I came across one of those "what does your birthdate mean" websites. Normally I treat them with a very large grain of salt, because they say stuff that's applicable to just about anyone ("you like being praised, you like food, you hate it when bad stuff happens"). But I found this one surprisingly accurate.
Your Birthdate: June 7
You are an island. You don't need anyone else to make you happy.
And though you see yourself as a loner, people are drawn to you.
Deep and sensitive, you tend to impress others with your insights.
You also tend to be psychic - so listen to that inner voice!
Your strength: Your self sufficiency
Your weakness: You despise authority
Your power color: Maroon
Your power symbol: Hammer
Your power month: July
I was having a conversation with a coworker a few years ago about the fact that I really can't stand being around large groups of people, even though I'd like to be able to do so, and hey, going out usually tends to be more fun when you're in a group. And she replied that while yeah, groups are fine, my situation wasn't so bad. Specifically, she pointed out, most people are utterly incapable of doing the smallest, simplest things in their life without a group of people, and that it really spoke well of me that I was self-reliant like that. What she said really made me sit down and think, because I never noticed what she was describing until that moment. Yeah, there really are a lot of people who can't bear the thought of: living alone, getting groceries alone, going to work alone, or just going out alone once in a while. But yeah, I've always been a bit of a loner. Though I'm honestly trying to change, at least to a certain degree.
Okay, now looking at the results in more detail: I really prefer to be self-sufficient, but since entering the working world, I've gotten a lot better about teamwork. I HATE authority figures with a passion. Anyone actively seeking out a position of leadership is someone I automatically consider to be suspect: no one seeks power for altruistic reasons--they seek power to further their own ambitions, and I'd just as soon not like to get caught on the shit end of that. That's probably why I don't care for some of the people I meet in DC. They're all buddy-buddy, but they won't hesitate to crawl over their own mother for a nickel (while doing so badly dressed, I might add...). Now, I'm not talking about cases like work or the army... you need authority figures and leadership in these situations, and I'm really not railing against those. The absolute WORST authority figures are the ones that start to emerge in amorphous group settings. Like you're stuck with some kind of group project (this seems to be the new pedagogy in grad school) and someone tries to become the de facto leader. Naturally I rise to the challenge. After all, doesn't every good leader need a good foil? You know, someone to put him through his paces... really make him earn his stripes.
To be fair, I've also had the complete opposite happen, and it sucks just as hard... the one who needs to make sure everyone's voice is heard. Again and again and again. I was working in one group assigment, and one of the women volunteered to be the point person and take our individual submissions and turn them into a finished product. Cool. But she kept on emailing the team, urging us to get together "just to make sure everyone's on board." I think someone finally emailed her and politely told her that some of us work full time, and if everything looked okay, there really wasn't a need to take time out of our busy schedules for one long group hug.
Maroon. Hmm... why couldn't it have been turquoise or teal? Hey, I'll even pick something in the same color family, like magenta. Or mauve? I just like saying mauve. But okay, I can deal.
July. That's a mixed bag. I like long summer days, but I hate DC's sucky summer humidity. I can't go for more than a block without wilting.
Hammer. Okay, that's a pretty cool symbol. I'll gladly take it :)
Friday, July 13, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
An infrequent update
You know, I swore when I set out to write this thing, I’d make it a point to update it every other day (at least!). Now, my entries seem to run about every week or so.
But I’m finding out that’s actually a good thing! It wasn’t until all that long ago that my free time consisted of me sitting on my ass, drinking beer, and berating the fact that I didn’t DO anything with my life. Yeah, do nothing and piss and moan that I did nothing, and leaving it at that. Getting up to actually go DO something required me to get off my ass, put down the beer, and go through the effort of finding someplace to actually go to. Nah, too much effort, but not like I let that fact stop me from feeling down.
But ever since the breakup, I’ve been somewhat of a man in motion. As much as I hate to say it, I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. No, don’t worry… I’m not talking suicide. I just got to thinking an awful lot about that post-breakup stuff everyone goes through, mainly “Am I gonna die alone?” I mean, if someone gave my eulogy, what the hell would they say? Jason, yeah… well, he really liked fried chicken.
No. I’ve been getting tired of pissing my life away. Aside from the laziness, there was one other factor that’s been holding me back: I really don’t like going out to restaurants, bars, theaters, etc. by myself. And to be honest, I really don’t know many people by me. My area is fairly transient. Mostly, it’s young people who eventually get married and get a house further out in Virginia. But these past few weeks, I’ve been getting more and more restless, and have been willing to step out of my comfort zone in an effort to actually get out and participate in life. Which leads me to the next part of this entry:
Living and dying in Georgetown.
I went out on a date this past Friday. Since she was a sport and came out all the way to Clarendon (she lives in DC) before, I thought it was only fitting for me to make the trek out to see her for our second date. She wanted to go see Ratatouille, and that was cool by me. But I’ve been to the Gallery Place theater before, and I absolutely hated it: the layout, the patrons, the employees. It was a trifecta of why I hate going to the movies. She was reading my vibe and suggested the theater in Georgetown.
I don’t know how well a job I did in disguising my apprehension. You see, Georgetown and I have this silent, running agreement to disagree. I don’t like Georgetown, and Georgetown doesn’t like me. Allow me to explain.
First, it ain’t Metro accessible. I mean, you CAN walk from the closest Metro station to Georgetown, but unless you’re going during that one-week window in the Fall or Spring, you’ll enter Georgetown like a big, sweaty Legionnaire, crawling back to Fort Zinderneuf through the desert after his detachment was ambushed by natives and he was left for dead. The vultures circling overhead. The mirage on the horizon. You get the idea. And bus schedules scare the living snot out of me. Did you ever see that episode of the Simpsons where Lisa took a bus for the first time? Yeah, I was afraid of getting on the wrong bus and ending up in the boonies. I didn’t wanna get off at Airport Access Road or Crackton. I personally find the DC bus schedules confusing as all getout.
Also, I’ve heard enough stories about the preppy, yuppie types to etch a permanent aura of disapproval in my brain. You know, popped collars, trust fund tarts in high heels they can’t even walk in, Greek letters on shirts as far as the eye can see. Surplus humanity, baby!
But the desire for human companionship will lead a man to do strange things. In this case, learning how to take the damn bus. I was all set to shell out for a cab, but realized a $10 cab ride vs. a $1 bus ride was pretty stupid unless I was in some sort of a rush. And given DC’s absolutely foul July weather, walking was most definitely out of the question.
But then, I remembered the DC Circulator. It’s a bus company that runs limited routes throughout the city. I had remembered seeing an ad by them in the past, and got the impression that the bus made one giant loop from Union Station to Georgetown and back (which it did). After reviewing the world’s most simple bus schedule, I was ready to make the trek.
And I had a great time! I was really enjoying the company of the woman I was seeing, the movie was absolutely wonderful, and most of all, I knew if I could do this once, I could damn well do it again.
So yeah, I went back to see Ratatouille again on Saturday. And then I lingered. As I came out of the theater, I realized that it was only a little after 1pm. Was I really in a hurry to get home? To do what? Make the same usual lunch for myself, have a beer or two, take a nap, and then get up and do, well, nothing?
No! I was determined this Saturday would be different. As I left the theater, I noticed there was a park right across the street, and I could see the Potomac from the theater’s steps. So I crossed the street and just chilled out and watched the boats go past on the river, and even saw a catfish. I felt very, very calm, and as the sun shone down and the warm wind blew over me, I felt a certain peace I haven’t felt for some time.
I then headed back into Georgetown proper. Coming up one of the side streets, I spotted a French café that I just knew I had to check out at some point. It was very… quaint.
Let me explain. Have you ever seen pictures of Paris or Buenos Aires where, as you’re looking down a long boulevard, you see a small, tiny, out of the way bistro on one of the side streets? Who goes there? What are their stories? Yeah, that’s the goofy stuff I think about, and it all came crashing into my brain as I walked past the canal bridge and saw the restaurant for the first time. I was really tempted to go in, but I actually had decent food waiting for me at home, so I’ll just have to chalk up going here for another time.
Went into Dean and Deluca. I yelped about this already, so I’ll just give you the capsule review. It sucked. Overpriced and underperformed. I mean, it wasn’t so bad that I’d be opposed to buying something, but none of the employees seemed willing to go over and help someone (or even ask if there was something they could do for them). Screw that. Plus, as I was leaving, I noticed someone coming up to the door and held it open for them, and the douchebag didn’t even have the common courtesy to say thanks, nod, smile, anything. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t want some sort of medal for opening the door, and I don’t do it to stroke my own ego… it’s simply a courteous thing to do. But Sir Douchealot of the House of RayBan didn’t even acknowledge my presence—just walked right on by as if I was the bloody doorman. Probably drives a BMW!
So I thought I’d just saunter down M Street and eventually catch the bus back. Man, walking down M Street is evil! First off, the sidewalks are narrow, but that doesn’t stop people from walking three or four abreast. And it’s a mix of all the types of people who I’d just as soon not have cluttering up the street, like it’s amateur day at the local sidewalk. Fatass Midwestern tourists with bad hair, Dale Earnhardt shirts, and fanny packs intermixing with Daddy’s Little Bimbos who feel that a cobblestone/brick sidewalk is the PERFECT place to strut around in high heels they don’t even know how to freakin’ walk in, in turn intermixing with foreign tourists, the kind who have this perpetual confused look plastered on them, like they just got out of bed.
Don’t get me wrong… I’ll certainly be back here to check out some of the restaurants, and pending somewhat decent weather, may even come back this Saturday. But it won’t be a regular occurrence. I’m trying to take a more Zen-like approach to life right now, and I swear I was ready to pop a blood vessel down M Street.
Interestingly enough, while out for lunch with two of my coworkers, one of them echoed many of the same sentiments, so it’s nice to know it’s not just me.
Oh, and as I was taking the bus back, we passed a woman with a popped collar. Oh, the humanity. I hope she doesn’t vote or plan to have children. Yeah, wishful thinking!
But I’m finding out that’s actually a good thing! It wasn’t until all that long ago that my free time consisted of me sitting on my ass, drinking beer, and berating the fact that I didn’t DO anything with my life. Yeah, do nothing and piss and moan that I did nothing, and leaving it at that. Getting up to actually go DO something required me to get off my ass, put down the beer, and go through the effort of finding someplace to actually go to. Nah, too much effort, but not like I let that fact stop me from feeling down.
But ever since the breakup, I’ve been somewhat of a man in motion. As much as I hate to say it, I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. No, don’t worry… I’m not talking suicide. I just got to thinking an awful lot about that post-breakup stuff everyone goes through, mainly “Am I gonna die alone?” I mean, if someone gave my eulogy, what the hell would they say? Jason, yeah… well, he really liked fried chicken.
No. I’ve been getting tired of pissing my life away. Aside from the laziness, there was one other factor that’s been holding me back: I really don’t like going out to restaurants, bars, theaters, etc. by myself. And to be honest, I really don’t know many people by me. My area is fairly transient. Mostly, it’s young people who eventually get married and get a house further out in Virginia. But these past few weeks, I’ve been getting more and more restless, and have been willing to step out of my comfort zone in an effort to actually get out and participate in life. Which leads me to the next part of this entry:
Living and dying in Georgetown.
I went out on a date this past Friday. Since she was a sport and came out all the way to Clarendon (she lives in DC) before, I thought it was only fitting for me to make the trek out to see her for our second date. She wanted to go see Ratatouille, and that was cool by me. But I’ve been to the Gallery Place theater before, and I absolutely hated it: the layout, the patrons, the employees. It was a trifecta of why I hate going to the movies. She was reading my vibe and suggested the theater in Georgetown.
I don’t know how well a job I did in disguising my apprehension. You see, Georgetown and I have this silent, running agreement to disagree. I don’t like Georgetown, and Georgetown doesn’t like me. Allow me to explain.
First, it ain’t Metro accessible. I mean, you CAN walk from the closest Metro station to Georgetown, but unless you’re going during that one-week window in the Fall or Spring, you’ll enter Georgetown like a big, sweaty Legionnaire, crawling back to Fort Zinderneuf through the desert after his detachment was ambushed by natives and he was left for dead. The vultures circling overhead. The mirage on the horizon. You get the idea. And bus schedules scare the living snot out of me. Did you ever see that episode of the Simpsons where Lisa took a bus for the first time? Yeah, I was afraid of getting on the wrong bus and ending up in the boonies. I didn’t wanna get off at Airport Access Road or Crackton. I personally find the DC bus schedules confusing as all getout.
Also, I’ve heard enough stories about the preppy, yuppie types to etch a permanent aura of disapproval in my brain. You know, popped collars, trust fund tarts in high heels they can’t even walk in, Greek letters on shirts as far as the eye can see. Surplus humanity, baby!
But the desire for human companionship will lead a man to do strange things. In this case, learning how to take the damn bus. I was all set to shell out for a cab, but realized a $10 cab ride vs. a $1 bus ride was pretty stupid unless I was in some sort of a rush. And given DC’s absolutely foul July weather, walking was most definitely out of the question.
But then, I remembered the DC Circulator. It’s a bus company that runs limited routes throughout the city. I had remembered seeing an ad by them in the past, and got the impression that the bus made one giant loop from Union Station to Georgetown and back (which it did). After reviewing the world’s most simple bus schedule, I was ready to make the trek.
And I had a great time! I was really enjoying the company of the woman I was seeing, the movie was absolutely wonderful, and most of all, I knew if I could do this once, I could damn well do it again.
So yeah, I went back to see Ratatouille again on Saturday. And then I lingered. As I came out of the theater, I realized that it was only a little after 1pm. Was I really in a hurry to get home? To do what? Make the same usual lunch for myself, have a beer or two, take a nap, and then get up and do, well, nothing?
No! I was determined this Saturday would be different. As I left the theater, I noticed there was a park right across the street, and I could see the Potomac from the theater’s steps. So I crossed the street and just chilled out and watched the boats go past on the river, and even saw a catfish. I felt very, very calm, and as the sun shone down and the warm wind blew over me, I felt a certain peace I haven’t felt for some time.
I then headed back into Georgetown proper. Coming up one of the side streets, I spotted a French café that I just knew I had to check out at some point. It was very… quaint.
Let me explain. Have you ever seen pictures of Paris or Buenos Aires where, as you’re looking down a long boulevard, you see a small, tiny, out of the way bistro on one of the side streets? Who goes there? What are their stories? Yeah, that’s the goofy stuff I think about, and it all came crashing into my brain as I walked past the canal bridge and saw the restaurant for the first time. I was really tempted to go in, but I actually had decent food waiting for me at home, so I’ll just have to chalk up going here for another time.
Went into Dean and Deluca. I yelped about this already, so I’ll just give you the capsule review. It sucked. Overpriced and underperformed. I mean, it wasn’t so bad that I’d be opposed to buying something, but none of the employees seemed willing to go over and help someone (or even ask if there was something they could do for them). Screw that. Plus, as I was leaving, I noticed someone coming up to the door and held it open for them, and the douchebag didn’t even have the common courtesy to say thanks, nod, smile, anything. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t want some sort of medal for opening the door, and I don’t do it to stroke my own ego… it’s simply a courteous thing to do. But Sir Douchealot of the House of RayBan didn’t even acknowledge my presence—just walked right on by as if I was the bloody doorman. Probably drives a BMW!
So I thought I’d just saunter down M Street and eventually catch the bus back. Man, walking down M Street is evil! First off, the sidewalks are narrow, but that doesn’t stop people from walking three or four abreast. And it’s a mix of all the types of people who I’d just as soon not have cluttering up the street, like it’s amateur day at the local sidewalk. Fatass Midwestern tourists with bad hair, Dale Earnhardt shirts, and fanny packs intermixing with Daddy’s Little Bimbos who feel that a cobblestone/brick sidewalk is the PERFECT place to strut around in high heels they don’t even know how to freakin’ walk in, in turn intermixing with foreign tourists, the kind who have this perpetual confused look plastered on them, like they just got out of bed.
Don’t get me wrong… I’ll certainly be back here to check out some of the restaurants, and pending somewhat decent weather, may even come back this Saturday. But it won’t be a regular occurrence. I’m trying to take a more Zen-like approach to life right now, and I swear I was ready to pop a blood vessel down M Street.
Interestingly enough, while out for lunch with two of my coworkers, one of them echoed many of the same sentiments, so it’s nice to know it’s not just me.
Oh, and as I was taking the bus back, we passed a woman with a popped collar. Oh, the humanity. I hope she doesn’t vote or plan to have children. Yeah, wishful thinking!
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