Why I Oughtta

K (points to magazine cover): Is that Tom Brady?

D: Mhmm.

K: Does he play football?

D: Mhmm.

K: See, I know things.

“I don’t want to give birth to anything — including babies.” — Morgan

My brother and I are very different in general.  We don’t look alike.  We’re interested in different things.  He likes girls.  He’s very bookish and academic while I’m very… TV blog.

In any case, sometimes we do share a certain comic sensibility.

Here’s the backstory on this: My brother has never liked animals. I wanted one my whole life. Still do, in fact. When I was little, I wanted to be a dog when I grew up. That never really materialized, but I am still best motivated by food and belly rubs.

In any case, my sister-in-law, much to my brother’s chagrin, is also a dog-lover and launched a get-a-dog campaign. Meanwhile, she also launched a let’s-move-from-Virginia-to-Maryland campaign.

Soon enough, a deal was struck. If my brother agreed to buy a house in Maryland, they would never own a dog. Cut to the chase, they moved to Maryland. My brother is very pleased with the way this turned out.

Fast forward to the recent past, my brother was getting his new driver’s license when he created this on his laptop using their engagement photo and MS Paint (his preferred method of art, if you recall).

I had a dream the other night that must say really weird shit about my subconscious.

I dreamed that NPR was having a donation-y weekend where the more you pledged, the more swag you’d get.  It’s like those PBS telethons where if they have Christine Baranski or someone offering you a Prime Suspect visor if you donate $500 or a Ken Burns headband for $1,000.

In any case, during this particular telethon, if you donated $10,000 then they’d give you your very own NPR grill. Which would be awesome.

It made me wonder what else they could offer for some of the high-dollar donors. Perhaps twenty minutes alone in the NPR conference room with Diane Rehm. Clothing optional. No rules, no questions.

I just ran the SOME Trot for Hunger with my brother like I always do on Thanksgiving.  This trot was sponsored in part by The CW.  Jen says they provided media support.  I think they should have provided hot blonde teenagers who would stand at the finish line, texting and looking bored.

Here are my times for the past four years.

• 2004: 25:39
• 2005: 25:35
• 2006: 24:02
• 2007: 23:20

I am actually astonished that I was able to beat last year’s time, given the fact that I have been not going to the gym very regularly. Instead, I prefer sitting around, gettin’ obese.

Michael Chertoff ran the race and I stood next to him for a while.  I think I beat him.  Adrian Fenty ran too.  Once again, he smoked me.

Every year the top finishers generally fit in similar demographics. The winner is a thirty-something guy who just runs all day every day. One of those people who explains, very earnestly, that “running is my therapy.”  (You know what my therapy is?  Therapy.) Then there are some similar twenty/thirtysomethings many of whom are probably in some branch of the armed forces.  Then there’s some crazy old guy who’s all wrinkles and muscle.  Then there’s a six-year-old.

I avoid talking about work on this blog, for obvious reasons. However, I’ll relate this gem.

I recently quit my job of nearly four years. It’s true.

My boss was saying that she had a conversation with the big, big boss after passing him in the hallway. He remarked that she was losing a writer (me) and she confirmed that yes, I had submitted my resignation.

He hesitated, shook his head and offered this as a summation of my accomplishments: “Strange, strange sense of humor.”

I’m really against whistling on deserted streets.

Last night I was walking around downtown on one of the side streets that connects 15th and 14th and there was a guy in the distance whistling a meandering, lonely tune. In instances like this, the part of my brain that escalates bad situations to crises went into overdrive. I’m not going to get murdered for my wallet, like a normal person.  It’s going to be some sort of circus freak with a bundle of candy canes in one hand and a paper bag with a head in it in the other.

But that didn’t happen. Luckily.

After having my New Haven/NYC trip cancelled not once, not twice, but thrice, I ventured out earlier this week for a much-scaled-down version.

I took the train up to New Haven on Sunday. The trip was marked by:

1. a tour of the Yale campus (Matt is about to start a 2-year program to be a physician’s assistant) led by a bubbly rising junior from Waco. She repeatedly mentioned how weird it was that she was going to be a junior, making me feel ancient and decrepit. I wanted to rap her with the cane I use with my gnarled, arthritic hand and tell her how much she has yet to learn about life. But I didn’t.
2. a lamentable experience at a local falafel joint.
3. meeting his sitcom-worthy neighbors — sort of like a higher-brow version of Friends (PhD students in comparative literature/poli sci.
4. watching the movie Breach and squealing whenever I saw a familiar landmark. Which was often.

The trip to New York was divided between Matt Stops and Dan Stops. Seeing as how our Venn diagram of interests overlaps at writing and beer, there aren’t that many places in NYC that we are both interested in going to. For example, one of the places I was excited about going was Uniqlo, which I have heard described (accurately) as the Japanese H&M. It looked like a gay spaceship inside, what with the 40-foot walls stacked with multi-colored, strategically placed sweaters.

On the other hand, a Matt Stop was a gaming store called The Compleat Strategist. Or as I not-so-subtly nicknamed it, The Nerd Store. It eventually got to the point where we both just casually called it “The Nerd Store” in conversation. It made me feel cruel. But I Matt indulged me in my fruity, technicolor fashion excursions, so I sucked it up and let him take his time there browsing the Star Wars miniatures. The store was small, cloistered and smelled like old paper and virginity.

One stop that was an undeniable hit was the Salvation Army in the Village (East, I think, but I have no idea). I bought a Pierre Cardin suit for $17. From the looks of it, it belonged to a man with a similar shoulder breadth and waist line, but was probably four or five inches taller. And, aside from a small, barely noticeable rip by one of the pockets, it was in pristine condition. Matt also bought a brown blazer so now, paired with his plaid shirts, he can have that outdoorsy-scholar-with-a-copy-of-Walden-under-his-arm look. The only complaint I had about the store was its lack of a fitting room, forcing me to try on the pants in an alcove with Matt standing guard. I was less worried about modesty than I was someone looking at me and thinking I was some pantsless, homeless pervert in the corner of the Salvation Army.

One stop that I was sadly unable to make was From Rice to Riches — a suggestion from Belle. It’s a specialty rice pudding store where you can get toppings, etc. Unfortunately, I gorged myself at the Indian buffet and we were both feeling to obese to stop and add rice pudding to our bloated bellies.

I had no time to really see anyone, aside from a few cryptic text messages to unknowing New Yorkers.

This is already turning into a disaster.

As anticipated, upper lip is not keeping up with the rest of my face. The result is a sort of Amish/Pennsylvania Dutch affair that pleases nobody. Furthermore, half of the hair on said upper lip is growing in blonde.

It also itches like a motherfucker. Currently mulling the possibility of shaving under my jaw, like they said to do on Queer Eye back when that show was on and people watched it.

Tamara and Curtis got married!