sabroso

Having lunch at Iguana, a little Mexican restaurant in our neighborhood, my brother asked if they sold lemonade.

“Not usually,” the waiter replied, “but today I will have the old man make it for you.”

The old man? We contemplated this pronouncement for a few minutes until, lo and behold, a stooped and wizened old man, who looked to be at least ninety years old, ambled out of the kitchen with glasses and a teapot.

“I have made for you de limonada,” he announced. “Choo has never taste limonada as good as dis in you life.”

And he was right.

City Life

| City Life

playing hotel

My brother, who seems to do very little these days except come to visit me in New York, is, once again, here visiting me in New York. Though he’s on his way to a summer real estate development job in Chicago (which starts next Monday), he’s taking advantage of the week of vacation before he starts mainly by sleeping exceedingly late on our couch, watching more TV than have my roommates and I, combined, since the start of the year, and generally causing drunken trouble.

Normally, I’d be happy to let him do his own thing while I do mine, but, unfortunately, we don’t have a spare set of keys for our apartment. And though we’ve tried to get them duplicated, apparently our front door key is some super-high-tech deal that can only be etched by computer lathe, controlled by a credit card key carrying the right shaping information. Sadly, I’m not making that up.

As a result, my brother’s and my schedules are hopelessly intertwined, pulled together by a series of elaborately choreographed key handoffs. They seem to be working well, in terms of actually allowing us both to get in and out and back in when we need, but they’ve also brought me a bit deeper into my brother’s life then I suspect he or I would prefer. Last night, for example, heading to pick up the keys from him at a local bar in our neighborhood, I found him, not drinking, but standing outside the bar, making out with some girl he had apparently just met.

And, certainly, at some abstract, ‘I taught him everything he knows’ sort of level, I was exceedingly proud. But at a more practical ‘listen, bitch, get your hands off my brothers ass, because I have a morning meeting and need to get home and go to sleep’ level, it may be a touch more brotherly bonding that we really need.

Friends & Family

| Friends & Family

jailhouse chic

A busy evening last night, involving three parties in succession, the last (and best) of which being Ms. Sarah Brown’s and Mr. Ryan Chittum’s joint birthday bash, the first party I’d attended since college that ended by being broken up by the cops.

Got my knuckles Sharpie-tattooed (again) by Sarah, this time reading “TALK SHIT”, and, feeling immensely honored to be one of the few to achieve two-time tattooing, I’ve now decided I have no choice but to shoot for eventually getting my knuckles similarly SB-defaced more times than anyone else. As the current leader, Erin Byrne, a.) a lives in Oklahoma, and b.) is a librarian, I’m totally ready to kick her ass.

The only downside to the plan is that, while other people apparently can wash their Sharpieing right off, I, possessing a special magnetism for people and ink, am left with tattoo remnants for a good two or three days. Which, frankly, makes for some excellent business-meeting conversation:

Big Investor: “Why does it say ‘Slow Deth’ on your knuckles?’

Me (sitting on hands): “Slow deth? [Nervous laughter] I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Exploits

| Exploits

gmail accounts, get your gmail accounts

Want in on gmail?
Write a haiku and convince
me you deserve it.

Technology

| Technology

needling

I’m always a bit amazed by how few other guys possess even basic clothing repair skills – buttons pop off and hems begin to come undone with alarming frequency, and knowing how to fix those small problems before they become bigger ones can save substantial time and money over the long haul.

I owe my ability in such areas to my mother, who, on afternoons home from the office, would occasionally pass along such brief lessons in self-sufficiency. And, in each lesson, as much as I’d learn how to, say, mend an emerging hole, I’d also re-learn that an unused needle should always be threaded with at least a short length of thread.

This second bit was of paramount importance, emphasized heavily along with the story of how my mother’s cousin (or possibly her aunt – I usually tuned out for this oft-told tale) had once not done so, and had stepped on a needle that slipped completely into a vein, coursing along before lodging itself (fortunately) somewhere in her upper leg, thereby avoiding its natural route up to impaling her heart in a Separate Peace sort of tragedy.

While my mother to this day views the needle-in-the-vein story as incontrovertible fact, the more I learned about basic biology, the more I realized there was no way the yarn could actually be true. I mean, veins are remarkably circuitous, and not terribly broad in most places. To think that an inch-and-a-half long stretch of rigid metal could mistakenly end up squarely in the middle of one, much less run luge-like all the way to your ticker, I quickly realized was essentially impossible.

Still, to this day, and despite the protestations of my rational mind, I run a short length of thread through any needle in my possession. Just in case.

Disclosures

| Disclosures

talent?

Sure, everyone’s been pointing out inappropriately that Harry Potter‘s young Emma Watson is on the road to babe-dom. And, while after catching the latest Potter installment this weekend I completely agree, I should also redeem my entitled ‘I told you so’ by pointing out that I totally called this a year and a half back.

Just further evidence of a creepy talent for scouting out on-the-rise prepubescent actresses, considering I similarly praised Lindsay Lohan six years back, for her performance in The Parent Trap.

As one might expect, this leaves me feeling both a little proud, and a lot dirty.

| Culture Consumption Disclosures

Going Solo

Given the frequency with which I watch movies (an occupational hazard), and given that I often see them during the work day, in far-flung cities while traveling, or at last-minute to accommodate my overpacked schedule, I rather often end up at the theater alone.

Some people hate watching movies by themselves, and, at first, I must admit I similarly felt vaguely embarrassed about it, as if everyone pouring into the theater was taking a moment away from their crazed seat search to pity the poor friendless loser parked in the middle of an otherwise empty row. I’d glance at my watch regularly, scanning the incoming crowds as if to say, ‘now, where is my friend (or perhaps date) who’s likely arriving late or simply coming back from the bathroom, because, I mean, I’m certainly not the sort of poor friendless loser who would have to see this movie alone.”

Over time, though, the embarrassment waned. I stopped the friend-search charade (because, honestly, the only thing more loserly than being at the theater alone is being there with imaginary friends), and started simply settling into my seat. I began to appreciate pre-movie time, a rare few minutes in which I could simply sit on my ass without feeling like I should be doing something other than just vegging out.

By now, I’ve reached the point where I often prefer seeing movies alone. For me, at least, there’s something intensely personal about being immersed in a film, and being snapped immediately back into the real world as the credits roll is tough enough without gratuitous post-mortem dissection discussion. Perhaps I’m just a slow thinker, but even when I do want to critique a film, I often feel I need to weigh it mentally for a day or two before crystallizing an opinion.

Which is all to say, basically, that if you see me in a theater, parked like a poor friendless loser in the middle of an otherwise empty row, leave me the hell alone. I’m happy there by myself.

| Culture Consumption Disclosures

natty

Combining my penchant for bucking tradition, and my closet full of excellent, rarely worn suits (a vestige of my finance days), I’ve officially decided to implement ‘anti-casual Friday’, in which I’ll be donning suit and tie weekly, for no reason other than that I can.

Though, also, because it looks damn good.

Style

| Style

starry eyed

My interest piqued by Greg’s discovery of the Anologia Star Estimator, I decided to give the system a whirl. In short, pop in a picture of yourself, and the Estimator suggests three celebrities you supposedly resemble.

Testing the system out with three different self-portraits, I ended up with a slew of possibilities, though with two suggestions popping up twice: Johnny Depp and George Clooney. And, flattering as that may be, I’m left rather seriously doubting the system, as I’m pretty sure I look absolutely nothing at all like either of those two guys.

Instead, in real life, I get stopped on the street by people who feel the need to tell me I look like Matthew Broderick. The beard and short haircut was, in part, an effort to stop that, which seems to have worked, though now I occasionally get Edgar Bronfman, Jr.

Still, by self-assessment, especially on those days when skipping showering forces the front of my hair into a kewpie-doll point, I’ve determined I most closely bear a resemblance to: TinTin.