Poster Child

I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or creeped out. Senior year of college my buddy Danny made a movie called Senioritis. I played a character afflicted with this unfortunate disease, and can be seen on the poster trying to choose between a beer and a diploma. (As it turns out, you can have both.)

The movie was a shit-ton of fun to work on, and turned out pretty entertaining. It still ranks below Los Zombies on my list, but that's a pretty tough flick to beat. Anyway, it was a pretty great experience for the spring of senior year spring, and is remembered fondly. But apparently it is following me.

My 16-year-old cousin pointed out at Christmas that there was a group on the new social networking site TheFacebook called 'Senioritis,' with the movie poster as its icon. Naturally, I had to see for myself. Lo and behold, there is not just one, but perhaps a dozen or so groups with a senioritis theme featuring the poster of the classic Irrational Film. Ferris Bueller's face shows up a few times, but not as often as mine own glorious visage. One gentleman even took the time to photoshop his face onto the picture, claiming to be "The Face of Senioritis." Well, Jared Cohen, Vanderbilt University Class of 2011, you are sorely mistaken.

It is I who am the face of senioritis.

Sincerely,
HotCollegeGrad2004

P.S. I would like to thank Danny, who has been responsible for most of the reasons any people think I am neat.
P.P.S. Help help, I'm being kidnapped!
P.P.P.S. Shut up I'll fucking kill you.

Ooh, my first follow-up!

You may remember my rant on the reckless manner with which we throw around the term "porn star" these days. Well, it appears somebody was paying attention.

From the Chicago Tribune, via the AP:

"EL DORADO, Kan. - A man suspected in the slaying of a college student who led a secret life as an Internet porn performer was arrested Wednesday in Mexico, authorities said....The disappearance of the Butler Community College student drew nationwide attention after the discovery that she also led a secret life as an Internet pornography model named Zoey Zane."

Just remember, kids, anyone can make a difference.

Suckers!

There's a big bowl of lollipops (aka "suckers," apparently) in the break room at work. Free for all to take. I'm not usually a lollipop person. It's not that I don't like them. I do. But you'll never see me go into a store and pick up some lollipops. Not even for Halloween. There's too much stuff out there that's better. Still, if you put out a big bowl of those tiny ones in a million flavors, I will probably have one.

Well, in the last two days I've had at least eight or nine lollipops. The same could be said for the other guys who shared my edit suite. They are just addictive. This caused Jared to confess today out of the blue, "Man, we're going nuts with these suckers. I could never work in a bank."

Something about that statement makes me giggle every ten minutes or so. Don't know why.

I could never work in a bank.

Welcome to The Future

You don't have a flying car yet. Furniture has to be delivered, instead of instantly materializing from a personal constructoPod. And dogs still can't talk.

But I got my invite to Hulu today, and it's pretty cool. Because of things like this:



And there are hundreds of other episodes of other shows that are actually worth seeing. They're at high resolution, and it doesn't take a year to load. You can even cut a show down into a short clip to post on your site to highlight a particularly awesome moment (I would have done that here, but this entire episode warrants watching). And no, they aren't paying me to write this. I'm just that excited.

Yes, there are commercials, but this 22-minute show has 45 seconds of ads. I can deal with that, especially if the product is free. They might just be on to something here.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to catch up on some Alfred Hitchcock Presents from the 1950s. I may never go outside again.

Yesterday's News: A Trip Down Memory Lane

This just in.

(c)Sumithrin 2003

Why'd it have to be snakes?

Must...fight...urge...can't...help...it...

BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL!!!



Surely I'm not the only person making this connection. They must really be grabbing at any kind of 80's nostalgia they can find. I wonder if Shia LaBeouf will be wearing a slap bracelet.

Game's the same, just got more fierce.

Today was a good day:

1. Some very good friends guaranteed a most excellent New Year's celebration in a few weeks. I am eternally grateful and look forward to many Philly blunts.

B - I am getting ready to tear through season 4 of The Wire. Anxiously waiting to see what happens with Barksdale and Bell out of the picture.

III) After a week of sitting back and observing editors, I finally cut a bunch of packages at work tonight. We brought the tapes in, finished the story in 10-20 minutes, and the whole thing aired shortly thereafter. Compare that to the Nixon and socialism documentaries that I worked on and then waited a year or two before they were broadcast. And the good thing is, any mistakes I may have made are very quickly forgotten with the next day's news. Too bad I don't make mistakes.


This blog could be a lot more interesting. But it's not.

Deep Thoughts

The one thing that sucks about living alone is when you leave a truly glorious work of art in the crapper, there's nobody to show it to.

[This posting is purely hypothetical and is not related to anything that transpired in the last ten minutes.]

We need to talk.

Well, Unemployment, it's been a roller-coaster 159 days. We've had our good times and our bad times. I remember when we first met, I didn't know where to start. It was such a new feeling. One I'd been looking forward to for years, but still entirely unfamiliar.

Not knowing what to do at first, I found some distractions. Went for some long bike rides. Explored some foreign lands. Got a new limb on the family tree. Moved far, far away. Ate a lot of hamburgers and drank a lot of beers. But eventually I realized our relationship (and my savings account) could not last forever.

So, Unemployment, I'm leaving you. Or rather, I'm kicking you out. I would like your bags to be packed by the time I leave the house tomorrow. Please don't forget to take your Fritos, your Price is Right, and your crowd-free mid-day trips to the grocery store. I have no use for them anymore. I will be holding onto sleeping late for the time being, though. Unfinished business.

We did have some great days, you and I. Remember the week we discovered the glory of free D.C. pools? Or the time we walked three miles in the brutal summer heat to the Natural History Museum just to look at the giant sloths one last time? These are pleasant memories that I shall cherish always. But lately, you've just been getting on my nerves. You're in the way. Preventing me from being all that I can be. And that just won't work. So it's time to say goodbye.

We both know there's always a chance we'll run into each other in the future. But please, let's keep that contact brief. We owe it to ourselves to stay apart and see what kind of lives we can lead on our own. Just know that deep down inside, I do miss you.

We'll always have Meat Cove.

Yes, Virginia, there is a difference...

We live in an unfortunate time. It is difficult these days to access any real news about our planet's events without having to sift through a whole lot of garbage that, while important to a handful of people, doesn't affect the other 5.9999992 billion of us. At CNN.com right now, some of the "Latest News" in bold at the top of the page includes "Armed Bobby Knight contests a shot," "Surgery over; Youssif's biggest scar removed," "Fugitive gloats on Web about her wild life," and of course, "Body found in search for Internet porn star." Is this really necessary?

Don't get me wrong; I have appropriate amounts of sympathy and disdain for whatever the staff at CNN.com wants me to have. News is a business, and if those are the stories that make the money and put food on Ted Turner's table, I won't begrudge him that. But I do object to the casualty with which the term "porn star" is tossed around these days. I would venture to say it is bandied about willy-nilly even more than Donna's tunnel back in Slough. Being a porn star used to mean something. Now anybody who takes their clothes off and shoves some cocks in a hole or two deserves to make the cover of a shitty magazine that I gloss over while waiting to pay for my groceries? Not that this would happen, but CNN.com would certainly have us believe it. What a sad state of affairs. Everybody knows those tabloid covers are reserved for actual movie stars, celebrity murderers and the elusive Bat Boy.

Anyway...

The woman in question here is a college student who "appeared nude on a popular adult Web site under the name Zoey Zane." Understandable. College is expensive, and the internet is an important source of entertainment for millions. Well, this woman disappeared last week and her dead body was found today, fifty miles away. This is obviously a horrible tragedy for her family, friends and the entire community. But does the rest of the world benefit from hearing about it?

And more importantly (to me), was she a porn star? Methinks not. Just by appearing in pornography (on the lowly internet, no less. ha!) she should not automatically be granted star status. When did being a nude model or XXX actor turn into being a porn star? Let's not put these people on a pedestal, OK? Do we not belittle the efforts of such pioneers as Jenna Jameson, Ron Jeremy and GWslutGetsFucked when we lazily devalue their moniker and lump them in with second-rate donkey show laser disc performers? We the public need to hold our porn stars to a higher standard than that.

Appearing as "Polka Dancer" in Groundhog Day might have been a good career move for Regina Prokop, but it didn't make her a star. Ambition, hard work and a whole lot of blowjobs make someone a star. And tragic as this woman's story is (Zoey Zane, not Regina Prokop), she was no porn star. Or at least, that's what people are saying. I've never even heard of porn.

For what it's worth, a little bird named Imdb told me Regina Prokop went on to small parts in such hits as Rudy and With Honors, and has had a fairly successful career as an extras casting assistant. Kudos to you, Regina!

I will leave you with this:

Bubbles

Checked out the big Macy's downtown yesterday. The one that used to be Marshall Fields until recently, and all the locals got real upset cause they changed the name or some shit. There was an F.A.O. Schwartz floor with all sorts of gigantic stuff animals for sale, including a 10-foot-long dragon for about $11,000. There was also a gumball machine. We popped in a quarter and turned the knob, and a gumball popped out. Turned the knob again and another gumball showed up. We turned the knob a bunch more and took home like a dozen gumballs, in addition to the gigantic mouthful I had stuffed into my gullet.

That's about it. I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.

That's O for Outstanding, Sixty-Nine.

I noticed that most of the posts on this blog tend to have little editor's notes at the bottom. While that's all right once in a while, to do it all the time is pretty weak. I'll try to refrain in the future.

Not much news to report. I bought a fire extinguisher at K-Mart today, because I already told the insurance company I had one. I also told them there's a Renoir in my hallway. Shh.

Also went to a place around the corner called Flash Taco. Guess what they serve there. Bottom line: real cheap, real fast, real dull. I think it's because they used flour tortillas instead of corn tortillas, which actually have a taste to them. But I might have those confused. Whichever tortillas don't have a taste, those are the ones they use. It was less than delightful, but I'm not sure what I expected from a place with plasma screens showing Ricky Martin's latest greatest hits.

Last night we went to an event at the Museum of Contemporary Art called 'Bingo Tango.' It's exactly what you think. Emceed by a man who seemed to be a retired figure skater on speed auditioning for NPR, the bingo balls were called by Smokey from The Big Lebowski (you know, the guy who wouldn't mark it zero). We shared a table with an older woman named Tracy (Christie and Liz think her name was Tammy, but it was actually Tracy), and played bingo games "inspired by art pieces in the MCA collection" such as Wedge Bench. Riveting. There was also a game inspired by a painting of two dicks crossing each other and peeing simultaneously. I forget the title, but it had something to do with being completely inappropriate to look at during bingo. Anyway, in between games, a smoldering couple entertained us with their hot tango dance moves. Hence the name Bingo Tango. And there was a group lesson too. We chose to look at the art during the group lesson, thankfully.

Several bingo winners were actually told to tango before they could collect their prize (Brian Boitano's idea, obviously). One woman had taken lessons before, and she did not fail to impress. Several others were forced into extremely awkward moments, particularly the large woman who said she did not participate in the group lesson and did not want to dance in front of a hundred strangers. Once it became clear that she was on the verge of crying or punching Olympic gold-medalist Oksana Baiul, he relented and she got her prize. This host was not fun. He made me dread the idea of winning at bingo, and I'm sure I wasn't alone. He asked one "winner" named Assaf where his funny name came from, and when the answer was Israel, Tara Lipinski raised her arms in the air and spun, humming the theme from Fiddler on the Roof. In a Tim Watley-esque move, he claimed that it was OK to make jokes, since he's jewish himself. His last name is Pickleman or something, which we obviously found shocking.

Unfortunately for Liz, she won a game towards the end of the evening. Michelle Kwan was able to get her to reveal that we are new to Chicago from Washington, and I'd swear there were some hisses from the crowd as the ice princess described how evil our last home is. Liz was spared complete humiliation, thankfully, as Dorothy Hamill got distractedy by some shiny things and continued with the bingotango. Liz's prize, if you were wondering, was some sort of tiny plastic alien thingy. Maybe a pencil sharpener?

I know Bingo Tango at a museum might not sound like a thrilling way to spend a Tuesday night. Our friend Cams disappeared about halfway through, for example. But it was a nice, cheap (free) way to get out of the house and pretend to have some culture. Not too shabby.

P.S. I don't think the prospect of BingoTango would actually get me out of the house. If I hadn't already been downtown at a job interview, I probably would have missed out on the event altogether. Which would have also been fine.

P.P.S. Not sure if I'm impressed or embarrassed to know so many names of figure skaters. Still, there it is.

P.P.P.S. Dammit.

...is that all there is...

This blog might not have been a good idea. It took me only a month to fall into lazily posting depressing and crude videos. Some might say a lot has happened since the last post. I got an Illinois driver's license and insurance for the first car I've ever owned. I saw two very good movies. I learned a few songs on a mostly-broken guitar. I found out said guitar was unrepairable for less than several C-notes. Ate a deep-dish pizza as well as something called a Grapple. It's pronounced "grape-ul", and is created by dunking a perfectly fine fuji apple in melted grape-flavored Jolly Ranchers. But I digress. Thank goodness nobody is reading this.

Do you really care about my journey into some new life that's magically supposed to be better than the one I had six months ago? How stupid was I to think a new city would instantly cure all the old issues that nagged at this pitiful soul? I remember warning myself, specifically thinking that there could be no cure-all. Yet here I am, several hundred miles away from 99% of the People That Matter. With all the same old bullshit and some new crap added in. And no money. No matter where you go, you take yourself and your problems with you. Genius. I should write bumper stickers.

On the up side, I walked more than 7 miles since this afternoon. On the down side, it was because I didn't have any place to be. Have you seen the Seinfeld where Elaine tells the telephone company guy in her apartment that she could have killed him and nobody would have noticeed?

I'm not drunk, nor close to it. Sort of wish I were. That might take a bit of the sting away, and I could simply be watching some South Park rerun right now, slowly succumbing to a comfortable celery-colored couch. Sure, there have been some good times. But for every hour spent at a bar chock-full of Redskins jerseys or at a concert full of tunes that'll make you happy to be alive, there are countless days spent in this basement apartment staring at a computer screen that refuses to display any job that I can be remotely interested in or qualified for.

Tomorrow will be a completely different day, I'm sure. But right now, the phrase that pays is What's The Use?

Sincerely,
Danny Lite (or Heavy, as it were.)

Editor's note: After re-reading this entry, I decided that maybe shit really isn't that bad. Apparently a decent way to cheer yourself up is to make a list of things that are good. Who knew? The youtube armpit-fart trick works nicely too. Back to South Park.

Newsflash

If you ever need to be cheered up a little, do a youtube search for armpit farting. I dare you not to laugh.



Also entertaining is king of the armpit farts.

Note: I did not conduct this search myself. But a link came up whilst watching an old Atari commercial and I couldn't resist. How could I still be unemployed?

Get ready to get depressed

What does it say about our country when this clip seems to come from a much simpler time? How horrible of a human being am I for having the initial urge to laugh at this man's sincerity? How did we get so incredibly far away from this? Does anyone actually remember what it was like to be proud to be an American?





Think happy thoughts.

Nobody ever said this would be easy

I haven't been in the job market for long. Granted, my last day at work was more than four months ago, but due to various circumstances the full-fledged job hunt just got started on Monday. I've sent out a bunch of resumes and made a crapload of phone calls this week, but I know it's just the beginning. Four days really isn't much.

But I just called a woman to follow up and make sure she got my resume, and see if there was anything else I could do to prove I was right for the job. She said there wasn't much I could do yet. But eventually she'll be in touch, as there are one hundred fifty applicants to sort through. As in, take ten people and then another ten people and do that another thirteen times. That's how many folks are also interested in the same job. And I'm not even really qualified for it in the first place.

Expect an I.O.U. for Christmas this year.

Note: The above image was lifted from someone else's post about the unemployment line. He's 41 years-old and has been turned town for 112 jobs in four months. In my case, that would mean there are still 37 other people (of the 150) to compete with for work I don't really want to do anyway.

Still Waiting for my Candy Corn, DCist...

Halloween in Washington is full of mouth-breathers wearing Flying-Spaghetti-Monster costumes and dumbasses wearing a suit with crutches and a nametag claiming they're Scooter Libby. Oh, you are so clever! Cause we're in DC and you dressed up like the news! Granted, there were always awesome costumes like astronauts and robots and sexyairlinestewardesses, but the shitty political douchebagery always angered me to no end. It's like, this is the one night a year to pretend you are anything on the planet and dress up as awesomely as possible, and you chose to kiss up to your boss. Perhaps that's why I left earlier this month. Didn't want to deal with the hundreds of geniuses no doubt wandering around DC this weekend dressed as a senator in a bathroom stall.

Here in Chicago, I met Ash from Army of Darkness last night, as well as all the kids from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Timmy the Tampon, a soccer match streaker, the Swedish Chef and the Geico caveman. Not exactly leaps and bounds better than what you'd encounter at The Guards or Tom-Tom, but it's a healthy start. There was also a large bald bouncer-type who put on a suit and said he was a senator, but somehow even that seemed cool. Some things are universal, I guess.

P.S. Don't get me wrong. Halloweens in DC were always fucking awesome, despite the crapfaces I mentioned. Where else could someone wear a bear suit on the subway during Monday morning rush hour and not elicit a single remark or glance? Maybe I just miss Fight Club.

P.P.S. I go to college! Professors did this to me!

Feeling Sheepish

It has been brought to my attention that a gnu is a wildebeest, a type of African antelope. A gnu is not a large flightless bird related to the ostrich or emu, as I have apparently believed for quite a few years. I apologize for any confusion this may have caused, and resolve to do my best to enhance species awareness throughout the Chicagoland area. Use them or lose them, folks.

Is Celery a Color?

My new couch arrived this morning. It's a Jennifer Convertibles Flounder model, whatever that means. Fish usually isn't my first choice on the menu. And while it may pale in comparison to The Most Incredible Couch In The Universe (see: Big Cat's ex-girlfriend's uber-sofa), it's still pretty great. Please do not be upset if this blog goes stale while I spend the next month lounging and watching reruns of Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.

What's a job search?

We'll Do It Again

In a little while, I'll be setting out alone from my parents' house back to Illinois. If nobody hears from me in Chicago by Wednesday, look for news reports along Interstate 80 about a handsome twenty-something wearing a Corn Mo shirt in an exploded 1996 Toyota Corolla without a clock.


UPDATE (9:07 pm, central daylight time)
826.0 miles. 12 hours and 47 minutes. Two gas/coffee/pee stops. One angry Cleveland radio host predicting a Game 8 ALCS victory.

Final score:
Corn Mo 1, exploded car 0.

Monkey Business

I met my nephew when he was five days old. We hung out for about a week, and had a blast. He pooped whenever I'd hold him. There was an occasional spit-up or gurgle, and I think he opened his eyes a couple times, too. But there was always poop. Like clockwork. Uncle Time was Poopy Time. And holy zita he was good at Poopy Time. Most infants are, I'm sure. But he had something special. Indescribable, but there was something intrinsically mind-blowing about the bond we shared as I cradled him and he eagerly released his bowels, not dissimilar to an upturned ketchup bottle reacting after the elusive perfect hit. It doesn't take a rocket surgeon to know this was fun times for both sides.

I went back home when he was twelve days old, and didn't see him until this weekend, his three-month birthday. That means that in August, we had known each other for more than half of his life. But now, he'd spent more than 90% of his life without his long-lost uncle (yes, I did the calculations). Meeting new doctors, friends, strangers-on-the-street, nosey neighbors with spatulas, crackheads screaming at blue dragons made of pudding on the street, etc. My glorious visage was a completely unfamiliar face to his now-always-open steely gray eyes.

Still, every time I hold him, I can tell he remembers me. And how do I know that we are once again sharing a magical moment of togetherness? He poops.

My Kind of Town?

In moving to Chicago without a set of wheels, I've used Zipcar a couple times for various purposes. And both times, there was a CD left in the deck for my listening pleasure. The Toyota Tacoma had a compilation that I've named "Moving Day Mix Tape" and the Honda Element had an album by a band called Mute Math. Both CDs are pretty great and I'm excited to have them in my collection. Even more, I'm excited to return the favor. Or more accurately, to pay it forward. If you have suggestions for an album or themed-mix-CD to leave in my next Zipcar, let me know.

Something else: on Yelp.com, they let you know a place sucks by saying it's "full of Chads." Having been to Sweaty's and Tom-Tom's a few times back in the day, I know what they're talking about, and I know where to avoid in my search for the perfect neighborhood watering hole. "Fuck that bar, it's full of Chads." Apologies to Chad Nalick and Chad Pennington, two childhood pals from Candlelight Drive who are more than welcome to come and hang out if anybody knows where they are.

Our second night in town, we were by Wicker Park and I was trying to go off on my own and visit some friends in Lincoln Square to the north. As we sat on the side of Damen Avenue, maps spread out in our RAV4 with DC plates, a man came to the window saying something. Rather than open the window, we used our DC logic and assumed he wanted money or to sniper us. A few moments later, another man approached and started talking. Because he looked slightly less murderous, I opened the window. He asked if we were lost and needed help. The other gentleman also was offering help. After I explained the situation, the first man dialed a number on his phone, and handed it to me. "Tell them what you are trying to do." The guy had called the Chicago Transit Authority ride guide and lent me his phone. We got directions and got on our way. Feeling only slightly sheepish. Would these people have stopped to help random strangers in a car on the street in DC? I think not. Chicago is OK in my book.

Also, there is also a house two blocks away from me with a real cannon in the front yard. Unfortunately, it's behind an iron-wrought fence. Dammit.

Back to the Zipcar, I bought something at the Salvation Army that had to be tied to the top of the Honda Element. When I asked the guy inside if they had any twine I could steal, he said he'd meet me at the car. Three minutes later, the guy comes out with about a dozen neckties. He uses his Eagle Scout (or whatever they have where he came from -- it's not America) training to fashion two long ropes, and ties down my shit lickety split. It was amazing, and I'm using the neckties to construct a shrine in my apartment to the helpful people of Chicago. They are very nice.

There is no way in hell I will ever fit in here.

Drink your water, eat your sandwich.

You wanted pictures of my new apartment, you got 'em! It's my lovely garden apartment on Schiller Street, in the comfy Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago.

Please note, I made the place extra messy. When you visit, expect much less shit all over the place. Also, a couch.





















You're welcome!

P.S. The lovely ladies who graciously allowed me to stay at their house while I searched for this Xanadu have also entered the world wide bloggernet. And their blog is a lot cooler and sexier than my blog. But I have cable. Check out The Ugliest House on the Block.

You can stop looking! They are no longer available.

Do you remember Mr. Phipp's Pretzel Chips? I used to eat them at the beach on a blanket under my parents' huge umbrella. Not just a fond memory of childhood. Perhaps the greatest snack ever created. Flat disks made of just the outside part of the pretzel, coated with salt, they were crunchy and delicious and you could eat about 500 of them and still be amused. If you've had them, you know what I mean. Otherwise, kindly accept this pity I am sending you.

Walking down the grocery aisle today I wondered if they were still available, and a quick visit to HometownFavorites.com confirmed my worst fears. Mr. Phipp's Pretzel Chips are out of print. No more eating them. Ever. Beanie Weenies and Hot Pockets keep on chugging along, but we have to go the rest of our lives without the fantastical salty crunchiness of Mr. Phipp's magical creation? This is the definition of bogus. Very bogus indeed.

Fare thee well, Mr. Phipps. You shall be missed.

P.S. Chicago is pretty cool. I'll write something about it soon, probably. But please allow several days of private mourning for the Snack of my Youth.

Original Home of Jumbo Slice and Free Pop

Long story short: we packed three people's worldly possessions into a sixteen-foot Penske, drove 800 miles, and unloaded everything in a couple hours. I slept on my own mattress last night, on the floor of a small third bedroom in my friends' new Logan Square apartment. The three of us are experiencing more-than-minor pain after the extreme driving and lifting of the past few days. Needless to say, we're walking funny.

Twenty-four hours after arriving at the place, it's still mostly a mess, but starting to show signs of homeyness. The futon is upright. The bathroom has soap. My computer is on a desk, using magical internet. It's nice, but not perfect. Not yet. It's not my house. Soon I will have one, and it will be glorious.

The word of the day is overwhelmed. Between apartment-searching, job-hunting and starting/finishing up some freelance work, there's a lot to worry about. But I have pizza in my belly and the sun is shining, so all is right in the world. For now.

One thing I can tell you is you got to be free

I've been a fan of emus for a while. They never seem to get as much press or credit as that show-off, the ostrich. There were a bunch of emus on a farm down the street from where I grew up. Trapped behind an electric fence (for their protection or ours?), they must have yearned to be free. I try and visit whenever I go back to the old homestead, hoping each time that they will have been emancipated. Alas, they seem fated to remain on the farm just off Route 520.

Since the emus cannot roam where they wish, I shall take it upon myself to wander. Said goodbye to New Jersey when I left for college, and I've been in Washington ever since. Spent four years in school, three years working, and the last three months just fucking around. It's been a pretty fun seven years.

I'm not naive enough to think I've seen, heard, smelled, felt or tasted half of what this town has to offer. But I've done my share of living here, from the tiny bubble of a GW dorm room with a locked balcony door looking out to the Watergate, to...

• far-away Orioles (and eventually Nats) games
• astoundingly-incredible-packed-to-the-brim 9:30 shows
  
• 3am chili cheeseburgers at Ben's
• the Mount Vernon pool
• riding a bike hundreds of miles all over the place
• a burgled Columbia Heights row house
• ending up at IHOP at like 5am, after feasting at the Georgetown Diner
  
• rooftop swimming
  
• open-mic night at Staccato
• peeing in strangers' trash cans
  
• half-price burgers, pizza, grilled cheese, beers, etc
• editing "fuck" out of the BBC's shit
• having the highest fingers in all of West Virginia
  
• Midnight Breakfast
  
• Ocean City skee-ball trips
• mid-afternoon strolls to the Natural History Museum's giant sloths
• Richard Nixon
• napping on the White House porch at 2am
  
• the Chinatown bus
  
• singing with Tony Bennett
• Charlie the jack russell
  
• all-day barbecues/beer pong
• mono-ridden pirate puppets
• that magical morning we drove to Dogfish Head for the first time
  
• Bedrock Billards
• Shoppers' Club macaroni salad
  
• hula-panka
  
• dressing up like a bear
• Cabreeeeeeera or Baaaaarrrrrrrry or Langerhaaaaaans in left field
• singing while serving strangers' supper
• making lego-animated astronaut musical short films

...to gaining thousands of teenage fans and international notoriety using the lamest form of entertainment ever created. The laser show was right, something did happen here! But that's all about to change.

In about thirty-six hours, two friends and I will pack up a truck and head to Chicago. None of us really know what we're going to do when we get there. None have jobs. Two have an apartment. The other is me. Leaving an entire life behind in DC is pretty tough, but I'm sure the Midwest holds some cool shit. And it'll certainly be a change. Washington has a funny effect on people, and if I don't leave now, I don't think I'll ever get out. It's time to free myself of the East Coast.

I owe it to the emus.