Naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps, naps! [feat. Lil' Jon] [here, if you don't get it -- 9 times out of 10, I wouldn't]
Preface: This is a post in which I shall attempt to describe the types of naps known by non-idiotic man. The cultured man of good taste and stock, because, as Sir Charles Barkley says, "Anything less, would be uncivilised." And to preemptively (supposedly to protect American freedom, whatever that means) answer your question: no, I really don't have anything better to do with myself on a Saturday night -- I am planning to drink a mean Diet Coke, though. So I got that going for me...
The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It
There comes a time in almost any nap where the napper must make an important decision: to nap or not to nap. This question is typically answered about 15 minutes into a nap, especially if under stress or deadline, as the napper suddenly jolts awake and must decide if he should go back to sleep or wake up. One must not dither because to dither is to lose the ability to nap altogether; it is to forfeit that great skill honed on benches, couches, floors, and beds in that Ancient Greek tradition of college. The Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It nap is the lowest form of napping -- you never feel more rested, only frustrated as you lie in bed, fitfully tossing until you alarm goes off. What was supposed to be a "quick, efficient, REFRESHING!" 45 minute nap after work/school was not. One who fails at this skill more often than not fails in other, more important aspects of his or her life.
The Kiefer Sutherland
Did you really just help Jack Bauer diffuse an airplane bomb? Or are you just spilling warm beer on yourself on your parent's basement couch as you drift in and out with the TV on. That's ok if you are, not everyone can have exciting lives. The 'nightmare' version of this nap, as you can guess, is called the Sinbad or the Hannah Montana, depending on what you decide to watch when you think no one's looking.
The Sweaty Pajama
Gross. It's summertime, three or four in the afternoon, and you wake up drenched, under your comforter. Typical of the novice napper, this nap is nonetheless disgusting. Close the blinds, turn on the fan, and throw off the comforter, for crissakes man!
The Where the Fuck am I?
Lucky you, this is the Holy Grail of naps. No less than two hours long, you awake from this nap with no clue where you are, what time it is, or sometimes, if it's a really good one, no idea who you are. Are you a spy? Are you a debauched lover? [ed. probably not] Is it morning? Night? But, the most relevant question, the one that skips the most beats, is why do I have 10 messages on my phone? What important milestone did I miss? Yes, these are the best kind of naps. It's even better to see someone wake up from such a nap. You can see these questions running through their mind, one by one, until the sad bludgeon of reality once again hits them squarely on their head.
The In-Name-Only
-- "So, what are you up to now?"
-- [Exaggerated yawn, stretch] "We're just blowin' through nap time, aren't we -- I'm going to go home and take a nap, I'm exhausted."
Now, some among us do really go home and take this nap and it will probably be a Blink-And-You'll-Miss-It. Fail. The rest of us will get in our cars, determined to have our heads hit the pillow in ten minutes or less, only to find, two hours later as we end our fruitless search for glass coffee mugs, record player clamps, or whatever it is we waste our time on, nap time has officially passed us by. But who is really the loser here? [ed. both of you, probably]
The world does not stop for naps and so we must take every opportunity the second it comes to enjoy one. We can only hope that its a Where the Fuck am I?
16 January 2010
15 January 2010
Bienvenido a Miami
Preface: Miami was ridiculously cold last week! But, I know that if I write a post about that, considering the Northern locale of most (all four!) of my readers, I would lose probably three of them, my mom included (sorry Mom!). So I won't.
But, if I did, I'd write about how I wasn't so sure about Miami at first. Think of me, then think of the opposite place you'd expect me to be -- it would be Miami. Though I am known to rock the pastel shirt from time to time and I do like Puma and wear Ray Ban sunglasses, Miami -- and especially South Beach -- can be gaudy to the extreme. The machismo of Latin America fused with the delicate European aesthete. A little too much for this scrubby Midwesterner (though I did wear a pink shirt! which came with the requisite amount of needling from the rest of the group...). But it grew on me.
As any Dexter fan worth his or her salt knows, South Beach (SoBe for those with a certain proclivity towards abbrevs) fully embraces Art Deco in their buildings. That ballsy period when almost any building became a monolith to design by industry. But not industry in the way that so many frumpy libraries and public schools look, but more industry in the sense that it was like architects were trying to impress through simple lines and dots, in terra cotta or metal. And the hotel-front signs. Oh, the signs!
The interesting buildings are not the only redeeming quality Miami has going for it. If I were to write a post, I'd be a fool not to include the food! I'd write about how there seemed to be as many restaurants as people, most of them overpriced and under-serviced. There were pretty girls with menus standing outside each, beckoning like Sirens to entice weary travelers into buying a nice $45 pitcher of margaritas and staying for the warm, damp quesadilla that no doubt awaited them. Lucky them. I only got caught once. But I felt bad for the Siren at the restaurant next door to our hostel. She was obviously freezing in her bulky down parka and asked each one of our dozen at least three times a night if we wanted to experience a place called Oh! Mexico! After the first night, we didn't.
But, off the beaten path, there were some gems I found. One of these had the conspicuous absence of Sirens at the door, but nonetheless had a full bar and a line of people that stretched around the corner, waiting for a seat. Purerto Saugua (which means "great Cuban food at modest prices" in Spanish) was my most-visited restaurant of the week. In fact, it was the only place that got repeat business -- twice over! The other gem was a Haitian place, once again off the beaten path, near a strip mall that had a store named "Philly in Miami". Could have been a store with a nod to the 1920's about a girl, a bit of a hussy most likely, who found her way into Miami, a "Philly in Miami" if there ever was one. But that would've been too obvious, as it would then be a store for 95% of the women in South Beach. Or, it could've been a cheap ripoff of an Italian eatery, with Philly cheesesteaks and the like. Turns out it was a shoe store. Go figure!
I won't talk too much about work because, well, there wasn't that much to talk about. But maybe I'll touch on it if I ever get around to writing a post about my trip to Miami...
But, if I did, I'd write about how I wasn't so sure about Miami at first. Think of me, then think of the opposite place you'd expect me to be -- it would be Miami. Though I am known to rock the pastel shirt from time to time and I do like Puma and wear Ray Ban sunglasses, Miami -- and especially South Beach -- can be gaudy to the extreme. The machismo of Latin America fused with the delicate European aesthete. A little too much for this scrubby Midwesterner (though I did wear a pink shirt! which came with the requisite amount of needling from the rest of the group...). But it grew on me.
But, off the beaten path, there were some gems I found. One of these had the conspicuous absence of Sirens at the door, but nonetheless had a full bar and a line of people that stretched around the corner, waiting for a seat. Purerto Saugua (which means "great Cuban food at modest prices" in Spanish) was my most-visited restaurant of the week. In fact, it was the only place that got repeat business -- twice over! The other gem was a Haitian place, once again off the beaten path, near a strip mall that had a store named "Philly in Miami". Could have been a store with a nod to the 1920's about a girl, a bit of a hussy most likely, who found her way into Miami, a "Philly in Miami" if there ever was one. But that would've been too obvious, as it would then be a store for 95% of the women in South Beach. Or, it could've been a cheap ripoff of an Italian eatery, with Philly cheesesteaks and the like. Turns out it was a shoe store. Go figure!
I won't talk too much about work because, well, there wasn't that much to talk about. But maybe I'll touch on it if I ever get around to writing a post about my trip to Miami...
10 January 2010
A post for a new year
Preface: I think I'll start beginning these posts with: “Despite being of the most powerful human beings on the planet...” Anything with those words tacked onto the front immediately lends credibility to whatever follows. It adds credibility, but also so much more. It's perfectly sets up any scenario. Seriously. If what I say makes sense, or is somehow profound or life-changing, which I hope is not the case, you'll simply think to yourself, or knowingly whisper (assuming that, upon reading such a momentous turn of the English language, you are rendered all but speechless) to a neighbor well, he is one of the most powerful human beings on the planet. What'd you expect? On the other hand, if what I write does not change your life, the first sentence will act as a disclaimer – informing the world that I am in fact fallible. A touch of humanity seeping out from an otherwise Adonis/Gaston/Einsten-esque figure of world popular culture. It is infinitely more likely that you will read this post with only mild interest, as a brief, unremarkable interlude to the work day. That works for me, too.
Despite being one of the most powerful human beings on the planet, I am not immune to the passage of time. Like many around the world, I took in the new year at precisely 12 AM on 1 January 2010. Also, like many of my fellow wanderers, I took the brash license of a new day, a new year, and a new decade (unless you're one of those formalist, slightly arrogant buzzkills who don't believe that a year ending with a zero begins a new decade – really, it's so much easier the other way) to make a new year's resolution.
The resolution: Make new friends.
With the very important corollary: While (or, “whilst”, if we're going to be proper about it) keeping the ones I have.
One bad thing about being a self-professed misanthrope is that sometimes you actually enjoy the company of other humans. I'd go out on a limb and say that this is true most of the time for me. The problem is that it can become a damning self-fulfilling prophesy if I don't work at it.
Returning to my Minnesota late this summer after what I will inaccurately call my Wilderness Years (only because I like that phrase), I was excited to reacquaint with old friends. I've managed to keep in touch with many of them during college and after, but this, I thought, would be different. All of us would be back in the same city, taking part in the same activities we did growing up. It would be like a greatest hits compilation of the past decade. A fitting bookend to a time when these memories weren't memories, but just another Friday night. Well... I may have made a slight miscalculation.
As it turns out, my friends aren't just recreations of hazy, jumbled memories of the past, made possible by the firing of nostalgic synapses. They're real people! Unlike the bad cliché (or Springsteen's “Glory Days”), I did not return home to find my friends eking out a dead-end existence, still reliving the past, the so-called heyday of high school. And thank god they didn't. They aren't stunted teenagers -- some have grownup jobs, some are in grad school, all fast on their way to becoming super lawyers, dentists, doctors, advertising maestros, etc., etc.
This is why I need new friends (not forgetting the all-important corollary). It was fine being “the high school friend” when I visited from college. My base consisted of the people I grew up with but the world expands throughout each phase of life. As it expands, unfortunately, the bond that initially connects becomes colored, diminished by time. It takes work to maintain these bonds and there's a sort of triage aspect of who you want to keep (and who will keep you) in your circle. And reminiscing only gets you so far. Making new memories with old friends is better than remembering old memories.
When we're young, our friends share a common bond of school. We categorize friends, separating the grade school friends from the high school, and so on. While invariably some of these friends also hold common interests, the most binding one is school. As I grow older, I'm realizing that this cannot go on forever! There is just so much school a person can go through, and only a finite number of friends one can collect while doing so. It's time to start finding more friends who like the things I do. Tree-huggers. Local music scenesters. Crate-digging vinyl fiends. Whatever. Where do I find these people? Definitely not sitting at home.
I must get out and wander.
Despite being one of the most powerful human beings on the planet, I am not immune to the passage of time. Like many around the world, I took in the new year at precisely 12 AM on 1 January 2010. Also, like many of my fellow wanderers, I took the brash license of a new day, a new year, and a new decade (unless you're one of those formalist, slightly arrogant buzzkills who don't believe that a year ending with a zero begins a new decade – really, it's so much easier the other way) to make a new year's resolution.
The resolution: Make new friends.
With the very important corollary: While (or, “whilst”, if we're going to be proper about it) keeping the ones I have.
One bad thing about being a self-professed misanthrope is that sometimes you actually enjoy the company of other humans. I'd go out on a limb and say that this is true most of the time for me. The problem is that it can become a damning self-fulfilling prophesy if I don't work at it.
Returning to my Minnesota late this summer after what I will inaccurately call my Wilderness Years (only because I like that phrase), I was excited to reacquaint with old friends. I've managed to keep in touch with many of them during college and after, but this, I thought, would be different. All of us would be back in the same city, taking part in the same activities we did growing up. It would be like a greatest hits compilation of the past decade. A fitting bookend to a time when these memories weren't memories, but just another Friday night. Well... I may have made a slight miscalculation.
As it turns out, my friends aren't just recreations of hazy, jumbled memories of the past, made possible by the firing of nostalgic synapses. They're real people! Unlike the bad cliché (or Springsteen's “Glory Days”), I did not return home to find my friends eking out a dead-end existence, still reliving the past, the so-called heyday of high school. And thank god they didn't. They aren't stunted teenagers -- some have grownup jobs, some are in grad school, all fast on their way to becoming super lawyers, dentists, doctors, advertising maestros, etc., etc.
This is why I need new friends (not forgetting the all-important corollary). It was fine being “the high school friend” when I visited from college. My base consisted of the people I grew up with but the world expands throughout each phase of life. As it expands, unfortunately, the bond that initially connects becomes colored, diminished by time. It takes work to maintain these bonds and there's a sort of triage aspect of who you want to keep (and who will keep you) in your circle. And reminiscing only gets you so far. Making new memories with old friends is better than remembering old memories.
When we're young, our friends share a common bond of school. We categorize friends, separating the grade school friends from the high school, and so on. While invariably some of these friends also hold common interests, the most binding one is school. As I grow older, I'm realizing that this cannot go on forever! There is just so much school a person can go through, and only a finite number of friends one can collect while doing so. It's time to start finding more friends who like the things I do. Tree-huggers. Local music scenesters. Crate-digging vinyl fiends. Whatever. Where do I find these people? Definitely not sitting at home.
I must get out and wander.
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