Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Among the muck, the parka-wearing, the shivering under layers (the real cardio of winter), the pains in every limb and joint, the inability to breathe . . . among all that, not long ago, I fond myself at a private reception at The Met.  Okay, so it's no secret that I've long held The Met as a favorite, on sunny days, on the other side of the moon, when I have a day with nothing to do and no deadlines I'll spend a carefree day there.  Or, I'll just spend a few hours there when I can't stand the fight anymore.  Come to think of it; I should be there now. To dream, as we say. Back to that reception, which sounds swankier than it is . . . Professors got a night, for free, replete with free cocktails at the end.  I mean, seriously, people.  Who in her right mind would turn down free booze AND art? Not I, that is certain.  So, a friend from grad school and I met up and let ourselves into The Met, and then we spotted for which walks and talks to atte...

As any honest jet-setter will tell you, not every locale is splendid and storybook exciting.   Sometimes a stop along the way is just that . . . a stop, a meander, a moment.   Last spring I spent about a week in Romania.   I was there for a professional conference, but as with how these things go I also squeezed in some moderate sights along the way . . . as most travelers do.   Yet, this petite country on the edges of the once Communist impressed Eastern Europe and on the fringes of the old Ottoman Empire and nestled at the base of the Balkans served more as a conversation piece.   Unlike Rome—during the 2012 Christmas season with marzipan delights toppling counters and market stalls and Vatican City abuzz with clergy seemingly dancing in the unusual snowfall of the festive air, Romania was more of a cup of tea on a porch swing and not a debutant’s ball. I arrived in Bucharest, on a spring evening, and after the airport and hotel drop I wandere...

I'm been waiting to find the moment to escape back into Seattle.  Don't ask me about recent events.  This, this, is your (and my) diversion.   *** In what feels like a lifetime ago, I saw my original hometown for a moment last summer.  In all reality, it was how I ended my long sojourn off the east coast, through the midwest, and nestled in the peaceful slopes of the Cascade basin in Oregon.  As I took one last Greyhound up to Portland, walked less than half a block to the train depot, and boarded I begrudgingly accepted the ideal retreat my summer had been was already fading.   Limey had already been returned , my clothes were packed and shimmied into one carry on, one back pack, and one suitcase.  Six week's worth of muscle, memory, and trinkets were packed away in my literal and metaphorical spaces.   As a long weekend, at the end of August, rounded out my travels there's something to be said about the tranquility of returning to a...

Some of you know what this time of year means to me . . . one broken heart, hard memories to face, and the perpetual avoidance of phone calls from one person. Actually, since I have a new cell number I won’t have those calls this year. Woot on that one. These things have nothing to do with the Hallmark holiday. Someone I once hung out with, had relations with, talked to (you find the phrase . . . ) called it "Naked Baby Angel Day." That name has stuck with me, so "Naked Baby Angel Day" it is. For the Hallmark holiday I have got more bad memories and experiences than I should, and on a disturbing level most of those memories have become funny. In 1998 my college roommates (well MC and Jess—Mellie and I wanted no part) decided to put out a "Wanted Ad for the Ladies of Unit 2." That action alone easily surpasses the other memories. Essentially, those two had watched entirely too many episodes of _The Dating Game_, and they thought it would...