On the road

I'm writing from the Clarion Inn at the Milwaukee airport. And it's just as sexy as you might imagine. Mismatched, or poorly matched furniture and partially functioning lighting. We're doing focus groups in Milwaukee tonight, having just come up from Chicago this morning. We did groups there last night. I say that I love to travel, but that's someting of a semantic error. I love to be in different places, the actual process of getting there is often just a bit stressful for me. Consider the following: I don't like lines, I don't like waiting, I don't like forms, I don't like the feeling that I might have forgotten something and I don't like being late. So those things mean that air travel can be a little taxing. Now, on the plus side there are some things I really love about travel. I adore falling asleep on planes. I'm good at it. I can fall asleep and remain asleep during takeoff and often during landing. I love looking out the window during flights and trying to use the land forms and roads as a clue about our geographic location. I love looking at mountains and contemplating the vastness of the US.

This trip has been long on the first list and shorter on the second. Aisle seat. View of tonsils of business traveller next to me. Flying over Ohio, not so thrilling.

But all the same it's nice to be out of DC. Travelling for work is a strange thing. My food is paid for, I stay in a room with air conditioning. I go to the gym every morning. I always eat three meals. I dress up. It's a lot like being a real adult. But it's awfully taxing. I return from every focus group to my giant hotel bed with a splitting headache. Something about watching 8 people talk about issues and trying to figure out what they're saying, what they're thinking, how we can use the information to help clients. All of that is oddly taxing. I went to bed last night with a migraine. I couldn't sleep so I stood the shower for 40 minutes trying to relax.

This morning we drove up from Chicago to Milwaukee. The work part of the trip has been great. I've been with my boss and a coworker. I'm learning a lot, and think I'm really contributing. good things, both.

I get back to DC tomorrow, and then leave again on Friday. This time for Wildwood. This time for fun. Paul, Liz and I are bringing a whole mess of friends to New Jersey for the Wildwood Beach Tournament. It's this giant fete on the beach. Silly stuff, and wonderful times. One of the best weekends of my last year was spent there. here's hoping for more of the same. Upon returning from New Jersey (Sunday) I pack my bags again. Because on Monday morning I fly to Denver. Do groups in Denver. Then fly to Fresno. Which today was 110 degrees. Thrillling. Then fly home. So much time on the road. And frankly I have such poor luggage for the task. A hiking backpack and a duffle bag. I look like I'm going to spring break not focus groups. But such is the life of the ill prepared.

The sad thing is that all the time of the road means I have less time to enjoy my new apartment. By which I mean our new apartment. Jess moved in this weekend and we set about fixing the place. We've been painting and carpeting (well, getting carpet, not actually installing) and cleaning and the like for about a month now. Last weekend we got her things into the place, got cable, rearranged the furniture (score 2 points for Aaron's persistence) and bought several metric tons worth of furniture and products from Ikea and Bed Bath and Beyond. The end result being a really stellar apartment. It looks so well put together. it's such a treat to look at and live in. Considerably nicer than my current location. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the capable and generous help of Ann, Shamik, Anne and Michelle in schlepping things from Jess' place to our new apartment. Hooray for good friends.

A couple of fun things from the Ikea/BBB trip:

Bar stools. Pretty sweet.

A new Poang chair. Red, reminds me of my grandma, really. I love it. Very cheerful and comfortable. Fitting, I guess.

New towels--though the towels were hard won. We spent what I believe I consider a Geneva convention violating 45 minutes in the towel section of BBB. Now, contrary to sexist stereotypes this was not because Jess was fretting and fussing. Though there was some of that. A good bit of that. The primary reason we spent 45 minutes there is because BBB seems to hate us. We picked out towels we liked, then tried to find another towel to match it. Nope. Sold out. Sold out of this kind of towel throughout the metro area. Picked another towel. Nope, no good. Another. Nope doesn't match the shower curtain. And so on. Eventually we found towels and are now really to be both clean, dry and well coordinated. Good deal.

All in all a productive trip to the stores. We contributed a good deal to whatever growth gets reported in the next economic analysis. Having nice things that match--apparently is pricey. Who knew.

Minor belly-aching aside--life is treating me well these days. I'm in a nice apartment with a great girlfriend and my job is getting better and better. I'm not feeling as good as I'd like, but certainly better than I was this time last month. I can't say I'm done with those feelings. And while the journey to get to feeling good again has been rough, I sure do love the destination. I guess I don't mind travel so much.

Potlatch

The first of what I hope are several Potlatch photos have started to trickle in, and are being emailed/posted.

Here's one of me hucking.



This huck is to Matt. Just after this photo, and 50-60 yards further downfield, he skies someone for a score.

More Seattle Photos

Jess and I at Lake 22.




























Seattle, the classic pose.

Preliminary Seattle Photos

Visiting Seattle was amazing. I miss the West. I miss the topography, the pace, the places. It was physically painful to fly over the mountains of Wyoming and Washington and know that I was only visiting. That these were foreign sights. I was a tourist, not a local.

That said, it was a great trip in some ways. The worries I had before I left remain. They were my second carry on, and followed me throughout. But I feel better now, and am mildly hopeful about the future. I want to feel more of that. I want to be my own previous/best self. But right now the breakthrough is slow to come, so I'll settle for progress, in any form, at any speed.

On Tuesday (July 4th), frisbee friends, Jess and I hiked Lake 22. It's a 5+ mile hike in the Glacier Peak region (Mt. Baker/Snoqualmie National Forest). It's incredible. One of the most beautiful places I have ever been. It made me sad to realize that such beauty is just an hour or so from Seattle, and seemingly much further from DC. Given the choice between mountains and monuments, I'm a sucker for topography.

Here are some photos of Lake 22. More to follow, as well as more about Potlatch--the very reason for the trip.



Someday I'll get back there. In the meantime, I'm grateful for the experience and glad I have the photos to conjure the memories.

Updates

So some basic updates:

Since I last posted I've been to a wedding. Aaron Bonner-Jackson got married and everything went off without a hitch...except well, you know Aaron and Kia. They got hitched, but in that good way. Jesseca and I went Greyhound up to Philly, met up with Dave and Neil. The four of us then piled into Dave's jetta and drove to Rochester. Dave's car lacks air conditioning, as did--we later learned--the states of PA and NY. It was hot as blazes, nearly 90 degrees. So long drive in small car with no AC..we were exhausted when we arrived. But the weekend was only just beginning. There was tux testing. Dinner. Go karting (ABJ lost, but you know that's alright). Paint ball (Cricket watches as you sleep). Good times. Rather than give a detailed summary, I'll give a very vague one. The weekend was great. ABJ looked, and was incredibly happy. Kia looked radiant. People drank and danced. No one made a fool of themselves. No one burst into tears and lamented that they'll never be married. All in all, good stuff.

So that was two weekends ago.

This weekend Jesseca and I began painting our apartment. I say ours because, well that's the appropriate term for something held in possession between or among two or more people. Dave moved out this Saturday and she's moving in. I think it'll be nice. We're struggling with painting, and recarpeting, and figuring out where to put all the stuff. it's daunting and tiring. Hopefully those things will be taken care of soon enough, and we'll get a chance to share a nice, pretty space together.

Sadly, at present we're sharing the place with some funk. Not the good james brown, george clinton, stevie wonder kind of funk. We're talking dank, stank, rank...funk. The torrential rains of the past few days have finally overwhelmed the not so impressive foundation of the basement and the back bedroom is soaked. The carpet is awful and reeks. Thankfully we were planning on replacing the carpeting already, so this just gives further impetus.

As for what's to come: tomorrow we leave for Seattle. I'm going to play at Potlatch (largest co-ed tournament in the world) and Jesseca gets to see family. I'll also meet some family members and generally get to putz around Seattle with good friends from DC, Jesseca, and others. Should be quite a week (we're back on July 5). I haven't been back to Seattle in more than a year. Given the weather we've been having here in DC, I'm excited for the dry forecast in Seattle. How strange is that, I'm flying to Seattle to escape the rain.

All in all good stuff. And yet, all that said, I've been, of late, somewhat anxious, unsettled, nervous, worried. I have this sense like I'm not really moving towards things. I feel, as I have before, like I'm drifting not rowing through life. I don't know what I want to be different, but I get the sense that soon I'll find out. Or at least that's the hope. I want to feel motivated and excited again. I think that's when I'm most happy, most fun to be around, and most fully "Aaron." Maybe this trip, the new living situation, some distance from home, or discovering some new hobby (artisinal cheese making?) will help get me "out of this rut and back into the groove." Here's hoping.

Expect photos of Seattle, and maybe a few good stories about Potlatch, Mt. Rainier, and the various wonders of the West.

Grills

Jess and I went shopping at Ikea and HomeDepot this weekend. Many purchases--couch cover, wine rack, magnetic knife rack, new dishes, urethane, basil, potting soil, but really the best purchase was a semi-fancy new grill. It was odd the degree to which buying a grill made me feel manly. Or at least, man-like. Charcoal, of course. I'm not some sissy who cooks with gas. I'm a man. Give me a dead tree pressed into a brickette, and doused in liquid rocket fuel.

Unfortunately for my sanity, as we walked into the aisle with the grills and supplies a certain song jumped into, and has remained locked in, my consciousness.

Grills, all I really want is grills
And at dinner it's grills
Cause for the cooking it's grills

I like the way that they look
And it's great to use 'em to cook
And I can always make them hot
Piling brickettes in one spot

I bought one just the other day
Mockin' A-Leav to my dismay

Grills - to do the chicken
Grills - to make steak tips
Grills - to heat up salmon
Grills - and in the backyard
Grills, that's all I really want is grills
Charcoal not gas, I want grills
With new attachments I want grills
I ought to whip out my grills, grills, grills, grills, grills!

Neither a borrower...

On the way into work today I was listening to NPR (my new phone gets FM reception--pretty spiffy) and heard an excerpt from Hillary Clinton's acceptance speech of the Democratic nomination for senate. Pretty standard stuff, really. I found an article in the New York Daily News that quoted the speech, see if you can guess what part(s) set me off:

"We need new leadership," she declared. "We're going to see that this November. We're going to start electing Democrats. America's going in that direction. If we stand together as Democrats, with hard work we will take our country back."

If you guessed the part where she completely ripped off Howard Dean, you win a prize. Your prize is a festering righteous anger at mainline Democrats marginalizing Dean then when politically convenient scooping up his ideas and running with them--all without recognition of the act. Here's the thing, for Hillary Clinton to talk about taking our country back is somewhat skewed. She's not taking her country back, she's getting it back from her neighbor to whom she lent it. She eagerly offered up power and support to bad ideas and bad bills because she thought it expedient. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, Hillary.

And besides, it's not taking our country back, it's more like when you bug your neighbor to return your weedeater.

The New York Daily News goes on to explain:

In what often sounded like an Iowa stump speech, Clinton trashed the Bush administration on everything from the environment to the deficit to foreign affairs to energy policy to the gutting of FEMA.

It sounded a lot like a specific Iowa stump speech. Let's see, I think I remember who said that, oh right, Howard Dean, whom Clinton fans disparaged and tried to derail.

One of Two Things.

I can't claim to be an American Idol viewer. I've seen all of 30 minutes of the show, ever. I understand why it's popular.

There's a fading Laker girl, a man who calls everyone "dawg" and a cruel British guy. Makes sense, that's a good start for entertaining the masses. Oh, and there are people embarrasing themselves singing songs everyone knows. It's like karaoke meets MST3K. I get it.

But not being a viewer I miss out on a lot of the details. Recently I heard there was a guy (who now I learn has won) Taylor Hicks who talks about "Soul Patrol." First the term "Soul Patrol" seems like a shitty buddy cop/CHIPS movie staring Ice Cube and Cedric the Entertainer. Like Soul Plane, but you know...with cops. So this Hicks fellow irks me for that reason. Also troubling is the stipulation that contestants must be younger than 28. While I grant that Taylor Hicks has been --at one point in his long life--only 28, I doubt that is the case at present.


28, I think not. Also am I the only one who thinks that Taylor Hicks looks like the love child of Jay Leno and Benny Hinn?



So that's one of the odd things about American Idol.

The second for me is the voting. I'm astonished by the vote totals this show gets. And every season there's some "scandal" about rigged voting. People get more upset with rigged voting for a show about the next Big Singing Star* than say a Presidential election. Thrilling.

This quote from a Fox executive in the Washington Post addresses concerns about voting:

"Fox, of course, vigorously defends 'Idol.' "The producers and network have gone to great lengths to ensure the integrity of the voting process, Fox spokesman Scott Grogin said in a statement. 'America votes, an independent company calculates the tally, and the show reports those results. While acknowledging that dedicated fans may be unhappy with the outcome, 'American Idol's' process -- the most sophisticated voting system in existence -- only reports the decision of the voting public.'"[emphasis added]

W/r/t this statement, one of two things is true: 1) American Idol's vote process is the most sophisticated voting system in existence and therefore the world is a depressing and horrible place. If that's true, why are we paying Diebold this money? Shouldn't we just have America text message some company with our presidential selection. 2) The other option is that Fox is lying and the process isn't the most amazing one in existence, in which case they should seriously just shut the fuck up. It's a show, and not a very important one at that. They're determining who will get signed to a record contract. Time was that these things were settled by young aspiring singers sleeping with producers or sealed over a line of coke. It's not some great holy process. You'd think American Idol was the new version of the conclave. Instead of white smoke it's text messages from pimply teens and disturbing karaoke fans. The process doesn't have to be perfect--you're picking a singer, not a pope or a president.

Pitchers.

Over the weekend BRDM played a tournament up near Philly. Actually we were closer to Kennett Square, which also, we later learned served as the location of the hospital for Barbaro. Thankfully none of our injuries this weekend were so severe that we had to consider putting anyone down. Paul hurt his hamstring, but I think we'll just put him out to stud.

We lost more than we won, but we improved dramatically this weekend. We started to make more and better cuts, and make better decisions. All in all a really rewarding weekend. I managed to avoid any great injury, so I was pleased in that regard.

As with every tournament there was a lot of random chatter and bizarre (or bizaro-charles) comments/commentary. My favorite line from the weekend came from Keith (also of RAZE). We're ordering drinks and so forth at this Italian restaurant near the hotel and Keith asks if they have "pitchers." The waitress eagerly says, "Yes." Keith asks for a pitcher of Miller Lite to which the waitress replies: "We only have wine in pitchers." Now I have to imagine she means caraffes, because I can't imagine a place that would be so low class as to serve wine in a beer pitcher. Though I guess I'd have to admit I'd like to go to just such a place. Tired from a day of ultimate, and just looking to get some beer, Keith asks with some frustration creeping into his voice, "Well, then can I just have a couple of beers."

I don't know that "can I just have a couple of beers" will seem funny to anyone else. But to me, it's this wonderful line. It's forlorn, and earnest, hopeful and pathetic. Congrats to Keith for the line of the weekend, in my mind.

Iran.

Iran is considering forcing all non-Muslims to wear cloth that indicates their faith. Christians get red, Zoroastrians blue...and in an obvious homage to attrocities gone by, Jews would wear yellow.

I don't believe in comparing people to Hitler. I think it's a useless analogy and one that simply prevents rational discussion. But I don't imagine that's going to stop a great many people from invoking those comparisons here.

Decisions based on poor analogies are dangerous, and considerably moreso when the analogies are drawn to reinforce a pre-existing political goal. I would love to believe that in the face of such awful human rights violations that our government would work together and try to solve this problem. What I do believe is that the administration will use this to further its electoral goals. They will paint Democrats as weak, as having not learned the lessons of the Holocaust. In 2002 Democrats were compared to Osama Bin Laden, now it'll be Neville Chamberlin, and images of death camps.

I would like to believe that our national goal will be to solve the problem--to see to it that religious minorities in Iran are not singled out and persecuted. That's a goal worth working toward, but I imagine this may simply be a tool to futher bludgeon one another.

Here's another thought: it's been in the parliament for 2 years. where has the Bush administration been those past two years. where was their concern then? where was their pressure then?

Where should I go.

For the past 5 years I have been a proud owner and a frequent user of a Northwest Airlines VISA card. I've been dutifully using the card to earn miles and after living in Minnesota and Seattle--both NWA hubs--I've earned a goodly number of miles, roughly 77,000.

So now that I have all these miles, what should I do with them? I'm trying to think of places that I could visit. I don't really want to use this (these) free ticket on something mundane, or something that would under normal circumstances be a small fee. So flying to Boston, or even Seattle seems pointless.

Assuming (unrealistically) that getting time off for travel wasn't a concern where should I go? Why should I go there? Would you want to come along? What would I do?

London?
Anchorage?
Hawaii?
Rome?

It costs 25,000 miles to travel in the lower 49 (not Hawaii)
35,000 to Hawaii
50,000 to Southern South America
50,000 to Europe
60,000 to Asia

English

So last night during the speech Bush talked about immigrants learning English, and in some respects I agree with the concept. I think learning English is a good step to improving one's life here. But I find it silly this notion that there are millions of people who are actively trying to avoid learning English.

But declaring that everyone should learn math, or everyone should learn how to use a PC isn't the same thing as making that possible. I think that many people's lives would be improved if they spoke and wrote English, could balance a check book, could prepare healthy meals, could write poetry, etc. But to assume that the millions who don't know English will learn it because we have decreed it seems moronic.

Wouldn't it be great if instead of bluster, Bush had said he was going to build upon AmeriCorps and encourage/incentivize 50,000 young people between 22-26 to serve their country by taking a 1 year training program, and then pledging to teach English and civics to immigrants for 2 years. The classes would be free and available nights and weekends. And in return the AmeriCorps members would receive tuition reimbursement and a stipend.

Black or White.

It appears I'm on some sort of a color kick with these last two posts.

This weekend RAZE (my clique team) played in the second round of the WAFC playoffs. Generally an unpleasant experience. I found the other team annoying, generally unpleasant. Our team came out flat, and played poorly. The weather threatened rain all day...basically it wasn't much fun. It was, however, made that much worse by the asshole-ity of the other team. Several examples come to mind the most illustrative is this.

They chose to wear white and so we were red. One person on our team wore a black jersey because he didn't have a red. Midway through the first half one of their guys puts up an ill advised throw and it gets D'ed by our guy who is wearing a black jersey. The thrower comes up to me and says, "Can you have him change into a red?" I was incredulous and asked, "Because it's too hard to tell his black jersey from your team's whites?" and he said, "Yes."

To recap, this guy was having trouble distinguishing between his player's white jersey and my teamates black. Granted, I'd rather that we were all in red, no doubt about that, but to complain that you turned it over because you confused a black jersey for white is just moronic.

The other telling instance from the game came on game point. One of their players fell and caught the disc, and thinking he was in the endzone sprinted around, spiked the disc and began screaming and gesturing like he'd won the World Championship of Greatness and the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness in the Field of Coolness. Several problems:

1) COORDINATION He fell down while catching the disc, no layout, no jump. Dude was barely able to manage the dual tasks of motion and catching without great failure.

2) COMPETITION He caught the winning score in a quarterfinal game in clique B league, in Washington DC. A quarter final game in a secondary level league, in a tertiary or worse level region. To further illustrate the arrogance, think of the clip of Jordan celebrating his game winning shot over Craig Ehlo. But instead of it being the NBA playoffs, imagine if you acted like that when you beat your friends playing miniature golf in 7th grade.

3) RESPECT You don't spike in Clique League, and certainly not in a game where the final score is 15-10. It was neither close nor terribly dramatic. But to spike and galavant around is just poor sportsmanship. This is the same player who earlier in the game grabbed and took hold of the disc when I faked a throw. He just reached out and grabbed the disc. A clear violation. I called him on it and his response was (maybe he was joking, I couldn't tell) "You put it in my hand."

4) REALITY He wasn't in the endzone. That's right, dude decides to behave like a moron and disrespect everyone...and doesn't have the courtesy to actually score. Instead he falls down, gets up and runs around, spikes the disc and carries on like a crazy man -- only, he never, at any point, reached the endzone, didn't even run into it. So our sideline calls turnover. He did, afterall, drop/throw the disc so we gain possession where he spiked the disc.

To further explain how annoying his team was, their sidelines were shouting that we shouldn't get possession because before spiking it he travelled. I called back, being a bit saucy myself, "It's alright, we never called travel, so we'll just take the turnover. But thanks for your concern."

All in all a frustrating game and a sad one. I love ultimate. I love the idea of ultimate. But I find myself playing more and more games with people who behave rudely, crassly or are just plain violent. It's sad. I don't know what I can do about it, but I miss the game I fell in love with. The game where there's more pressure to do the right thing than to win. I still get yelled at by my sidelines for calling myself out of bounds too often. I figure I'd rather win without any qusetion as to my honor, and if I can't win that way then I guess I have to train harder. Sadly that ethic seems in danger. Makes me sad.

I guess as games become more competitive and players more aggressive it becomes harder to see that line. It's harder to tell when you're in bounds (literally and metaphorically). The line is being blurred, what was once as clear as black and white is now harder to see.

Red or White...

One of the most basic tests of wine knowledge is matching wine to food. From what I'm told certain foods are best paired with certain wines. White wines go with fish, red with heavier meats--things like that. Knowing when to order a red vs. a white is something of a testament to ones sophistication, a mark of at least some understanding of viniculture, etc.

American politics seems to have a similar test. For the first year or so after Congressional elections the Republican Congress seems to focus its energies on delivering benefits and monetary rewards to the affluent and well connected. No bid contracts, expensive and pointless projects. There are many names for it, corruption is a popular one, greed works as well, some people like to use the term pork. The other white meat.

But then there's a moment where the focus changes. I think we're at that moment, again. It's right about this time of year when Republicans go from pork to beef, from white meat to red meat. For the next few months we should expect great anguished cries about the denigration of Christian values. Should be a whole lot of hating the gays, a whole lot of talk about the flag, and 10 Commandments.

In fact, it's not even a secret. From today's Christian Science Monitor

"GOP leaders are gearing up to bring a number of issues on the Christian conservative agenda to the floor of the House and Senate in the next few weeks, including gay marriage, broadcast decency, the 10 Commandments Act, a cloning ban, and laws protecting "under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance."

Yup, it's red meat time again. Let's bash some gays, defend the millions of horribly oppressed Christians--you know the people who run and have run the government and other institutions of power for the entirety of our country's history.

Neat.

So Liz just emailed me. Apparently there is a photo of me laying out from Fools Fest.
Neat.



Yes, I catch it. In some ways it is among the most startling catches I've made. Just after this photo, the disc caught a wind current and moved closer to my body. I couldn't get my fingers under the rim, but I scooped and cradled the disc against my chest. I managed to catch this one without using my fingers. It'll never happen again, and I can't tell you what made me think it would work. It's pretty cool to see yourself on film. I guess there's a lot of ego wrapped up in that, and maybe that's wrong. But I love ultimate. I think I play pretty well and frankly it's one of the few places where I like seeing photos of myself. Normally I hate it, but I love photos of me playing. Mainly because I love playing. So now I have one.

Progress

Small but real victories....

Walked into a local CD store and was easily able to find both Built to Spill's newest album and Josh Ritter's. How's that for progress.

In other news of progress, all this going to the gym seems to be having some sort of effect on the shape and capacity of my muscles. Namely they are more bulbous...it's like they're getting larger. And a corresponding discovery seems to be that they can exert more force. Strange things, both. No complaints. Just strange to look at myself in the mirror and wonder whose arms I'm seeing.

Shamnesty

Shamnesty (adj) a bill the pretends to offer amnesty and opportunity, but is really a sham.

I'm proud of my little neologism (a GRE word) "shamnesty" though I worry that it'll far too often be applicable in the next few weeks.

Taxes

I'm settling in this week and beginning to face the task of filing my taxes. As a progressive I don't really mind paying my taxes. I like the idea that my taxes go to programs that educate children, fund roads, help pay for the arts, support scientific research. All good things. I'm less thrilled when my tax dollars go to a misguided war and creating another Halliburton millionaire. So that hurts a little. Oh, and I realize I'm paying the government for the right to live in a country where I have no federal representation. I seem to remember a catchy phrase that summed this up.

Let's see... "When in doubt, I whip it out. Got me a rock an roll band it's a free for all." No that's not it.

If it does not fit, you must acquit.

Nope not that one. Well anyway, I'm sure it'll come to me.

My main frustration with tax season is two fold.
1) as a person who has worked for many employers in many states in the past few years, tax time is a dizzying array of municipalities, governments and employers taking, deducting, refunding, contributing and taxing my money. To say nothing of the several states from which I have received refunds, or unemployment benefits in the same time. It's maddening. This year, the most sane in a while, still features 3 separate W2 forms and 4 separate states. Yuck.

2) The government knows what the right answer is. That's the frustrating part. You fill out your taxes trying to get the right answer. But all along there is a predetermined answer, that you're supposed to arrive at. So it's a little annoying. It's like if the electric company asked you to estimate how much your bill should be and then had the power to punish you for getting it wrong. I'd much rather get a bill from the government for my share of the nation's efforts. That'd be much nicer and less stressful.

So my hope is that I'll have ONE job for the next 12 months and have ONE state of residence and ZERO unemployment. That'd be pretty terrific.

All my favorite singers*...

Last night I saw Silver Jews live. It's only the 8th time they've ever played a live show. It was amazing. I'll post more about it, and certainly tell you anything and everything you could ever want to know if you wanna ask me. I spent the entire concert about 10 feet from David Berman. Front row. I cannot stress how close to the stage I was...during the opening bands, I was siting on the stage. That's how close I was.

Wonderful show. Just terrific.

After the show, Mark jumped on stage and retreived for me the set list used by Cassie Berman the bass player and D Berman's wife. Needless to say I was the envy of many of the other geeky SJ fans in attendance.

The set list is here. I think it's particularly endearing that the set list includes the chords for the songs. I guess when you never tour it's harder to remember how to play all the songs.



Sadly they didn't play the second encore (Inside the Golden Days of Missing You). But it was so good that I can't say I really minded in the least.



*From "we are real" which they didn't play, alas. Hopefully in years to come I'll be able to hear them again. How exciting.

"Repair is the dream
of the broken thing.
Like a message broadcast
on an overpass.
All my favorite singers couldn't sing."

Jogging

According to my PT I'm making good progress. I've even been cleared to start jogging. With this permission I went to the gym and ran on Wednesday. It was delightful. I don't normally enjoy running. The oft referenced runners high doesn't seem to work for me, maybe I'm doing it wrong. I get a high which I'd imagine is not unlike smoking oregano. Not so effective.

But running on Wednesday was perfect. I ran 3 minutes and walked 2 and did this for 20 minutes. The walking was per PT's orders. Not from fatigue.

First 3 minutes: 7mph, or roughly 8:30 mile.
Second 3 minutes: 7.5mph or closer to 8 minute mile
Third 3 minutes: 8mph or about 7:30 minute mile.
Fourth 3 minutes: 9mph or a scorching and liberating 6:30 minute mile.

Again, it's a long way to go, and 3 minutes of running even at a brisk pace isn't comparable to playing game 3 on a Sunday at a tournament. But it's a start. And a reassuring one at that.

PT says I'll be able to play at FoolsFest. Not as much as I'd like, and clearly not as well as I'd like. But knowing that I'll get to play is such a treasure. Such a great feeling. Here's hoping I don't step off any curbs or do anything stupid in the next few weeks.

Corpse foot is no more, it's been replaced with shiny sleek foot. I shaved my ankle to make taping it easier and less painful. Pretty sexy, I might add. So I've entered the world of the ankle tapers. Here's to a brief visit.

Boston

Heading to Boston this weekend to see Mark and Stacy. Oh, and the Silver Jews. I'm so excited. They've never toured before. I've heard some of the mp3s from the first two concerts in Georgia and it's amazing. I can't believe in a few days I'll be watching the 6th (or maybe it's the 7th) concert ever for SJ. Should be great.

Letter to Dobson

Mark just sent me this letter that Samuel Alito is supposed to have sent to James Dobson of Focus on the Family.

"Dear Dr. Dobson:
This is just a short note to express my heartfelt thanks to you and the entire staff of Focus on the Family for your help and support during the past few challenging months.

I would also greatly appreciate it if you would convey my appreciation to the good people from all parts of the country who wrote to tell me that they were praying for me and for my family during this period.

As I said when I spoke at my formal investiture at the White House last week, the prayers of so many people from around the country were a palpable and powerful force.

As long as I serve on the Supreme Court I will keep in mind the trust that has been placed in me. I hope that we'll have the opportunity to meet personally at some point in the future. In the meantime my entire family and I hope that you and the Focus on the Family staff know how we appreciate all that you have done.

Sincerely yours,
Samuel Alito

That's not a letter. It's Dobson's receipt.

.sigh.

"Tourists Want The Hammer"

Yesterday, on what turned out to be a magnificent day, Liz, Jesseca and I headed down to the National Gallery for some ice skating. Some clarification may be in order: 1) there is an ice skating rink outside the National Gallery, we were not recreating scenes from LA Story; and 2) WE were not skating at all, THEY were skating. The last time I went ice skating was as a senior in college. To describe my efforts that evening as ice skating is much like comparing a toddler who pulls himself up to stand using the coffee table to Martha Graham. In each case the participant is wholly overmatched by gravity, entirely without grace, barely stable, and eager to celebrate even the most basic level of proficiency--which in due course returns them to their humbled normative status. Oh and there's also a good chance that in each case their failure has made their pants wet. As a senior Charlotte and I went to the rink and I tried my best to skate. I really did. The first major problem seems to be that to skate one needs ankles that are built like the Israeli embassy in Syria. I'm talking reinforced, structurally impenetrable ankles. I don't have those. Even before injuring my ankle I had ankles with more sway than Jack Abramoff at a Young Republican Convention, more wobble than a truckload of Weebles. When not outright falling on my kness, ass, side, etc I was trying to gain traction by putting weight on the inside of my ankles. So then, in this fantasy underwhich I labored, I could push off and glide effortlessy around the rink. Not so much. I found myself with the balls of BOTH ankles about 1 inch off the surface of the ice. A transgression against my knees and ankles that I will probably pay for all at once when I turn 30.

All of this is simply a longwinded and sorta self indulgent way of explaining that when Liz and Jesseca went skating, I went sitting. I sat and photographed them as they skated. Apparently when you grow up in Alaska and are under constant threat of being killed by polar bears, penguins and the Ruskies learning to skate efficiently and without routine ass-ice encounters is a good thing. At least that's the story I tell myself to explain why Jesseca can really skate. Charlotte could as well. I guess if you live in a place where SNOW isn't a four letter word then maybe skating is more common. (and yes I know about the number of letters in snow...geez, no faith).

Liz was also quite a strong skater and got better as the afternoon wore on. All in all watching people skate is pretty pleasant. Several former figure skaters showed up and they (women, both) had incredible grace and even staged a little skate off. My favorite of the two was, I believe, more graceful, but the other woman could jump. She completed a single toe loop (I think that's the one) which means that in the vernacular of the times, my girl got served. But what can you do. I can't ever pick winners. For the record, neither Jesseca nor Liz fell. Nearly an hour of skating, all of it on ice no less...and no falling. I can't play an hour of ultimate without hitting the ground. Oh well.

After skating we headed over to the Mall and threw a frisbee. That's right I got to throw a frisbee, and what's more Jesseca did too. Last weekend she asked me to teach her to throw. It's such an important thing in my life she (wonderfully) asked to learn how to do it and get a better sense of what the hell we (most of my friends) were talking about. It's hard to explain how nice it is that Jesseca wants to learn. If she never plays or doesn't ever want to toss again that'll be fine. Just the thought and effort to risk a little embarassment and discomfort to learn about what I love, well that's a big deal to me.

The good news is, she's really quite good. For a person who never really played a fine motor sport (tennis, golf, baseball, hockey, soccer) to pickup frisbee is pretty incredible. She has what is becoming a solid backhad and is working on a pretty good foundation for a forehand. More impressively, she can catch. She moves towards the disc to catch it. She doesn't back away, and she seems to intuitively read the disc, taking a good angle of attack. All of which is pretty fucking cool. But again, if she doesn't ever want to do it again..so be it.

Yesterday however, the three of us tossed on the Mall. To set the stage you have to picture a glorious 45 degree day. It's sunny. I'm with my girlfriend and one of my closest friends in DC. Behind Jesseca is the Capitol Dome and behind Liz is the Washington Monument. I'm getting to throw a frisbee and teach someone I love to do something I love. So all in all...it's a good day. But can it get better, oh yes. Oh yes indeed. After a somewhat errant throw by Liz--actually it was barely above my outstretched arm which if I could jump would be incredibly easy, but instead I watched sail over me. Grrr. I ambled over to get the disc and two tourists came to meet me at the disc and asked for directions to the Holocaust Museum. I ably gave them directions (which still feels cool and reminds me I really live here) and as they were leaving they asked me: "Can you throw a hammer?" I spun around and fired off a beautiful hammer to Jesseca which went about 15 feet over her head, so maybe beautiful is the wrong term here. As I threw I shouted, "Tourists Wanted the Hammer."* You gotta listen to the fans. Always.



*For the non-players in my readership, ultimate players will often heckle one another into taking stupid risks and making bad throws. The most common heckle is for a player on the sideline to shout to a teamate, "Fans want the hammer." Ostensibily trying to trick them into throwing a silly throw. Yeah, I know it sounds lame, and maybe it is, but it's also fun to taunt. So that a fan/tourist ACTUALLY wanted me to throw a hammer, well that's just too much for me to pass up.

Unremarkable

After quite a bit of hassle with scheduling and trying to work with my doctor (who remains a dreadful moron) I managed to get an appointment for an MRI. Initially WRA (Washington Radiology Associates) had me scheduled for an MRI without contrast. Without contrast, as best I can ascertain, means that I don't have to have both ankles filmed and don't have to get a shot. So I was pretty jazzed about without contrast, and even better it is far more common so there are more slots available. Well, this was not to be. My doctor insisted on getting my MRI with contrast. He never explained why, but I thought, he does have a degree there is at least an outside chance that he knows what's wrong and how best to fix it. Yeah, that's simply wishful thinking.

Getting the MRI with contrast meant I had to wait an additional three weeks to get my ankle scoped, by which time they would actually be using Carbon-14 dating to figure out what was wrong with my ankle. Needless to say I wasn't excited about this, but I had little choice. My doctor wouldn't send me to an orthopedist until I had the MRI. So I waited. After less than three weeks a slot opened up and I was seen early. Hooray! I dutifully fasted before the MRI in preparation for the contrast procedure.

Here's the thing, contrast wasn't necessary. You know why? Because, according to the technician, you get contrast MRI when you suspect cancer or when there has been surgery in the area. See these are things that a doctor should know. It makes me wonder if presented with the option to prescribe a Super Duper MRI with a Half Twist if he'd do so. I half expect to be sent to get tested by the LHC. I'm sure there is some test they could perform on my ankle.

So since I don't have any reason to suspect cancer and haven't had surgery I was tested without contrast. The Tech, despite knowing something about contrast, was yet another thread in the fabric of medical ineptitude I've faced in DC. It's a garment of incredible itchiness, and bereft of use. It's like some kind of burlap do-rag. Something that pointless. This tech asked how I'd injured myself, and I said I was playing ultimate frisbee and sprained my ankle. He looked at me with pure uncensored condescencion. "Ultimate frisbee, are there professionals for that." No, I replied. But there are World Championships, which football doesn't have. Yeah, it's a pointless argument, but all the same, it's annoying to defend your injury. As I'm about to go into the tube he tells me, "Yours is the second worst injury I've ever seen. The worst was some guy who got hurt skateboarding. He was 35!!" Basic message is that getting hurt playing frisbee is preposterous. Not a pleasant fellow.

The procedure, for those who haven't had one, is about 45 minutes of laying down inside a giant tube/tunnel. Sometimes the tunnel makes a low humming sound, other times it sounds like a broken unoiled Transformer trying to convert into something else. It's loud. But I've found that I can fall asleep in nearly any position and at nearly any time, if I really want or need to. So I fell asleep during my MRI. As so many other things are, it's a badge of perverse honor.

So that was the process of getting an MRI. But wait, I still had to get my results. This required at least 4 phone calls to my doctor to find out if they received the report. Finally I was told that they had the report and that I had something wrong, "a tear maybe, I think it was something in your meniscus, though I'm not really sure. Can't remember." Now anyone who has had as many friends with knee injuries as I have knows the meniscus is located there and not for instance in ones ankle. It's only fitting that my doctor's office continues to confuse the knee and the ankle. It's not a new problem for them.

Not trusting my doctor I wanted to get my results on my own. I called WRA and eventually got my report.

As I'd long suspect I had a Grade II sprain. I tore my anteriorfibular ligament and the calcaneofibular ligament. After some time on WebMD I have a sense of where those are and what they do. Basically they are the ligaments that prevent inversion (or eversion, I think) of the ankle. They're the basic ligaments that you tear when you hurt your ankle. It's a pretty solid injury, nothing to poo-poo, but I didn't get all the way (thankfully) to Grade III.

My favorite part of the MRI report was this passage:

There is no evidence of plantar fasciitis. The extensor tendons are unremarkable. The surrounding musculature is also unremarkable, no mass identified.

Here's the thing. I have been trying to go to the gym, and I've been working on my calves. I KNOW they're unremarkable. They're sorta scrawny and best described as an empty roll of paper towels. But come on, do you really have to call them unremarkable, and without mass. Jerks.

Longing

In preparation for Libby's Minnesota Party (quite exciting, really) I've been trying to think of a suitable costume. I feel some (self imposed) pressure to come up with something good. Afterall I'm something of an adopted Minnesotan and take a certain measure of silly pride in being able to come up with funny, inventive suggestions for others. But I'm struggling for myself. I have some notions, but nothing that sets me to tizzying (yes, I've made it a verb). What of it?

So I went in search of inspiration. I found this web site of photos of Minneapolis. No help with the costume, but man do I miss living there. I love it here in DC, don't get me wrong. I'm fortunate to have great friends. I have a good job. I have an easy commute. I don't have to drive. And yet, there are times when I dearly miss Minneapolis (and others when it's for Seattle that I Pine*). Something about the neighborhoods, the easy sensibility of the place just appeals to me. I love the lakes, the parks, the sculpture garden. I never have this longing about Westerville. I wish I did. I wish I were as zealous about my hometown as I am about my adopted homes.

I just don't feel connected spiritually, culturally, aesthetically or politically to Central Ohio. I can name more political leaders and restaurants in Minneapolis than in Westerville or Columbus. I'm not sure why that is, but it's very much the case.

I don't know if I'd want to live there now. I think I'd really miss my friends and Winter is quite strong in Minneapolis. But man, do I miss being there. Oh well. At least I have photos.

*(Sometimes I also Pike for Seattle)

Be careful what you wish for.

While perusing BoingBoing.net (which for what it's worth is probably the best site on the internet, and in my estimation exactly the reason there is and should be an internet) I saw this article on the last pre-neolithic a tribe in the world. This tribe, which lives in the Pacific, numbers about 50-200 people and has assaulted those who've made attempts to colonize or interact. Essentially it's a tribe of people who still hunt and gather and great modern visitors to the island with a shower of arrows.

This section of the article was particularly bothersome:

On some visits the party would see Sentinelese; on others they would not. Invariably, however, they would try to land - at a place out of bow-shot, if there were natives on the beach - and leave gifts. These included sacks of coconuts, bananas, and bits of iron conveniently sized to be hammered and scraped into arrowheads; occasionally they brought special presents like mirrors, red ribbons, rubber balls, and bead necklaces.

It's funny, or maybe horribly sad that people keep leaving things in the hopes of triggering some desire to make tools.I wonder why everyone is so eager to make them like us. The whole reason they are interesting is that they're not. If they became a tribe with access to rubber balls and spatulas...wouldn't that be destroying the very entity causing our amazement, curiosity and wonder. It's as if people cannot help themselves they feel a need to destroy something so different so amazing. It's bothersome, to say the least. On the other hand the Sentinelese seem to be doing a fine job of mainting their space by launching arrows at fat interlopers.

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.

Top Ten Songs of the Year

While making a playlist/cd for tonight's party (Libby and I are cohosting a New Year's party at her place) I thought back to all the strange places I've been in the past 365 days, and the music that has been the soundtrack to those travels and travails.

Turns out it's not quite what I would expect.

Here are the songs I've played the most on my laptop

New Slang by the Shins. Not sure it's going to change my life, but it sure got played a lot.
Changes--Tupac. I guess it's fitting that in a year filled with changes, this became a semi-anthem
HOVA--Jay Z. What can I say, when do you not want to hear the live version of HOVA. Never.
Forgot about Dre--Eminem. Apparently I did not forget about Dre. In fact I remembered him a lot.
Popular Mechanics f0r Lovers--Beulah. This song was on repeat throughout August. It's fucking inspired.
Raise Up--Petey Pablo. This is part of my pregame psych up mix, so it got a lot of play. Plus I captained a team named Raze...so you have to figure I played this twice or three times before every game we played. Like I said, a lot.
July, July--The Decemberists. Just as PMFL was August's soundtrack, this song was September's. All day, nearly everyday. Great song, strange, Neutral Milk Hotely. Worth a listen.
Yeah--Lil Jon and Usher. Um, yeah, I listened to this a lot. Usually involved me gesticulating around my kitchen in some strange new variation on Tom Cruise's Risky Business dance. Needless to say I'm glad people don't walk by too often. Yikes.
Jesus Walks--Kanye West. Part of the psych up cd. After watching Jarhead I couldn't get enough of this song. The opening 8 notes or so are like musical crack. As familar as the bum bum from Law and Order.
Down to the River to Pray--Allison Krause. A new favorite. A late bloomer, it became a huge part of November's music for me. Wonderous.
Such Great Heights--Postal Service. This song defines my time in Seattle. So it's with mixed feelings that I think about it. I cannot hear it without thinking of the Spaceneedle, and sadly, without thinking of Jen. I recently realized that it's again song that I enjoy listening to. For a while it was like picking at a scab, not that that stopped me. But now it's back to a good song that makes me think of the good times in Seattle, and with Jen....but without me feeling bad about my life now. I guess that's part of the lesson of this year.

I finish this year on a much stronger mental footing (strange image, I know) than last year, and certainly than a lot of this year. I'm happy with work, I have amazing friends, and I'm enjoying dating Jesseca. In fact it's going really quite well. Do I sometimes have miss things with Jen--or at least have bitter sweet thoughts.? Of course. Do I sometimes miss Seattle, or have those same bitter sweet thoughts (ie, it's so beautiful...but oh, right, it's also rainy and dark)? Yes. Do I miss DAPAC? Fuck no. I realized just how fortunate I am upon my return to DC. I was planning on Metroing home but earlier in the day got an email from Paul asking if I'd like a ride. I replied quickly and affirmatively. Right after I landed I got a phone call from Liz. "We're outside, have you landed?"

Me: "we?"

Liz: "Sure, we all came."

Paul, Liz and Libby had all come to pick me up at the airport. My friends. Nearly enough to make me weep. I'm a fortunate man. This year made me wonder about my luck and worth a few times. But in the end, I leave it feeling more confident and loved than ever before. Not too shabby.

While cleaning my desk at work.

Woody Allen once famously said that 80% of life is just showing up. Yesterday at work that percent approached 100. Work was a cobbling together of effort at appearing busy with the full recognition that it was on all accounts recognizably false. I moved papers, quite literally across my desk. Piles of reports moved like the shadow on a sundial, charting my progress through the day. While cleaning I did come across a notebook that I bought immediately before visiting DC in May. The notebook is filled with jotted, slant-written notes on meetings with people in polling. Interspersed with notes like, "learn to talk about numbers," and "call Diane Feldman," are other nearly journal like sections.

It's a good chart of my thoughts as I first came to terms with life and work in Washington. A couple of notes republished here:

"Numbers when presented correctly can gain the force and fluidity of language, the power, perusasion and meaning of wordsa not just the tally of items. To take disaggregated truths and make of them a coherent reality that's the great pay off."

What can I say, I was trying to figure out how to talk about numbers. Apparently the only way I can talk about numbers is to make them more word like. When in doubt change topics..."numbers, yeah those are great, especially when they're like words. Did I mention I like words."

"A man should carry a pen. A strong, heavy pen. Something that suggest in form a seriousness and weight of thought if not of intellect. A heavy pen reminds a man to choose carefully his words for excess is strain." Not really sure if I believe this. It feels like something from a long discarded Thoreau-vian effort. It's an aphorism for someone not named Aaron. Lord knows I love the excess of verbosity. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but witty people are annoying. So full of themselves...oooh look at me I'm able to communicate profound thoughts without wasting thousands of characters. Jerks.

Later in the journal/notebook there is a section of date ideas. Haven't used any of them. Maybe I shouldn't publish them here for fear that I'll be thought unoriginal, though stealing from yourself seems fair game. I guess it's finding things like this notebook that make me wish I'd kept a journal. And then I realize, I have. This blog. I sometimes forget that I can go back and look at the archives. it somehow seems regressive or overly nostalgic, maybe even a little self-congratulatory to go back and look at what I've written. Inevitably I am surprised by what I read, not the ideas mentioned but the words I've used. They are either more accurate than I knew, or more naive than I'd like to admit.

2005 has been a pretty remarkable year for me. I started it in Washington and will finish it in Washington. The two dates are separated by 3,000 miles and 12 months, two jobs, two frisbee teams, new friends blended with old. And some other changes as well. Mainly I'm happy to be where I am, emotionally, physically, and geographically. Here's to the changes to come. I know I'll have this space as a place to return in a year and realize all the strange changes that defined my next year.

I am not alone

BoingBoing notes that NPR's online game reviewer sides with me. That's right me.

From npr.org: 'Robert Holt is a manager for NPR.org and an avid player of online games. He reviews games for NPR's All Things Considered. His first online gaming experience was in 1986, playing the strategy game Diplomacy on a computer bulletin board system. Holt explains some of the terminology and methods of paying to play -- and why he thinks it ruins the gaming experience'

"Sure, it's great to be all-powerful, or 'uber' in game parlance. But at what cost? I consider it cheating to buy your way in to an uber character. In order to be truly 'uber,' you need to earn it. Besides, it takes a lot of skill to use a high-level character's abilities to their fullest, so an inexperienced player that has purchased a high-level character will very often lose a battle or die because they don't have the experience of all that playing time.

For me, the point of playing these games is not to win -- it's to be immersed in the worlds, and to interact with fellow players. You miss out on truly experiencing the world if you don't earn your items and character abilities."

Almost Heaven

A couple of weekends ago, Jesseca and I decided to get out of the city. I guess it wasn't until this trip that I realized just how much I missed being out and about in the woods. Washington DC is treating my exceedingly well, better than I may deserve, and certainly better than I would have expected. But while it has monuments they are nothing compared to mountains. The reflecting pool is nice, but it's no lake, etc. My frustration with being confined to a city must be nothing compared to that of a lifelong resident of Alaska. I grew up in and among sprawl. She grew up with Applebees, sure, but it was next to a fucking mountain, and I have to assume only accessible by dogsled or snowshoe.

So we made plans to rent a car and head to West Virginia. The day began fairly early with us heading over to Union Station and picking up the car. As a relatively poor guy, with some vague belief in environmental causes (I'm pretty sure it's in that order), I wanted to rent the smallest car available. Instead we ended up with an HHR. It's not unlike the PT Cruiser. It handles pretty well, though it has god-awful visibility. It's like driving while wearing a knight's armor. Oddly enough as we left Union Station, Tom and Ray Magliozzi were talking about how great the HHR was. Right about that time, coincidentally, I just happened to decide that I didn't mind driving it nearly as much as I had before. Funny how those things work.

We made our way to Ikea where I promptly fell into a bit of a funk. Realized the last time I was in Ikea was with Jen, and under very different circumstances-- made me sad. But you know what, that's just going to happen, and I'm getting better about having it just be something that I let wash over me, instead of swimming in the currents of self doubt and obsession.

In fact, Ikea ended up being tons of fun, for any number of reasons. I've found that the time I spend with Jesseca is remarkably hassle free. It's pleasant and easy. And she is truly understanding of my little freakout moments, though I have to imagine they're really hard to deal with (hopefully they'll be less frequent in the weeks to come). Ikea was a special treat, no matter my mental health. Think of it miles of well designed furniture, all seemingly cheaper than makes sense. I wanted to get a duvet, duvet cover and a bookshelf. We found a fine flarke bookshelf. Later after some agonizing and lots of squeezing, I settled on a quilt and still later on a cover. Pretty good deal, all things considered.

After Ikea we headed out to Virginia to watch the OSU-Michigan game with Susan. It was a great time, made that much better by getting to watch an OSU win.

Then we finally, at 4PM headed west. Leaving Virginia on our way through Maryland to Shepherdstown, Maryland. The drive was easy and uneventful. We found the little town and settled in for the night. No camping for us, it was all king sized bed. Not a bad deal for a person who until about 2 weeks ago was sleeping on an airmattress. We went to dinner at a cute little place, and then spent the evening lazing around the room watching the Food Network. Bliss.

Next morning we headed towards Sharpsburg and into the mountains. We hiked a portion of the Appalachian Trail (Annapolis Rock). The entire hike was something like 5.6 miles. A nice hike. At the crest the trail opens out onto a wonderful view of the valley punctuated with some really nice rocky outcroppings. We saw what I have been assuming (though JKD can maybe confirm) were buzzards. Or maybe turkey vultures. Hideous creatures. They should be cross bred with puppies or something to increase their attractiveness quotient.

Photographic evidence of birds, and that we in fact hiked and "summited."



Jesseca and I are the ones who don't look like horrifyingly mangy birds that would eat your soul.

After hiking we returned to Shepherdstown and ate at Stone Soup, a local organic place. One of the best meals I've had in years. Now some of that is probably a function of fresh air, hiking, and pleasant company. But my garlic and herb roast beef sandwich was transcendent. But when complemented with a Sam Smith's Oatmeal Stout it was almost heaven (with apologies to John Denver).

Lunch was followed by a drive around the Antietam Battlefield. It took me nearly 20 minutes to realize that the markers with CSA on them referred to the Confederate States of America. For some reason this caused me to fly into a rage. That there was this battle field, where 23,000 men died, and we still have this deferential view of the South. You know what, fuck off. You tried to leave our country. They tried to destroy this nation that they now pretend to be overly patriotic about. Irrational, sure, but man was I livid. Thousands and thousands of people lay dead beneath me, and the heirs to that legacy are busy explaining that it's not hatred, it's heritage. Even if I granted the argument that the symbols of the Confederacy are not the symbols of racial violence and oppression...they're still the symbols (the flag) of an army which tried to destroy this country, and slaughtered 12,000 American soldiers in a single day.

The actual cemetary is surprisingly small and, to my thinking, fairly unimpressive. I believe I may have violated some basic principle of human decency, by setting up my camera and taking this photo of Jesseca and I. Not sure that's teh right thing to do. But it came out pretty well, so maybe it's worth it.

After Antietam we drove back to DC. At this point in the trip I'm loving having a car. I am seriously considering bringing Norman (my white saturn) to the District. Having a car would be so wonderful, I am thinking. Then I tried to park the HHR. And I was quickly returned to the world of harsh realities. Namely, I live in a neighborhood where trying to park on a regular basis would cause me to stroke out.

All in all, it was a pretty terrific weekend. Good purchases (I love my duvet), good games (go Bucks!), good company, good weather, good bed, good tv, good hiking, great food-- pretty hard to argue with 48 hours spent in such good conditions.

Two photos

I should be able (and eager) to post more photos later tonight or maybe mid-week. I have some shots from the trip Jesseca and I took to West Virginia, and some of my family, etc.

But for today, I'll just post these two, old photos of me playing ultimate. These come from Minnesota, when I'd play a weekly pickup game with Wellstone staffers.

Not the greatest game, nor the greatest photos, but each fun in their own way.

As you might imagine, I am the person laying out.


As you might imagine I am not the incredibly muscular shirtless guy. But I am the person about ready to score. So I got that going for me.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

After my last frisbee outing (the clique league tournament) my knee was really sore. It was stiff and falling in many of its knee-ly duties, most importantly the part about allowing my lower leg to move without pain and in a stable fashion. In what I can only hope becomes a trend, I decided rather than whine and wait I would see a doctor and get it looked at.

As a true liberal (old use of the world) I tend to believe that education and training improve a person. These things make a person more capable of understanding their world, and improve their ability to function within their chosen field. When politicians run for office as an "outsider" and decry the damage that Washington experience does to ones judgement or capacity to govern, I often recall a little witicism (I like to believe it's witty, though maybe I'm a bit self-congratulatory, here) I came up with in a class back at Oberlin: "When I need brain surgery, I'd prefer a doctor not a dockworker." I think that specializing and training make you better at something. I don't expect my doctor to know how to use a fork lift, or how to move freight. That's not their job, that's not the skill set they've chosen to enhance through training and education and prolonged experience.

Yeah, well sadly, I think my doctor may be trying to practice medicine like our president practices politics, as a purposefully ignorant outsider. Upon arriving at the office on Monday I was promptly greeted by the first of two exceedingly helpful nurses. The nurses asked me about my knee and about the other cause for which I was visiting. They seemed able to judge the importance of various words I used, and were able, as best I could tell to faithfully relay information gleaned through listening into their short term memories, supplementing their recollection of my injuries by carefully writing down what I had said. This seemed neither novel, nor like it would be the most demonstrable sign of competence I was to witness this visit. Sadly, it was. After weighing and measuring me (I am now, officially, by independent standards exactly 6 feet tall. No more guessing. That's it, that's all. I am also 158 lbs, meaning I've lost about 14 lbs since I lived in Seattle.) I had my blood pressure checked. I'm pleased to report that my blood courses through my veins at a healthy 120/80.

After all the basic steps, I was ready to see the doctor, and shortly thereafter he was ready to see me. Dr. Theobalds is a rounded man. He seems to have had some of his features worn my time, and travail. He gives off an appearance of kind wisdom, which is why the incompetence he so ably embodies is something of a shock. He promptly asked me about the non-knee condition. We talked for a bit and without really talking about changes in health, age, weight, work, or anyother factors normally related--he represcribed medication for me that I haven't really taken since I was 21. So that was the first sign that there might be some bad doctoring going on. He then proceeded to prescribe a dosage of a medication that, upon visiting a pharmacist later, I came to find does not exist.

After dispensing with the non-knee concern, we turned our attention to my knee. Actually, that's a lie. I turned my attention to my knee, rolling up my pant leg and indicating the knee with such terms as, "this is the knee that hurts, my right knee." The doctor, for his part, turned his attention to my foot. "Let's have a look at that foot." To which I helpfully responded, "actually it's my knee."

Doctor: "Oh, right." [pause] "So how long has your foot hurt."

Nurse: "Doctor, it's his knee."

Doctor: "Foot?"

Me: "Knee."

It felt a little like the Simpsons where Marge tries to order something besides beer in Australia. Or quite like the King from Monty Python and the Holy Grail who is constitutionally unable to count to 3. I'd prefer that my medical professional's behavior not call to mind such images.

I figure that medicine is hard. I have friends in med school and some who have just graduated. They're bright people, able to memorize many obscure things, competent in what I believe to be a challenging field. I never once figured that in order to be more capable than my doctor all I would need to have done is memorize the children's song "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." Because, I can safely say that having learned that song, I, unlike my doctor know what and more importantly where a knee is.

After convincing the doctor that my knee was injured, I hoped his years of training might equip him to offer insight as to why it hurt. Alas, twas not to be. He put his hand in the knee and moved my leg towards him once. Then back. Then he pulled my lower leg slightly to the left and then to the right. That's it. When I was injured at Regionals, Shana (an Oberlin alum) playing on the team we faced came over and conducted, a considerably more thorough exam with me laying on the ground.

Dr. Theobalds then said, what I later had retranslated into English, that I needed to get an x-ray to determine if I had degenerative arthritis and then when that was negative (as it will almost undoubtedly be) that I should get an MRI. No other questions, no other advice. Nothing. I have conducted more thorough examinations of fishing rods, and cantaloupes. I realize that an MRI is necessary to properly diagnose a knee injury, but that he could offer no possible insight beyond that, is surprising.

There is something wholly unsatisfying about going to a professional and knowing in your heart that the only service you received was that a person whom others have certified as compentent looked at you. Nothing he did in my presence required him to know anything about medicine. He didn't do anything except give me, no questions asked, medication in the dosage I requested (though he did change my request for 2 20mginto one non-existant 40mg), and send me to someone else to look at my knee. To make it worse the only thing he actively did, he did wrong. After receiving a faulty prescription I returned later in the week to get the prescription re-written, but this time for a drug that actually exists, I asked for him to prescribe a dosage that would permit me to get a generic. He protested saying that the generic has less of the active ingredient, and "you know you get what you pay for." The only definitive statement I've heard him make, is factually incorrect.

I still believe that experience and education matter, but just to be certain I'm calling Blue Cross and seeing if there are any dockworkers in my network.