I’m off to the Bahamas for five days of bibacity and philandery. And, of course, a good sunburn tan.
Don’t bother returning here until Friday, as the site won’t be updated until then.
In other news, apparently I can still swing dance. Last night’s date went well. Very well.
Date this evening with an English Lit grad student I met at a Guggenheim fundraiser about a month back. She was there as another guy’s date; we met in the line for drinks, hit it off, and surreptitiously traded contact info.
A few emails back and forth (in which space I’ve determined she’s significantly wittier than I), and we’re headed out for a first date to the Swing 46 supper club.
I’ve pulled out my khakis and suspenders and have been listening to big band music all afternoon, trying desperately to recall all the swing moves I once knew.
Wish me luck, boys, wish me luck.
From my window on the 24th floor, I can see all the way uptown. On a clear day, thirty, forty blocks up.
When it rains, the clouds descend, sitting low outside my window. They elide the view, bringing buildings on the Upper East Side oddly, hazily close.
On those rainy days, the air outside my window is thick and heavy. It can be scooped with a ladle. The city is quieter, slower, weighed down by the heavy air. I spend all morning lying in bed, pinned by the weight of the clouds, listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of raindrops on pane glass.
During the last few months, several readers I know in real life have pointed out that the picture in my bio was getting fairly old, and looked decreasingly like me (a combination of a few years of aging, a fairly significant haircut, and losing the glasses in favor of contacts.) To avoid misguiding curious readers intent on factoring me into their burgeoning fantasy lives, I’ve updated the head-shot. As I haven’t had a set of business shots done since the ones I intended to replace, I fell back, instead, on a cropped version of a promo shot from a no-holds-barred fight. Yes, sadly enough, that’s my best attempt at looking ass-kickingly menacing.
I’m not kidding.
Bought a new blazer – three button, double vented, super 120. Horn buttons rather than “ahoy there, I’m a sea cap’n!” gold. The most recent step in my grand wardrobe overhaul. If I’m going to be a young tech/media mogul, I’d damn better dress the part.
Despite extant piles of work from each of my multiple jobs, all of which need completion before I head off to the Bahamas this weekend, I spent most of the morning accomplishing essentially nothing. A fifteen minute sample:
10:45-10:48 – Stare at screen blankly, fidget in chair.
10:48-10:51 – Trip to the bathroom.
10:51-10:54 – Stop to bother secretary on the way back.
10:54-10:56 – Check email, stare blankly at screen again, fidget.
10:56-10:57 – Read a few news stories at Wired and Slashdot.
10:57-11:00 – Wander around office, trying to look purposeful.
The entire morning (from 8:00 to 12:00) followed about the same pattern. I think I have ADHD.
No, really. According to the DSM-IV (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders – Fourth Edition, for the uneducated), ADHD consists of three composite traits: inattention, hyperactivity and impulsivity. And I hit the key symptoms for each:
Inattention
often fails to give close attention to details or makes careless mistakes in schoolwork, work, or other activities;
often dislikes or is reluctant to engage in tasks that require sustained concentration;
is often forgetful in daily activities.
Hyperactivity
often fidgets with hands or feet or squirms in seat;
often leaves seat in classroom or in other situations in which remaining seated is expected;
is often “on the go;”
often talks excessively.
Impulsivity
often blurts out answers before questions have been completed;
often interrupts or intrudes on others (e.g., butts into conversations or games).
Which, basically, describes me to a ‘T.’ Where do I get my Ritalin?
The ritual continues. This time, I forgot my belt.
Special note to any readers intending to dislocate their shoulder: Don’t. It hurts like a bitch.
While training Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (or, as my mother refers to it, “beat ’em up”) last night, I managed to pop my shoulder out of the socket. Not high on my list of life experiences worth repeating. Which brings up a question that several readers (and my mother) have asked on multiple occasions: Why in God’s name do you do full-contact martial arts? What are you, nuts? (Short answer: well, obviously.)
The problem, really, is that most people see mixed martial arts or “no holds barred” competition as much more dangerous / exotic / groundbreaking / whatever than it really is. In truth, it’s essentially just a combination of three popular existing Olympic sports: boxing, judo and wrestling. The phrase “no holds barred” is itself a misnomer, as an extensive set of rules does exist, similar to those of the three constituent sports. In fact, in the sport’s ten year history, the percentage of tournament bouts leading to serious injury has been lower than the percentage in boxing or judo matches.
None the less, I don’t want to sugar coat it. The sport is basically two guys trying to beat the crap out of each other until one gives up. So why would I possibly do it? Two main reasons:
Zen calm. As noted by Nobel laureate Konrad Lorenz, any animal that has friendship also has intraspecies aggression, and the instinctual and insuppressible need to discharge that aggression. While many people ‘vent’ through activities like weight lifting, creative writing, or competitive macram
While taking a taxi home last night, I started to examine the back of a one dollar bill I was holding. What the hell kind of artwork is that exactly? A big floating eyeball? “Annuit Coeptis”? Thank goodness for Google and the power of the internet.