House Rats

Occasionally, network television surprises me by slipping in pop culture references that few viewers will catch. Or, maybe the writers bank on the fact that those geeky enough to enjoy their show will dig the same stuff they did as teenagers. I never thought it possible before Arrested Development brought Bud Court in session. Thankfully, House has temporarily filled the void.

The setup: Dave Matthews plays a music savant whose hands suddenly seize up in concert. House, fascinated by how the brain can access musical ability, wheels a piano into the savant's room to test him. First of all, it's gratifying to see piano played on television and know that indeed, the actors are actually playing. Trump this with House's musical choice: the intro to I Don't Like Mondays by the Boomtown Rats. Street cred up the ass.



Jeez, Bob, quit playing with your hair.

I love early videos that don't know whether or not to take themselves seriously; where they strung together a semblance of narrative in the absence of budget, effects, and bounteous booty. Though, as you can see from the multiple setups, they're already catering to the short attention span.

The B-Rats were from Dublin, and it was 1979: days rife with the righteous social anger that makes rock so bitchin'. The song is based on the story of 16-year-old Brenda Ann Spencer (they all sound more wholesome with the middle name Ann), who took her father's gun one day and started shooting at her San Diego elementary school across the street. Her spree killed the principal and custodian, and injured eight students. When asked why she did it, she said,"I don't like Mondays."

Somehow, we all conveniently forgot this in time for Columbine to take us by complete surprise. All just a little bit of history repeating. Meanwhile, lead singer Bob Geldof went on to star in the movie of Pink Floyd's The Wall, organize Live Aid, become an activist for international poverty, and get a knighthood. But some will always love and remember him has the scraggly dude with snakes coming out of his checkerboard pants (that's the video for Up All Night).

You know that idea was Hugh Laurie's. Thank fucking god you're on American television, Hugh.

Love Train

Red line metro, bound for Glenmont.
Across the aisle from me, two black men, 30s-40s, have a conversation in French. After the Brookland/CUA stop, a guy comes up to them.

"Scuse me, but you gentlemen look like you're about my age. I wanna ask you something."

This, to my mind, prefaces two things:
(1) a story that ends in a plea for funding. Except this guy didn't look like he needed it.
(2) a personal interview that leads to the promotion of the Word of God.

"There's this song, see. And I need to know the words, because I wanna sing it to my girl. I know the tune, but I don't know all the words."

The French-speaking men look politely at him. He begins to sing.

"Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly..."

The train pulls into the next stop, Fort Totten. A huge group of college-age kids gets on. The girls wear strings of red beads. They're probably all heading out for Valentine's Day festivities, though it doesn't look like any two of them are a couple.

The guy finishes the song.
The French-speaking men have no idea what song he's talking about. Of course I know what song it is, but I don't know the words either.
"No?" He sings the refrain again.

The girls pick it up right away. Thank god for the remake.
They perform a full-on rendition, hand-clapping included, beginning to end. Seriously, the whole car claps along as they teach this guy the words.

The song finishes as we pull into the next station, Takoma. As we pile out of the car, the guy thanks the girls. The French-speaking dudes still have no idea what is going on, but seem amused.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all commuters.

American Driver: Drive-by kidney surgery

As someone who regularly drives and parks in a city, I have some dents and dings in the side of my car. I also have a fantastic mechanic that does great body work. What I don't have is the cash to throw at anything that doesn't compromise the way the car runs.

But at least seven times - and that is most likely a conservative estimate - a total stranger has leaned out their window, in a parking lot or at a stoplight, to shout: "Hey! You wanna fix that dent? I know someone."

What on earth makes anyone seriously think that I would say, "Why yes! I was completely unaware of how to care for my vehicle. You, perfect stranger outside the Shoppers Food Warehouse, are the answer to all my problems. Normally, I would want someone trustworthy, well-qualified and accountable to handle my property. But since you have vouched for him, random guy, I'll follow you right now and put everything in your friend's hands."

Whether I will use the following as future replies, or proactively track these people down where they drive and shop, is still undecided:

"Hey! My friend can take care of that limp for you."
"Hey! You know you got a little overbite? My friend can fix it right up."

"Hey - your mom looks like she's getting up there. She got kidney problems? 'Cause I got someone, can fix her. He can do it right here. Won't take that long. I'll call him right now. "

"Your back hurt? I know someone."
"Need blood pressure meds?"

Coda: A public survey
1) Has anyone ever actually used this as a method of car maintenance?
2) How much did they charge you? Was this a normal or back-alley rate?
3) Were you satisfied with the work, or did your muffler fall out two weeks later?

Greetings from Dunworkin

This is what I woke up to this morning:

This is why I come here.

Greetings from Dunworkin, the appropriately-named lake house that my friend Bridget's grandfather made his retirement retreat. It's a perfect lake house, built in the 20s around a working stone fireplace. All the original fireplace tools are hung around it. There are also some iron tools and objects on the mantel that we can't identify. They came with the house.

The rest of the place is comfortably ensconced somewhere between the 50s and 70s. It is designed for optimum accommodation of maximum family, towels, toys, books, and wet bathing suits. Hooks are plentiful. A new sceptic system was installed last year, so now we can flush every time. We can flush just for the hell of it. There's a hodgepodge of furniture, mostly inherited from other homes and meant for lounging with a book. There are only a couple small bedrooms, so the attic has at least 3 beds amid the stored clothing and jigsaw puzzles.

I prefer to sleep on the futon in the front porch room, under an assortment of quilts (including the requisite multi-colored afghan). I was about to say it's the next best thing to sleeping outside, but actually, it's better. I get the fresh air, crickets, birds and waves slapping the dock, without actually having to sleep on the ground or worry about spiders.

It's a true retreat, in that time has little meaning. There is no schedule, no agenda. There are things to do if you want. But often, it's preferable to do nothing.

In Krzysztof Kieslowski's Three Colors: Blue (fanatics beware: I am about to get details wrong or incomplete), Juliette Binoche plays a famous composer's widow. She is asked, "And what do you do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
With a look of utter satisfaction: "Absolutely nothing." Absolument rien.
I often aspire to that moment.

In general, we make coffee, sit in the screen room pictured here, and look at the lake. This morning, Bridget's aunt & uncle came over to visit. Uncle Ray is one kick-ass water skiier. I had my first, second and third attempts, all unsuccessful. Still, a few turns around the lake in a motorboat ain't a bad way to spend the morning. It can only be followed by drinking and sandwiches. Limbs softened from playing in the water. Pastrami & swiss on white bread. It's a level of contentment often only reached by children. I must do this more often.

This afternoon, there will be no phone calls or e-mails. (Though I've heard that there's a website that will send your friends a voicemail from Samuel L. Jackson, telling them to go see Snakes on a Plane. I might need to get in on that.) There will probably be a nap.

There will definitely be more drinking, lake watching, and games of Would You Rather/ Which Would You Destroy.
There will probably be something thrown on the grill.
There might be reading, board games and/or ice cream.
Or we might not be bothered.

Bathing suits count as underwear, right?

Onion editorials I have yet to write

Like they'd publish me.

1. Could there be more garlic in this?
2. I said I'd clean the garage by Thursday. It's Tuesday, so get off my back
3. The Milk That Won't Go Bad

I am the target audience of:

1. VH1
2. Cartoon Network's Adult Swim
3. Real Simple magazine
4. Sex and the City
5. List shows (especially on VH1)
6. How Do I Look?
7. Project Runway
8. Starbucks
9. BBC America
10. The Container Store

An Open Letter to Jay McCarroll

Thank you, Jay. Thank you. Thank you for setting me free. After the season finale of Project Runway, I know that there is hope, if not justice, in the world.

I have not been so emotionally involved in a TV show since, perhaps, the series finale of M*A*S*H. Project Runway was my March Madness, my NFL playoffs. Every Wednesday night I raced home. The rest of life paused. What's the challenge? What will be the twist? Who will snap? Who will crumble? Will they finish on time? Who will get a verbal bitch-slapping from Michael Kors? How hot is Tim Gunn? WHAT WILL THE DESIGNS LOOK LIKE AND WHO WILL GET CUT?

This ain't no punk-ass reality show, where luck, fear, whims, personal stupidity and drama can let you slip by or kick you to the curb. No. That's just the icing on the cake. The world sees you work. We can see who has a clue, skills, a temperament problem. And when those dresses come down the runway, we know from ugly.

It started in week 3: the Banana Republic challenge. The week before (Envy challenge), you tricked out a punk ensemble in fur, slashes & graffiti. Suddenly, you whip together a perfectly tailored, meticulously pleated reproduction of the Chrysler building. Well now. Every week, the palettes and silhouettes changed, but your voice was consistent. You were up front. You didn't play games. You didn't manipulate. You didn't limit yourself. You didn't take the bitch's dye.

Still, as the finale closed in, I wasn't rooting personally for you. It was a dead heat among you, Austin and Kara Saun. (I am still bitter that bitch Wendy made it to Fashion Week over Austin. BITTER.) Then your collection came down the runway. And it spoke to me.

Omigod, it was everything I wanted to be in high school, but better. It rounded up all the incarnations of my teen angst in the same subway car. This is who I wanted to be all these years. Hippie, debutante, street punk, professional, alien, grunge waif, academic, femme fatale, all with a common thread of being bad-ass. Different, but not at war. They overlapped, they drew from each other. They didn't just sit together; they traded lunches. They might. Have even. Shared. Makeup. Shit, I still want to be every single one of them.

My teenage version of the Jay McCarroll collection consisted not so much of gorgeous knits and quilted leather, but more of black turtlenecks, hippie skirts, safety pins, granny boots, cardigans and thrift store jewelry. The hair and makeup were less the work of L'Oreal and more from the school of Robert Smith. The vision was half formed; the execution even messier.

In the John Hughes movie of my high school experience, I'd be somewhere between Allison (Ally Sheedy) in The Breakfast Club, and Duckie in Pretty in Pink. Except without the great speeches, clever comebacks, or music video numbers. A lot of leaning against the locker and looking down when the jocks, cheerleaders, geeks, rich kids, and stoners passed by.

The greatest joke of high school is that nearly every other kid feels just as isolated, misfit and badly dressed. That's kind of a teenager's job. But no number of John Hughes marathons could have convinced me that I was not a freak of nature. The sandwich is always tastier on the other side of the lunch table. And one by one, the visual reminders of my teen angst got buried or destroyed.

Until you, Jay McCarroll, made it okay to pull out my Cure albums and Duran Duran 12-inch singles. The electric blue Betsy Johnson sweater dress might still be in a box somewhere. I don't know how you got inside my head, but I no longer fear type. I can be all those women. Your collection made it possible.

So thank you, Jay. Thank you. Whoever dismisses fashion therapy is full of shit.

Top ten retro treats

1. Fig Newtons
2. Nutty Buddies
3. Twinkies
4. Kool-Aid
5. Pop Tarts
6. Nilla Wafers
7. Jello (Cool Whip optional)
8. Creamsicles
9. Ritz crackers (Easy Cheez optional)
10. Fluffernutters