I Bet This Really Attracts the Ladies

Saw a license plate in my office garage yesterday that made me stop and take note:

UNIX GRU

The guy, and I'm sure it's a guy, might as well get a plate that says:

HUGE DRK

Life's Too Short to...

I was talking to my mom a few months back about drinking good coffee. I don't drink cheap coffee -- if it's not good stuff, I'll stick to my earl grey tea.

"Life's too short to drink bad coffee," I said.

"Or eat bad chocolate," she replied.

After a moment, she thought about her sister, my Aunt Patty, and added, "Patty would say, '...or drink bad wine.' "

What's on your "life's too short" list?

Vicious Cucumbers

We're harvesting a bumper crop of cucumbers in our tiny townhouse backyard. Apparently this tropical vegetable does very well in the steamy heat of a DC summer.

Did you know cucumbers have thorns? It's their natural protection. I had no idea. You never see them because they get pulled off before they go to the grocery store. Check it out.

Fish Guy

Before my uncle died, he had a custom salt water tropical fish tank installed in his foyer. They hired a fish guy to maintain their tank. He's a self-employed marine biologist with a passion for fish tanks and their occupants.

After the fish guy's first visit, my aunt saw to her great dismay that my uncle had written the check to "Fish Guy."

"How are they going to cash a check made out to 'Fish Guy'?" she demanded. "I can't believe you did that! That is so embarrassing. Can't you ask the guy his name?" My uncle waited until she was done excoriating him, and then informed her that the name of the company was actually "Fish Guy."

The family continues to employ Fish Guy for tank maintenance. One night last week, the pump abruptly stopped working. My cousin Tara made the call:

Tara: "Fish Guy, we got problems."

Fish Guy: "Talk to me, T. Talk to me."

Tara: "It's not good, Fish Guy. It's not good."

The exuberant Fish Guy arrived for an emergency visit first thing the next morning. He took care of the problems in no time at all, at a cost of $300/parts, $100/labor.

It must be great to be able to support yourself doing something you love.

It reminded me of part of a song called "Twin Rocks, Oregon" by Shawn Mullins, about a stranger he meets at a rest stop.

Well, I told him I too had been travelin around
livin out of my van from town to town
playin for tips and whatever records I could move

I said "I don't reckon I'll be makin it big.
You know it's hard to get rich
doing coffee house gigs."
And he said "yeah, but ain't it a blessing
to do what you want to do."

And I told him "yeah, I pulled off here
to watch the sun disappear into the ocean
`cause it's been years since I smelled this salty sea"
and he turned his bottle up and down
he saw me lost and he saw me found.
And I said
"I don't know what I've been looking for, maybe me."

A Night With the Homies in NYC

Thursday night, I stopped in NYC on my way home from the Hamptons to have dinner and catch up with a few of my homies. We went to Pete's, a pub I once frequented, and we hung out for several hours.

I stayed in a hotel on the water in Jersey City (nice hotel, guaranteed parking, good deal through Hotwire). When I got back late that night after seeing my friends, I stood by the darkened Hudson River for a while and watched the lights of downtown Manhattan. I saw my old office building (the one with the square roof in the far right of the photo). Next to it, I saw the missing World Trade Center in my mind's eye.

On September 10, 2001, I left my office building musing about how my life had turned into the movie Groundhog Day. Every day seemed the same. At work, I sent out the same newsletters every day at generally the same time. I saw no logical path for advancement, and the managing editor's attitude toward me leaned toward disinterest. Walking to and from work, I always saw the same people. The pretzel/hot dog guy was always there. So was the fruit guy. I saw the same mother with a stroller nearly every day. The same crowds moved in the same directions. As usual that evening, I glared at the Marriott World Trade Center, from which my bag had been stolen months earlier as I sat at the bar (and whose security staff had been obstructionist and uncooperative), and I wished for the hotel's destruction.

I never went back to that office. The next morning, the Marriott World Trade Center (among other buildings) was indeed destroyed. My workplace moved "temporarily" to central New Jersey, and after six months, I couldn't take the commute anymore, so I quit and moved to DC for graduate school. File this all under "be careful what you wish for."

But now, I'm not sure where I belong. At times, I feel like a displaced person. I can't imagine that DC will become my home. I was born in New England, grew up in Pennsylvania, went to college in Upstate New York, lived in NYC, and here I am in DC. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe there's no need to define myself by where I live.

What do you think?

Hello From the Beach

Greetings from the Hamptons. I'm here visiting relatives for the week.

Today, on the side of the road, I saw a shoe. But not just an old sneaker.

I'm pretty sure this was a suede Gucci loafer.

It's a whole different world out here.

Puppy Playdate

My friend Mary brought her cocker spaniel Beaufort over to play yesterday. He and Wendy seemed to get along well:


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