One of the few things that unites all Washingtonians, from hyper-competitive workaholic fucks working for some schmuck Congressslug to burnt-out government cogs who think formal officewear consists of hiking boots and one of those stupidass fedora things, is hatred of the Metro system.
Seething, teeming hatred of the Metro system. It's like a rite of passage. And the greatest thing is you (yes you!) can join in on the hate, even if you've been in DC for all of 40 minutes. Go ahead and vent. We'll jump in with you!* We're pathetic because we have absofuckinglutely NO team spirit, no local pride whatsoever.
So in the spirit of bitching and not doing anything to, you know, do anything about it, please enjoy this rant (I'm sure it'll be the first in a series) about my gripes with the Metro.
The Ballston station escalator repairs: How many months has this been going on? Are they like antique East German escalators or something? You know what? Don't refurbish them. You do it every goddamned three years (or so it seems) just to do it again. A Metro escalator is kind of like one of those rotating cake trays in a diner. Only instead of rotating strawberry shorcake and cheesecake, it rotates complete and utter failure! Learn to accept when you've been beaten, and just leave them off permanently.
*This usually holds true, but once in a blue moon, you'll get someone who overhears a good old fashioned Metrorail rant and pipes in with "Well, I dunno about that (*scratches chin and looks off into the distance*). I've been to (*rattles off about 20 cities he's been to*), and I must say that I think we've got it pretty good in DC."
Hit him. Hit him hard. And do it again. Think of every setback you've had in life, and imagine that hitting him will rectify all that. That promotion you didn't get? That boyfriend you didn't get because he went out with the pompom slut in high school? It's ALL this guy's fault, and taking a crack at him will feel better than a five minute bowel movement.
Ever see one of those movies where some henchman gets sent to take out the good guy and gets his ass handed to him? And how there's a scene where the henchman just got worked over by the bad guy's bodyguards 'cause he fucked up? And how the bad guy says something like "you've just failed me for the last time"? And how the henchman has that petrified look in his eyes, like he knows for absolute certain he's gonna find out the awful truth about how hot dogs are made?
You need to make this guy tremble like that guy. Only don't tell me about it. I don't wanna be an accessory or anything.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I need to play some video games... like, soon.
When I was a pre-teen, nothing came between me and my Nintendo Entertainment System. We were inseperable. I was good to it, and it was good to me.*
I'd flip nearly every cartridge I'd get within a few weeks, and was always screwing around on it, as evidenced by my D-lightful report cards during high school (when I was in school, and away from my Nintendo, I'd bust out the Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks in class. How I never got stuffed in a locker is beyond my reckoning). Hell, I never even bothered with strategy guides for the most part (though I was a dedicated Nintendo Power reader). I played games like a MAN plays games, dammit. Trial and error. Lost? I didn't know the meaning of the word. You get lost, you hack and slash your way until you find out where you're supposed to go. What, you don't like experience points?
Somewhere along the way, all that changed. I got rid of the NES back in 1993 or so and never picked up a new system. When I got my first apartment back in 1999, one of the first things I went out and bought was a Sony Playstation. I barely had any other furniture for the apartment, but I had no qualms in dropping $300 on a Playstation and some games.
"Hey baby, glad I could talk you into coming home with me. Want something to drink? Uh, I don't have any glasses. Sorry. Wanna snuggle on my couch? Er... funny story about my couch. I don't have one.
Baby?!? Where ya goin'? Call me!"
I got some mileage out of that Playstation, but I also noticed, in my haste to make up for lost time since I last had a console, I was picking up games at a pace that far exceeded my ability (or desire) to beat them.
Things have gotten steadily worse. I bought a Nintendo Gamecube a few years ago when the Resident Evil remake came out. Resident Evil is one of my favoritest franchises EVAR, and as it came out as a Nintendo exclusive, I bought the system just for that reason. I now have about 20 Gamecube titles, most of which I haven't spent more than half an hour screwing around with.
I've since bought a used PS2 and Xbox on the cheap, and dammit if I don't have more games than I know what to do with. And it's not like I'm a hoarder or anything. I buy games with every intention of playing them, and they just collect dust.
One game that I actually have taken a liking to (to the point where I've actually played it twice in the same week) is Dance Dance Revolution. It's fun, and it has the added bonus of actually getting me off my ass and doing some semblance of cardio (I used to be a gym rat until a year ago, at which point I stopped exercising completely). My only fear is that my inherent lack of agility isn't bothering my downstairs neighbors with repetitive stomping (I'm sure I look like Hermann Goering jackbooting his way through "Move Your Feet") at 11 o'clock in the evening.
*I wasn't nearly as good to my games, though. Throwning the cartridge down the hall was a perfectly acceptable way of showing my frustration with Ninja Gaiden. Hell, one time I was so pissed after having my ass handed to me in Snake's Revenge (shitty, unofficial Metal Gear sequel on the NES), I decided throwing it down on the nice, carpeted floor was too good for it. I proceeded to go outside and scuff the cartridge to shit on the pavement. I've mellowed out considerably since 1990, just so you know.
I'd flip nearly every cartridge I'd get within a few weeks, and was always screwing around on it, as evidenced by my D-lightful report cards during high school (when I was in school, and away from my Nintendo, I'd bust out the Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks in class. How I never got stuffed in a locker is beyond my reckoning). Hell, I never even bothered with strategy guides for the most part (though I was a dedicated Nintendo Power reader). I played games like a MAN plays games, dammit. Trial and error. Lost? I didn't know the meaning of the word. You get lost, you hack and slash your way until you find out where you're supposed to go. What, you don't like experience points?
Somewhere along the way, all that changed. I got rid of the NES back in 1993 or so and never picked up a new system. When I got my first apartment back in 1999, one of the first things I went out and bought was a Sony Playstation. I barely had any other furniture for the apartment, but I had no qualms in dropping $300 on a Playstation and some games.
"Hey baby, glad I could talk you into coming home with me. Want something to drink? Uh, I don't have any glasses. Sorry. Wanna snuggle on my couch? Er... funny story about my couch. I don't have one.
Baby?!? Where ya goin'? Call me!"
I got some mileage out of that Playstation, but I also noticed, in my haste to make up for lost time since I last had a console, I was picking up games at a pace that far exceeded my ability (or desire) to beat them.
Things have gotten steadily worse. I bought a Nintendo Gamecube a few years ago when the Resident Evil remake came out. Resident Evil is one of my favoritest franchises EVAR, and as it came out as a Nintendo exclusive, I bought the system just for that reason. I now have about 20 Gamecube titles, most of which I haven't spent more than half an hour screwing around with.
I've since bought a used PS2 and Xbox on the cheap, and dammit if I don't have more games than I know what to do with. And it's not like I'm a hoarder or anything. I buy games with every intention of playing them, and they just collect dust.
One game that I actually have taken a liking to (to the point where I've actually played it twice in the same week) is Dance Dance Revolution. It's fun, and it has the added bonus of actually getting me off my ass and doing some semblance of cardio (I used to be a gym rat until a year ago, at which point I stopped exercising completely). My only fear is that my inherent lack of agility isn't bothering my downstairs neighbors with repetitive stomping (I'm sure I look like Hermann Goering jackbooting his way through "Move Your Feet") at 11 o'clock in the evening.
*I wasn't nearly as good to my games, though. Throwning the cartridge down the hall was a perfectly acceptable way of showing my frustration with Ninja Gaiden. Hell, one time I was so pissed after having my ass handed to me in Snake's Revenge (shitty, unofficial Metal Gear sequel on the NES), I decided throwing it down on the nice, carpeted floor was too good for it. I proceeded to go outside and scuff the cartridge to shit on the pavement. I've mellowed out considerably since 1990, just so you know.
If your religion explicitly states you're going to Hell for seeing my dick, you should probably major in something other than art!
It's been almost a year since I started doing the modeling thing, and I have to say it's been quite rewarding.
And I've also made the mental transition from "OMG I'm naked in front of strangers" to "OMG it's 8:30pm and all I want to do is finish up this pose so I can go home and crash."
It's also given me a renewed sense of self confidence. Now you have to be comfortable in your own skin to stand up naked in front of a bunch of people you don't know, but it was always on stage in front of people. Like six to 10 feet in front of you. Until one fateful Saturday morning in November, that is.
I roll up to the classroom about 20 minutes early and the security guard points out the classroom. The first thing I notice is that the room is small. Very small. About half the size of the classrooms at the location I normally model in. The next thing I notice is that there isn't a stage like I normally had available. Nope, just a teeny, tiny podium about two feet high and maybe three feet square. And it was in the CENTER of the room. Not up front.
I was going to have people looking at my naked body from all sides! And about three feet away. Gulp!
And it went fine! Everything was totally relaxed, and the only time I got nervous was when my legs went to sleep and I was afraid I'd fall over. I even got compliments from some of the students, thanking me for modeling for them :)
On the subway ride home, I reflected on this and realized that art students have probably seen the naked form as often as some creepy, raincoad-clad perv in an adult bookstore. And since they're obviously cool with it, I should just relax and have fun. After all, I've noticed that the more involved I am in the class (picking up on their energy and responding accordingly), the more I think the students get out of it. Who wants someone busting out dull poses for three hours?
And then something weird happened to me.
No, I didn't get an erection in class. No, I didn't bump into someone who recognized me. It was far more... interesting. A few months ago, I got a call from the art school. They needed a model that very night. As luck had it, I had my modeling kit (just a duffel bag with a robe, flip-flops, a timer, a book, and some other miscellaneous crap) at work with me, so I told the model coordinator to put me down.
Upon getting there, I check in with the instructor and then get changed into my robe. When I got back to the classroom, she dropped what I considered to be a semi-bombshell: you see, one of the students couldn't be exposed to naked people. It was against her religion. So I cooled my heels while they brought in a clothed model to do the intro portion of the class while I waited outside. When they were done with that portion, the student in question would go sit in on another class while I went in to model.
Do you know how weird it feels to stand out in a hallway with people coming and going while you're in your robe? It may sound weird, but I think I would have actually been less self conscious naked. And I don't care, there's nothing you can do to make yourself appear nonchalant, cool, whatever when you're in your fucking bathrobe :)
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I get yet another call to model the following week with the same professor. So when I check in with her, she asked me if I brought my shorts. Huh? Umm... no. I brought a robe and my birthday suit. Turns out the religious girl was in that class too and the model for that night was supposed to bring shorts to do the gesture poses. The instructor asked me kind of sheepishly (I think she was a little rattled by having to accomodate this student's needs at this point in the semester, and seemed a little embarassed about it) if I could pose in my underwear, to which I was tempted to reply that if this person had an issue with my naughty bits, she probably wasn't going to find my choice in underwear that much more acceptable. As luck would have it (sort of, since what I'm about to say also meant I wasn't getting paid for the night), there was a double booking, and the other model (naturally after I had already gotten changed) came with shorts, so he was clearly the model that was supposed to show up.
I was dead tired that night, and frankly needed the night off. But it got me to thinking who the hell enrolls in an art program and doesn't expect that, from time to time, penises and tits will be exposed? In the same room as you are. I'm really hoping this person is, I dunno, a fashion major or something, and just needs an Intro to Drawing class as part of some general ed requirement. I'm really hoping it's not some sort of Generation X/Y entitlement bullshit where the student thinks the class has to bend to her desires, and not the other way around. I just can't wrap my head around it. Shit, I knew people got naked for art when I was 12 years old reading art history books in the library (disclaimer: it didn't have to do with my love for art so much as my love for nekkid wimmin!). Not to mention you're fucking over the rest of the class who are paying good money (very good money. This school ain't cheap!) and expect to be able to learn and practice art the way it's been done for thousands of years.
I really hope this person, for the sake of her fellow students, decides to major in something, anything, that won't put her belief system in conflict with others. It just isn't fair to anyone.
And I've also made the mental transition from "OMG I'm naked in front of strangers" to "OMG it's 8:30pm and all I want to do is finish up this pose so I can go home and crash."
It's also given me a renewed sense of self confidence. Now you have to be comfortable in your own skin to stand up naked in front of a bunch of people you don't know, but it was always on stage in front of people. Like six to 10 feet in front of you. Until one fateful Saturday morning in November, that is.
I roll up to the classroom about 20 minutes early and the security guard points out the classroom. The first thing I notice is that the room is small. Very small. About half the size of the classrooms at the location I normally model in. The next thing I notice is that there isn't a stage like I normally had available. Nope, just a teeny, tiny podium about two feet high and maybe three feet square. And it was in the CENTER of the room. Not up front.
I was going to have people looking at my naked body from all sides! And about three feet away. Gulp!
And it went fine! Everything was totally relaxed, and the only time I got nervous was when my legs went to sleep and I was afraid I'd fall over. I even got compliments from some of the students, thanking me for modeling for them :)
On the subway ride home, I reflected on this and realized that art students have probably seen the naked form as often as some creepy, raincoad-clad perv in an adult bookstore. And since they're obviously cool with it, I should just relax and have fun. After all, I've noticed that the more involved I am in the class (picking up on their energy and responding accordingly), the more I think the students get out of it. Who wants someone busting out dull poses for three hours?
And then something weird happened to me.
No, I didn't get an erection in class. No, I didn't bump into someone who recognized me. It was far more... interesting. A few months ago, I got a call from the art school. They needed a model that very night. As luck had it, I had my modeling kit (just a duffel bag with a robe, flip-flops, a timer, a book, and some other miscellaneous crap) at work with me, so I told the model coordinator to put me down.
Upon getting there, I check in with the instructor and then get changed into my robe. When I got back to the classroom, she dropped what I considered to be a semi-bombshell: you see, one of the students couldn't be exposed to naked people. It was against her religion. So I cooled my heels while they brought in a clothed model to do the intro portion of the class while I waited outside. When they were done with that portion, the student in question would go sit in on another class while I went in to model.
Do you know how weird it feels to stand out in a hallway with people coming and going while you're in your robe? It may sound weird, but I think I would have actually been less self conscious naked. And I don't care, there's nothing you can do to make yourself appear nonchalant, cool, whatever when you're in your fucking bathrobe :)
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I get yet another call to model the following week with the same professor. So when I check in with her, she asked me if I brought my shorts. Huh? Umm... no. I brought a robe and my birthday suit. Turns out the religious girl was in that class too and the model for that night was supposed to bring shorts to do the gesture poses. The instructor asked me kind of sheepishly (I think she was a little rattled by having to accomodate this student's needs at this point in the semester, and seemed a little embarassed about it) if I could pose in my underwear, to which I was tempted to reply that if this person had an issue with my naughty bits, she probably wasn't going to find my choice in underwear that much more acceptable. As luck would have it (sort of, since what I'm about to say also meant I wasn't getting paid for the night), there was a double booking, and the other model (naturally after I had already gotten changed) came with shorts, so he was clearly the model that was supposed to show up.
I was dead tired that night, and frankly needed the night off. But it got me to thinking who the hell enrolls in an art program and doesn't expect that, from time to time, penises and tits will be exposed? In the same room as you are. I'm really hoping this person is, I dunno, a fashion major or something, and just needs an Intro to Drawing class as part of some general ed requirement. I'm really hoping it's not some sort of Generation X/Y entitlement bullshit where the student thinks the class has to bend to her desires, and not the other way around. I just can't wrap my head around it. Shit, I knew people got naked for art when I was 12 years old reading art history books in the library (disclaimer: it didn't have to do with my love for art so much as my love for nekkid wimmin!). Not to mention you're fucking over the rest of the class who are paying good money (very good money. This school ain't cheap!) and expect to be able to learn and practice art the way it's been done for thousands of years.
I really hope this person, for the sake of her fellow students, decides to major in something, anything, that won't put her belief system in conflict with others. It just isn't fair to anyone.
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