicker went right away this morning and I have high hopes for the desk and the rocking chair tomorrow. Happily, the Bubba Gump Shrip Co. cookbook went before the Susan Powter cookbook. Unhappily, I possessed both.

Here's where I'm going to live:


More specific images will appear once I have them. It was the first place I saw, and wouldn't you know it, I didn't take any interior photos. But I'm planning to take possession (which never fails to sound satanic or kinky) on the 27th, which means I'll probably do some ridiculous before and after shots of the move. Although the afters will more than likely have to wait a few pay periods so that they actually feature furniture.

PS- I have a horrible cold. I just told 'Kovsky that I sound like Eartha Kitt and he concurred.

Thank you, USTA,

for both the US Open and the new address labels you sent me. The labels will be useless in about two weeks, but I'll keep the memory of the Federer/Roddick match forever. That was some tennis. Roger Federer (do you think his friends call him R-Fed? If so, do you think he gets it? And if so, do you think it drives him crazy?) is not all that attractive. But attractive doesn't win you points in tennis. If it did, James Blake would be best player in the world.

Last night I got drunk on the phone with Maritime. It was just like old times. I see phone bills in our future. Of course I had a rager of a hangover which made me less than totally effective today. But I did send Maritime's care package, shopped for a mattress, and went through all my storage boxes at the hangar. So it could've been worse.

Let me just say that Midwest Airlines is an absolute pleasure to fly. My four flights this weekend were hands down the best commercial airline experience I've ever had. Every single seat in all their aircraft is one of those large, leather, first class jobbies! And leg room! And warm chocolate chip cookies! The only downside is that you have to connect through Milwaukee for basically every flight. The background on that is that it started out as Kimberly-Clark's corporate travel department (the headquarters being in Milwaukee) and evolved into a full service airline. But don't let the 'waukee get in the way of enjoying Midwest next time you take to the skies. It'll be worth it, I swear.

I'm just going to admit from the get-go that this is going to be pure stream of consciousness because I'm too buzy/lazy to edit and craft. If you haven't seen the new Vogue, you should, because the Annie Leibovitz photographed Kirsten Dunst in versailles, and it's pretty amazing. I'm leaving for ATL tomorrow to find an apt. It's going to be a marathon day sat. of nothing but driving and talking to rental agents. Woo hoo. No, I'm excited to find a place and go into nesting mode. I still have to work out some sort of schedule for the next three weeks or I know I'm going to end up missing spending time with the people I want to spend time with. And I'm torn between wanting to visit all my favorite MSP haunts and wanting to check things off my list of places I've always planned on going but somehow never managed to actually go. I think that the 'where should M live' contest has ground to a halt. I jumped the gun posting those places and now I've found like 8 better (I think) ones but just don't have the time or inclination to post them. Sorry folks, I'll post pictures of the place I eventually get. Oh, shit, I have to get a new passport sometime soon. Because I can't find the thing to save my soul and I want to do it pre-ATL while I still know where the County Service Center is. I did get a few things checked off my pre-move checklist this week but I still have to take the Audi in for a mechanical spruce-up. Its got this weird thing with its temperature gauge where it thinks its -50 degrees below zero and so it shuts the AC off to protect me. It's thoughtful, but not cool. And the overhead light doesn't work anymore. And there's a strange, expensive-sounding groaning coming out of the front end. And the check engine light is permanently on. I know that all of this sounds incredibly ominous, but trust me, it's not on its last legs by a long shot. I'm losing the fashion fantasy league. It's not pretty. I'm trailing the leader by nearly 600 points. Yikes. I think I may be the FFL version of those rare racehorses who come on strong in the last straightaway. For me, that straightaway is called the Oscars. Had dinner and drinks last night with Blissa and Gabby on the rooftop of Brits. Their Welsh Rarebit is not so good, fyi. Get the samosas. I also dropped into the Sam's Wine Shop tasting beforehand and am now the proud owner of a nice Viognier that I'm going to drink with friends as a goodbye to MSP. Just don't know when that'll be exactly. Okay, I have to be productive for real now. I just remembered that I was supposed to drop a helicopter adaptor cable by UPS yesterday and totally failed to do it.

Things I Saw in Toronto

- A B-25
- The inside of a little Russian plane called the Sukhoi
- An airshow featuring the above planes and then some
- Hotels that I would have preferred to be staying at
- A cargo ship being loaded while I waited to board a dinner cruise
- Food served on boats is always bad, always
- You can't leave a dinner cruise early
- The totality of the TO transportation aparatus
- The most gorgeous Balenciaga bag!
- The wisdom of not spending nearly a month's salary on said bag
- The Campbell House, one of the oldest buildings in Toronto
- Two homeless guys greco-roman wrestling

It was quite a trip.

(BTW, Mara vetoed numbers two and four in the rental contest on the basis of location. I'll keep searching and repost with better choices later.)

Rock the Vote

In honor of internet contests everywhere, I'm holding a vote for where I should live for the next year.* I could potentially move into the following:

1. This place, http://atlanta.craigslist.org/apa/201608040.html (no, I can't hyperlink, I understand that it's annoying.)
2. This other place, http://atlanta.craigslist.org/apa/201506282.html
3. Here, http://atlanta.craigslist.org/apa/200495947.html
4. There, http://atlanta.craigslist.org/apa/202362563.html

Cast your ballots in the comments section.

*No guarantees that I will actually move into the apartment that gets the highest number of votes. (Lawyers, I'll let you put that into fancy-schmance legalese.)

I Won the Match in Three

Looks like this girl is moving to ATL.

I got a decent offer from a great company and with a little negotiating/finessing later today, I think I'm going to accept. So here's to the end of the tennis metaphors. Now on to winding down with the family business, packing, moving, etc.

Here's a list of things that I'm looking forward to buying with my newfound salary and benefits:

- A bed. A really good one. And new linens to go with it.
- A new handbag. Perhaps some gorgeous little Celine number.
- A trip to the dentist. I'm overdue.
- A trip to Vietnam. Pressie is in.
- A new hat from Lilliput. I'm going to Toronto tomorrow, so why not? Plus, don't Southerners love hats?
- A bit of laser hair removal. Wouldn't it be lovely not to ever have to worry about it again?
- A trailer ball for the Audi. To haul a wee trailer of my worldly goods down past the Mason-Dixon.
- A new Netflix membership. I've missed adding random Italian movies to my queue.
- A ton of stationary. Since I'll be far away, I can indulge in my favorite hobby of letter-writing to far off loved ones.

Ah, change.

Pressie is officially stateside! I talked to him today and will see him sunday at the latest. After the loss of Maritime, this is the best possible news. When I actually get to talk to him I shall have one proposition to put forward: Vietnam. Not that we get involved in any sort of protracted police action, but that we go as tourists for fun. It's being French-speaking certainly adds to its appeal, but it's also ridiculously cheap, I'm told, and full of wonderful dining, shopping, etc. In short, it's our perfect vacation (Mazatlan Spring Break not included, wink wink).

But now for a lyrical send-off for my dear, departed (not dead) friend:

Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

Big Sam left Seattle in the year of '92,
With George Pratt, his partner, and brother, Billy, too.
They crossed the Yukon River and found the bonanza gold.
Below that old white mountain just a little south-east of Nome.

Sam crossed the majestic mountains to the valleys far below.
He talked to his team of huskies as he mushed on through the snow.
With the northern lights a-running wild in the land of the midnight sun,
Yes, Sam McCord was a mighty man in the year of nineteen-one.

Where the river is winding,
Big nuggets they're finding.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

George turned to Sam with his gold in his hand,
Said: "Sam you're a-lookin'at a lonely, lonely man.
"I'd trade all the gold that's buried in this land,
"For one small band of gold to place on sweet little Ginnie's hand.

"'Cos a man needs a woman to love him all the time.
"Remember, Sam, a true love is so hard to find.
"I'd build for my Ginnie, a honeymoon home.
"Below that old white mountain just a little south-east of Nome."

Where the river is winding,
Big nuggets they're finding.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.
North to Alaska,
They're goin' North, the rush is on.

Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)
Way up north, (North To Alaska.)

Jonesing for a Cessna 172

If The Instructor doesn't call me back, I won't know if I can go to N. MN tomorrow and continue to learn how to fly. In the City World, hereafter referred to as NORMAL, we call people back. Typically right after recieving a voicemail from them. It is how society functions. In NORMAL, we realize that communication is essential to ongoing commerce and the perpetuation of the Capitalist system. I should probably leave economic systems out of it, though. I'm sure urban Communists have an equally difficult time getting their rural commrades to call them back.

Got back from ATL today. My general sense from the two interviews is that I am currently akin to a top seed in the US Open. But I won't know for sure for the next few weeks. Fingers crossed, friends, this one needs a job.

Oh, let's take some time to rant about flying commercially and how unremittingly stupid the general public is.

1. I get that you're a nervous flyer, old guy, but just because they had to unload some baggage to stay under gross weight isn't a sign that we'll go down in a fiery mass of twisted metal. So stay on the goddamn plane.

2. Moustachioed woman, move your church group/marine recruits away from the escalator. Is marshalling frightened and frightening teens through an overly complex airport process difficult? Sure. But the escalator is not going to stop depositing people at the top even if twelve of your slack-jawed charges are blocking any egress. That's why I just tripped over that expectant mother.

3. The spilled liquid by the security checkpoint: Estee Lauder Gentle Eye Makeup Remover for all skin types, or liquid explosive that smells exactly like Estee Lauder Gentle Eye Makeup Remover for all skin types? You be the judge, HAZMAT Team.

4. Signs that your children are ready for air travel, mother of four: when they are eighteen - or - when they have no vocal cords or limbs.

5. To at least eight people, including my seatmates: I'm giving you monosyllabic answers or nods, even occasionally while wearing earplugs, because I don't want to talk to you or hear anything you have to say.

6. Guess what, TSA! I'll take the terrorists any day of the week. Now give me my shoes back before I contract something fungal.

[Seriously, I'm far more concerned about the devastation of an athlete's foot pandemic than anything terrorists could think up. Wait... maybe that was the plan all along. We are literally walking right into that one.]


I just read through this post and there's absolutely no way that this sucker isn't getting flagged for reading by some poor, beleaguered Homeland Security employee. Sorry, guy or gal. But look on the bright side: you get paid to look at the internet all day. And I'm sure you have some really funny anecdotes that will have people buying you drinks for years to come.

PS- on the off chance you decide to tap my phone after this (legally or not) would you mind sending me a tape (or maybe a .wav file, I'm not sure how far your technological capabilities have come) of my voice sped up to Alvin Chipmunk speed? I would just get a kick out of that.

It wasn't that bad.

The 80's themed wedding was pretty enjoyable, actually. I discovered that even though I look like a chubby nine-year-old in a leotard, there's something very freeing about being in essentially a swimsuit when everyone else around you is fully dressed. There's absolutely no room for posing. Your ass is hanging out, you gotta own it. The girls from the Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video, George Michael a la "Faith", and the white guy channeling Michael Jackson were real highlights. I suspect my off-the-cuff maid of honor speech was not. I closed with: "May you have all the time in the world to do justice to all the love in your hearts." Seriously. It was almost as inspired as the time I pleaded explosive diahrrea to get out of a social engagement.

Just got back from a vacation I could take again and again and again. Maritime and her family opened up thier arms and I fell right into thier gracious cabin hospitality. We hiked, introduced the boys to Mille Bornes, and had fabulous meals up and down the north shore. I am now on very intimate terms with Gitchi Gumi both in and out of a kayak. It was the perfect break and a chance for great conversations about life with someone who knows what she's talking about.

Now to sort it all out in my little corner of reality...

They call us 'Citiots'

Finally back. I didn't actually solo due to lack of a medical certificate (they like to know that you won't stop suddenly while flying) and marginal weather. But I did have my first actual in-flight emergency! We were 3 mi. north of the Brainerd airport when I smelled a suspicious burning smell. We couldn't at first diagnose it, but when the Instructor saw a little billow of smoke rise up from under the transponder, she very efficiently and capably declared an emergency and landed. The Brainerd rescue team (I think his name is Don) wasn't exactly Johnny-on-the-spot. Or should it be Donny-on-the-spot in this case? Anyway, it took the guy like 5-10 minutes to roll up in his truck after we landed and were standing, by correct emergency procedures, 50' upwind of the airplane. You hope that announcing that your plane is potentially on fire would have a more galvanizing effect on emergency rescue personnel. All was fine in the end, just a transponder that thought it was a toaster.

The major highlight of being back home so far (and only b/c I haven't yet seen Maritime, Kovsky, or #2): vegetables. I don't know what Northern Minnesota's problem is because they grow plenty of them, but they sure aren't eating many. The entire 4.5 days I was there the only vegetable (and I use the term loosely) I had unless you count pickles was Iceburg lettuce. Seriously, just the bad lettuce and pickles. My colon put the brakes on fast, if you get my meaning. My entire digestive system was thrown for a total loop. And I am developping a theory that long-term constipation, the product of years, even decades without sufficient vegetable intake, results in decorating with tchotchkies and 'collectables'. The Instructor's grandmother's house was like one of those German/Scandanavian restaurant/gift shops. Every single box of tissues was in some sort of cozy. It was like some sort of urgent, snot-driven, Where's Waldo search everytime I needed to blow my nose. And in that sort of frilly environment, just because something has a plume of white material coming out of the top doesn't necessarily mean that it's a kleenex. One cozy was a scale replica of the couch. I'm not even kidding.

Oh! And here's an illustrative tidbit about small-town Northern MN life: I went to the 'fancy' restaurant in town (I can recommend the breaded cheese and black olive mixture) and the entryway glass display case featured a dreamcatcher with a little patch in the middle that simply said 'Diabetes'. It was presented by the Lions Club. There are so many layers to explore in that even aside from the higher incidence of diabetes in both Native Americans and Lions Club members. An absolute dreamcatcher. I'm still just amazed by the whole thing.

Actual Training

Off I go to the wilds of Northern Minnesota to learn once and for all how to fly a plane. Actually, flying is not hard at all, it's the landing that's difficult. There's a double meaning in that. But if I belabor the aviation-as-life metaphor any more I think I'll drive my few readers away en masse.

The goal by the end of this week is to take off, fly, and (keep your fingers crossed, here's the tricky part) land an airplane all by myself. I am trying to be calm and collected and totally nonchalant about this prospect to show how pragmatic and put-together I am. The reality is that I am simultaneously thrilled to death and scared shitless. Which, upon further reflection, would make me cadaver with a clean colon. Wow, what's with my blog and scatology?

Into the wild blue yonder,

M

Game, Set, and...

To carry on with the career-search-as-tennis-match thing: I returned some pretty tough serves and volleys today and think I've at least pushed it into a third set. I wish I could pump a raquet in the air or something to demonstrate my satisfaction with the interview. How weird is it that everything else on the blog has some sort of aviation metaphor, but when it comes time for me to talk about getting a job in aviation I retreat into tennis? And every sport (with the possible exception of midget bowling) lends itself to fairly facile metaphors and similes. I should really have been trying harder. I apologize. But I probably won't stop, so don't bother getting your hopes up.

Ooh, my replacement phone just came!

Satelite Inc. is located in Minneapolis. We can be proud.

There’s nothing like four days of using a port-o-let to raise questions about your fellow man.

First, based on my experience of the past few days, I feel confident that even without a penis I can control the stream of my urine with far more accuracy than most men. Why do they allow their pee to stray so far from the goal? Is it just laziness bred by the knowledge that neither they nor their relatives will ever have to go near it again? Is a port-o-let urinal the broadest target possible? No. But come on, gents. Let’s try to keep it in the general vicinity, huh?

Second, which budding young Basquiats are willing to spend enough time in a port-o-let to draw two people doing it doggy style? I can see scrawling a few initials or maybe one of those anarchy signs, but two-dimensional sexual diagrams? That’s a time commitment. And here’s the kicker: in this particular port-o-let I saw not just one couple going at it, but two! Was this one perfectionist, unhappy enough with the first drawing to remain in a stinking, 90 degree port-o-let to capture more nuance in a second draft? Or did the first graffito inspire a second artiste? If so, was it an ego-driven, “I can top that hack” sort of thing, or was it a more thoughtful commentary on the other one? Like, “I see where my predecessor was coming from, but I think the post-post-modern doggy-style world is crying out for more expression (and bigger noses) on the participants faces.” The mind boggles.

Third, what are people eating? Let’s just all admit, first of all, that a port-o-let gives you no choice but to look at other people’s poo. And I can honestly say that if anything looking like that came out of my body, I would freak out. Are these people on a steady diet of nothing but meat, spray cheese, and Metamucil? Is it IBS? Has it been like that for so long that they aren’t concerned? Because from what I’ve seen, there are hundreds of people out there that desperately need to get in to see an internist.

One thing’s for sure: I love the sound of a flushing toilet.