And to think mine just makes me look old enough to drive

Apparently I am not putting my capacity to grow facial hair to good enough use. It appears there can be a competitive aspect to the endeavor. I know I am able to grow a faster fuller beard than Mark, and I think Brian. But who knew there were other competitions.



Nice, right.

I like this guy, his beard looks like an explanation of quantum physics and probability clouds. You can never know both the location and trajectory of any particular hair. Only the probability that you will find it within his electron field-y facial hair



http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/

http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/Gallery/gallery.html

Party Time Excellent II or How Air Cast becomes Aaron Can't.

I am generally not certain of how to behave at parties. I consider myself quite adept at talking to nearly anyone about nearly anything. I'm not worried about having nothing to say, or about having no ability to talk about my conversation partner's life. But some of the other basic skills elude me.

For instance:

Last night at Scott's MLK party (which was really quite excellent, good music, good people, pleasant all around) I found myself in a conversation with some of his friends from college. Midway through this conversation I mentioned I worked for Howard Dean in Iowa. A voice from behind me and to the right started out. This woman's voice was powerfully familiar. I couldn't place it, but as I turned to see who it was I realized I had never met her before. But not only did she have the voice of some friend of mine she herself appeared to be a composite of several friends. She was like this meta-memory. Oh, and named Trish. Strange, right. It is at this point that I should explain the basic conversational geography. I'm in a narrow "hallway" within the kitchen. I'm backed up to the side of the refrigerator, and I have to lean in to hear this woman speak. Scott has vacated the area by this point. Okay, back to the story(ies). We exchange pleasantries, I explain where I've lived, how I came to this party, this city. I ask the same. Further reinforcing my belief that I can talk about nearly anything, we proceed to have a 20 minute conversation about Uzbekistan. Not only about Uzbekistan (the country where she did the PeaceCorps) but about Uzbek handicrafts. As trusted friends, I'll let all you readers in on the very very obvious secret at work here, I don't know shit about Uzbekistan. I'm quite certain that a) she knew that and was just being polite, and enjoyed talking to someone who was genuinely (I was) interested in learning more or b) had had some wine and was on conversational autopilot. I have no idea which is more likely, as I am a terrible judge of the BAC of my friends and interlocutors. Suffice to say we had a relatively pleasant conversation, you know basic 20something party talk. I asked about the forms of Uzbek handicrafts, whether or not it was mainly fiber work, and whether or not said pieces were largely devotional or more familial. I learned that Uzbeks are mostly Muslim and that their handicrafts are largely ceramic and dedicated to familial scenes with some devotional elements. So there you go, next time I'm in a conversation about Central Asian NGOs w/r/t said NGOs art pieces, I'll have one more thing to say.

All in all a pleasant conversation. However, there's really only so far you can take that conversation before you want to... what's the right word. Stop. I'm pretty good at starting conversations and can be compelling in the middle but I have no earthly idea how to finish one. I'm the Neal Stephenson of conversation. It was at this point that I did the scan. You know where you scan for something, or more often someone whose presence necessitates immediate and solo attention. The, "hey, I'm going to talk to person X for reason Y." As I was pinned against the refrigerator with no familiar persons in my field of view, I was stuck. I imagine she felt just as much stuck. And at that moment I realized I was sporting the party goers magic bullet. I reached down to my left pant leg, pulled it up about 6 inches revealing my air cast and said, "I think I'm going to go and grab a seat, nice to have met you." And like a shot, like a man with two fully functioning ankles, I was off. Leaving her to more interesting conversation, and me to hang out with my frisbee friends. Again, it's not a matter of her being annoying, far from it, but I just can't get out of conversations. But now. But now, I'm imbued with THE TOOL.

Later in the party some of the more rhythmically competent attendees began to shake: "groove things" and "what your momma gave yous" and generally proceed to "get down." Someone came over and asked if I'd add my awkwardness to the assembled appendages and asses. I slyly reached for my left pant leg. Sorry can't.

I think I may start bringing the air cast to parties when I'm healthy. God bless you AirCast. You protect my ankles and my pride.

Restaurant Week.

Restaurant week has overtaken most of the gourmands, and aspiring gourmands this week. As neither, I ended up just getting roped into it (thankfully) by Liz and others.

Thursday, Liz, Paul, Irene and I met at Taberna Del something. It's Spanish, and as tapas is my primary association with Spanish, I was less excited. But I figured it's a chance to eat super pricey food for cheap, and besides it'll be great fun to see friends during the work day.

Located at 1776 I St*, it's a nice place. I felt conspiculously underdressed. Largely because I was conspicious in the degree to which I was underdressed. So at least my perception and objective reality were insync. Check.

We made our way to the table, on which sat a large red fruit. About the size of a softball, my friends knew it to be a pomegranate. Me, I had no clue what it was. Apparently it's not a red softball, or some faux Spanish bocce ball-esque thing. Irene is immediately concerned with whether or not she will be permitted to eat said PG. All I know about the fruit is its relation to the Persephone myth, and even that, I soon reveal, is poorly understood. 4 seeds, 4 seasons...makes sense, why didn't I remember that. Alas.

Since it's restaurant week we order off fixed price menus. Apparently the salted nuts on the table represent an appetizer. Who knew. If only sports bars had maitre d's they too could call nuts in a bowl an appetizer. But I digress.

Now, as I've said there is a fixed menu. We have two choices for starter, main course and desert. Between salad and a hearty fish stew, I confidently select the stew. It's hearty. Sounds like the opposite of tapas. I'm excited. Between the chicken and the scallops is a harder call, but I pick scallops and feel pretty okay with that. Finally it's mousse or rice pudding...and I all but scoff. Mousse is vastly, and in all ways, superior to rice pudding. And with that I've made my selections.

The stew arrives minutes later. It's hearty in the same way Katherine Hepburn is at the beginning of The African Queen. The soup was brothy. Well that's false, I don't think you can describe something as brothy if at its most basic it is, in fact, the platonic ideal of broth. There was little to recommend the soup which seemed to be served at what I can only roughly estimate was 80 degrees. And no, it was not some tongue in cheek effort at gazpacho. It was cold limp soup.

Then comes the waiting game. During which time we open and eat the pomegranate. Turns out its wonderful. So wonderful that the following night I have a dream about a new desert. (new to me at least). In said desert one takes and hollows out a PG and coats the inside with a layer of crust forming chocolate onto (into) which is scooped vanilla ice cream and then topped with a layer of pomegranate seeds. I enjoyed the pomegranate, would be the shorter version of this anecdote.

The scallops are taking quite a bit of time. Surprising since there are only two choices. You'd figure they make a bunch of both. Apparently not. You'd think, with the time we had to wait they were inventing a new country from which to have a cuisine. So first they had to find land, cultivate a culture. get invaded. retake the country. develop a national identity. find and sew local crops. build a cuisine. export said cusine to DC...and then make and serve our food. I feel like an entire Jared Diamond book about the rise and fall of Spanish food could have been written in the time it took to actually get our food. But then again, I think maybe I'm being a little overdramatic. Like I said, it felt like a long time.

And yet it was worth it. The scallops were perfect. Tender. Sweet. The sauce was balanced, lots of neat flavors. I found myself wishing I could find more items to dip into the sauce that coated the scallops. And then there was the mousse. The mousse was a little limp. But bitter and rich. It was clearly not just some shitty Hershey's mix in a fancy cup.

All told it was a great time. Ended up taking nearly 2 hours. Which for me is an eternity. I only went out once but for all the time spent it surely felt like restaurant *week.*



*Do you figure that rent for any building with 1776 as its address is more expensive here? Seems like it must be a factor. 1776 K St is probably incredibly pricey, some symbolism loving lobbyist paid a pretty penny to work there.

My Sweet Imagination

It's been something of a week. As extroverted as I am (nearly definitionally so) there are times when I need to recharge. Times when I need to be alone with my few non-public thoughts. Someone (and I know this anecdote would be better if I had a name there, instead of "someone" but I don't know it) was once famously described as never having a private thought. I've sometimes felt that applied to me. I tend to find it relatively easy to share my thoughts. And really in this case share suggests that my thoughts are things I believe to be of value to others. I don't. I recognize that sometimes my sharing is really more like junk mail.

This ability to be perfectly public about most thoughts has some benefits, however. For instance this past week I was unafraid. In a week where my ex (Ann) hung out repeatedly with Jesseca, I was unafraid. Paul kept insinuating (or flat out declaring) that there were things to be feared. They would snicker and conspire, share notes and remind one another my myriad foibles. But the thing is, neither of them had to seek an external source for a retelling of any story. I'll tell pretty much any story involving me. From the most laudatory to the most repellent. They're all a part of who I am, and I'm okay with that person. I'm not ashamed, even when overwhelming evidence suggests that such a position might be more warranted. But it turns out they had a great time.

Ann arrived on Thursday. In fewer than 24 hours she would find herself in the middle of a large coterie of my voluble (mostly), frisbee playing (mostly) friends. Turns out everyone got along famously. The incredible generosity of the party guests meant I ACQUIRED beer by the end of the evening. Note to self, continue to invite generous lightweights.

We played Mafia. I am attrocious at this game. It's entirely predicated upong misdirection, lying and false accusations. I tried to get into the spirit of the game, but lying stirs in my stomach the same sensation as poorly prepared Chinese. There is the suggestion of a "reversal of fortune." So we can safely assume I was the weakest link. Except, of course for Libby, whom I will say is even less capable of lying than I am. Or maybe it's more a function of failed secret-keeping.

The other main attraction of Friday's party was my "corpse-foot, " as Paul dubbed the swollen, discolored and generally Rubenesque appendage.

Corpse-foot (hereinafter CF) was reanimated and given a chance to prove its mettle on Saturday. Ann and I set out to see the city. We walked down 18th. Travelling through Adams Morgan and down to Dupont. CF was by this time reminding me, quite vociferously that its appearance was, in fact, not accidental, but rather an effort to communicate persistent injury. My pain receptors often seem to be pretty useless in passing along pertinent information like, "Hey fuck up, your ankle is screwed up. This is a good time to stop walking." So I pressed on, aware that my foot didn't feel *good*, but not really understanding the degree to which this was true.

We took lunch at Moby Dick's, and then made our to Eastern Market. More walking. I found some great old maps that I loved. It's strange I love giving maps as a gift, but can't really recall ever getting one, or buying one for myself. Maybe when Mark and Stacy visit I'll get a map. After Eastern Market we headed home. My foot was, by this time, quite insistent that some sort of line had been crossed. It was sore. That's what I'm trying to say. The little pain receptors apparently returned from lunch to find many missed calls...and they worked dilligently to return all those calls. Oh, I should also explain that I forgot to take any Ibuprofen that day, so my, oh let's call it, "call waiting" was not working.

Upon arriving home, I collapsed on the couch and Ann did the same. We both nodded off. Later Jesseca called and the three of us moseyed (with IB having been eagerly and voraciously ingested hours before) to Tonic and got burgers and other curatives.

As I am growing weary of writing this like a fucking 4th grade bookreport, I'll skip around a bit. Next day was brunch at Rosemary's Thyme. A caper-filled omlette is a thing of indescribable beauty, so we'll just say, I liked it quite well. Took a cab home. Makes me feel decadent to ride in cabs. I generally don't like that feeling, but CF was clear to remind me of the value of motorized transportation. Spent the rest of the day watching movies on my couch. 12 Angry Men, Catch me if you can. Immediately after this bonanza of movies, I collapsed. There is only so much time you can devote to a needy CF, an old friend, to worrying about the previous two items, etc. I just checked out. To be clear, Ann was a joy to have as a guest. But most of the stress of hosting is self-imposed. I felt myself lacking as a host and by 7PM on Sunday was excessively weary. Falling asleep face down in a pool (I can only imagine) of my own drool, I made myself an even less capable host. But it had to be done. Basic biological rules dictated as much. I woke up to the sound of Jesseca and Ann talking, and fresh pizza being served. Mirage or not it tasted quite nice and I regained some of my strength.

I believed I would need it as Monday was the day I was supposed to see Jen.

I had been really worried about seeing Jen. I hadn't seen her since leaving Seattle. Anyone who knows me knows the intensity of that relationship. Part of this fall was spent feeling really low, and generally awful, in part due to a moronic desire to rehash and rethink that relationship. So seeing Jen was inbued with a lot of psychic energy. Turns out, it didn't have to be. It was a great time. TDP came along and we just talked and had a good time. The best of all hoped for results was achieved. I remembered all the reasons I really like and respect Jen, and I was reminded that we shouldn't be together. So I left that dinner knowing I was in the right place in my life. Dating Jesseca is, and of course must be, very different. But on the whole, I'm really quite happy. We do a good job of listening to one another and make space for eachothers troubles and worries. Which is tricky, because I sometimes bring a lot of both to the conversation.

Simultaneously across town, Ann and Melissa (another ex) were sitting down to their first meeting since college. Our senior year ended poorly. Ann and Melissa did not speak at the end of college. Monday's dinner sounded quite pleasant. Apparently time does heal wounds, or at least bring focus to greater problems.

It's much easier to be angry about someone having something you want when you feel it's the only one. Melissa and Noah are happily (as best I can gather) dating and have been for a long time. The initial shitty part of any ended relationship is the realization that you've lost certainty. You've changed from one person back to the entire universe of options. And that opening of choices can be scary, especially when you don't know what's out there. Ie, I was irrationally frustrated for some of the fall at having "lost" Jen. A little perspective reminds me that, sure there is only one Jen, but that clearly wanting to be with Jen is silly. What I want are the good parts of that relationship. And there's no functional limit on the number of people with whom I could have those experiences. And what's more, I am having those kinds of great times with someone right now. It's pretty nice. A little bit of perspective, and some much needed medicine, and well, things start to make more sense. I'm in a better place (CF notwithstanding) than I have been in a long time.

As I return home from dinner I recall that tomorrow evening Trish will be coming to visit DC. This means that on Tuesday night, Washington DC (and its metro environs) housed every person I've ever "dated" in any real way. (and I realize that is a fairly strange definition, but go with me on this).

How strange. Not that it's a particularly large number, rather small in fact. But it made me laugh to think about all of them getting together.

Tuesday morning I got an email from Stacy. She asked if the week had met my sweet imagination. Many thanks to Paul Simon. It's the perfect summation.

If you took all the girls I knew
When I was single
And brought them all together for one night
I know they'd never match
my sweet imagination
everything looks worse in black and white

Ankles aweigh my boy, ankles aweigh.

Spent yet another day home on the couch with my ankle propped up. Fortunately it has moved from grapefruit-ishly swollen to softball and today I would say it was closer to a racquetball. Here's to tiddly winks in the near future.

There is a good deal less pain and quite a bit less swelling. Things are definitely moving in the right direction. There may even be some recovery lesson to be learned...ie, when you get hurt take it seriously and it'll go away more quickly. I guess that could be one of the lessons, but I'll give you even odds on whether I learn it.

I was, fortunately, able to work from home today. It's both reassuring and somewhat remarkable to me that I was basically just as productive working from home in my pajamas as I would have been in the office. And the music was better.

Speaking of which, while I was home in Ohio over break I was able to get to the Ipod store at Easton and my mini has been replaced. They gave me a brand new one. My old one was flawed in a severe way, it would just flash the logo and shut off...over and again. So I'm now the proud owner...again of a semi functional ipod. Spent a good deal of time the past few nights trying to make the software and hardware work together. I think I finally have it. hooray for technology.

It will be strange to be spending the night on the couch instead of the fields. Tonight is normally reserved for Gunston pickup. I love the lights and the astroturf and hate knowing that somewhere my friends are having fun and playing frisbee without me. Though clearly tonight I would not have much fun playing, but still it's the principle of the matter. Instead I will be eating leftover Indian take out with Jesseca. And we will both be icing our ankles. Her ankle has been messed up for a while. Couples ankle icing. Not quite as cool or TV worthy as couples figure skating, or ice dancing. I just hope she decides to come over, you know what they say about couples that ice their ankles together...they risk getting cold feet.

The photos, as promised

The photos.

There are a lot of Giles. Since I couldn't sky anyone I was left with the capacity to photograph others (giles, mainly) taking flight. After rehabing my ankle he better watch out, lest he end up on the unflattering end of some photos.

Big as grapefruit, yes sir.

New Years was quite pleasant. I spent it with good friends at Casa de Libby. We hung out, talked, drank a bit and shared our favorite memories from the past 365 days. The next morning many of us roused our somewhat addled and merriment-aftermathed selves and headed out for the Hangover Classic: the annual pickup game on January 1st. I rose (un-hungover) and biked down to the fields. Most of the early arrivals were older and not terribly strong players. A game began and I played well. About 10 points into the day (maybe 10:45am) I went up for a disc. In so doing, I planted (on the left, as always) and sprung upward. Except I planted directly on another players foot, my ankle began to roll as I was leaping. Halfway up I knew something was wrong. As I came down my foot was tucked under. And while I know very little about human physiology, I do know that shoe makers put the cleats on the bottom of shoes because feet work better when their bottoms make contact with the ground. Not surprisingly, when the top of your foot makes contact with the ground things are not going so well. I guess if my foot was supposed to work like that there would be cleats instead of laces there.

I went down. And stayed down.

Usually if I get hurt, I hobble off, collect some sympathy and maybe a handful of advil and then in a few minutes I'm back out there good as new. Almost immediately I knew it wasn't going to be like that. My ankle began to quiver. I can't really fully describe the feeling, but I like the term I used to explain it to Jared. I said, my ankle doesn't really hurt yet, but it's shaking, it's "scared." I stood up and my ankle worked alright. I tossed a little on the sidelines, and realized that simply throwing was hurting it. So I laid down, elevated my ankle, and took more Ibu. Soon thereafter Liz and Paul arrived and I began to wear Liz's anklebrace.

My ankle began to feel better so I was able to stay and watch my friends play. I heckled, and when Libby brought my camera (it was left at her place) I had a purpose. I was going to photograph the game I love. I took about 110 photographs. Many of them are wholly worthless, and only a few are even interesting. And from those few there are a couple that are particularly nice, or so I think.

I will post those photos here, or to flickr later today or later this week.

I'm able to post today because I'm not about to go to work. After frisbee I went with Paul and Jared to dinner and then to Paul's to watch the Redskins game. When I finally examined my ankle it was swollen to a degree I've never seen. Come to think of it, I've never had anything swell, and so it's somewhat novel to see your ankle look like a grapefruit. The novel visual was combined with the novel concept of intense pain. Usually I can walk most things off, or just kind of play through it or at least deal with it. This is something entirely different. Right now, walking the 8 steps (trust me I know how many it is) to the bathroom is incredibly painful. It's odd to fear having to use a body part. Very foreign.

On the plus side, I have a wonderful laptop. Wireless internet. And a chance to read the 10-15 books I've started.

This week promises to be an exciting one. Jesseca returns to DC today. Eager to see her. Ann comes on Thurdsday. Jen comes to town on Saturday. It's a cavalcade of exes. Since melissa lives in town, I could pretty easily have an ex girlfriend convention. We could have breakout sessions, topics like: Aaron's messy room: Was he raised in a barn?, or Beard, Goatee, Shadow or Clean Shaven: Tolerating the face of change.