Last Day of Freedom

Ok folks. We're down to the point where we can count the hours without actually billing them. I'm sure you'll want to know how I spent it, so here goes:

1. finished out the wine collection. I am locked, stocked, and ready to rock, vineologically speaking. I now have: 30 bottles of miscellaneous red (yay wine bar), 8 bottles of miscellaneous white (yay special wine refrigerator), 2 bottles of port (yay incompetence when originally purchasing red wine), 2 bottles of champagne (one of which is from France and came in a box... that one's for "the ladies", but neither are Spumante... I have yet to find the appropriate liquor store for a Spumante purchase), 1 bottle of Drambuie.

2. sat barefoot on the balcony and played guitar, occasionally making up songs about passersby. Here's an example, spawned from a guy getting into a new SuperCrew F-X50 (don't know if it was a 1 or a 2):

For those of you who can play along, the first part has accompanying chords

(D two beats each) I love, (G) this truck
(D) It brought me, (G) a lot of luck
(D) And a title (G) I won't see (A hold for 4 beats) for six years.

It's got, four doors
But I don't know, what for
'Cause all I haul anymore is ass.

My Triton, V-8
Makes sure, I'm never late
But it sure takes a lot of gas.

Chicks don't, look at me
Like they did, in '93
Except when I'm in my Ford

Got a two inch, extra lift
Underneath the stock, suspension bits,
To make up for where I was shorted by the Lord.

3 Talking to various people including my brother, my former coworkers, and my friends via telephone and the internets...

4. Thought about going to an Edwards / Darfur rally, then I learned it was really a Darfur rally. I don't know about that mess. We have a mess and a half here and three or four messes in Iraq to deal with... I'm not sure where to prioritize that mess... Plus,

5. Doin' laundry. I've got loads and loads to do.

All in all, an exciting day.

D.C. is cosmopolitan

And by that I mean crawling with people not from here, like me. I recognize my posts have been too long lately, so this one will be short. I was wandering around Chinatown yesterday and happened upon some kind of team from Uruguay.

"But Staffman," you ask, "how do you know they were from Uruguay, let alone a team or something?" Simple. They were wearing matching sweat suits that all said "Uruguay" on them. Also there was some sort of logo on the sweat suits.

Anyway, these were all tall guys... much taller than I, so I'm thinking maybe basketball. One of them came up to me and asked if his minivan (I know... they had a minivan. It was a Dodge. Who knew?) would be ok parked where it was. How was I supposed to know? I just got here. I said, I'm not sure, you'll have to ask the people at the restaurant in front of which we were standing.

Uruguay guy then wanted to know where he could get pizza by the slice "around here". I assumed he meant Chinatown. I don't believe you can get pizza by the slice in Chinatown, but didn't want to mislead him, so I said "I'm not sure, I just got here." He asked where I came from. I said "South Carolina". He said "Go back to South Carolina... you are useless here." Seriously, some giant Uruguayan basketball player go told me to go home. Whatever, dude, there are like 20 of you jackasses. Go buy a whole pizza.

P.S. In an unrelated vein, I saw a very gay guy walking down the street. He was talking on the phone and this is a direct quote "Coach is nice... but it's no Gucci." He must have offended someone because 10 seconds later he said, "no, no Coach is nice..." like three times. Now you know: Coach is ok, but it's no Gucci.

God Wanted Me to Have a Wine Bar or How I Came to Understand Those Ridiculous Fact Patterns From My Torts Class

Embarrassingly enough, I wanted a hip wine rack. I can't explain why, but I'm pretty sure that it has something to do with the fact that I believe chicks dig them. Again, I'm not sure if that's true, or even why I believe it, but I do. As it turns out, I actually wanted a hip "wine bar". I didn't know the difference or that "wine bars" existed, and it occurred to me that this exact lack of knowledge should inform me that the "wine bar" was probably not a necessary purchase. Fortunately, I am aware that I give bad advice and decide to ignore myself. It was as though some Higher Power wanted me to have a wine bar, though I knew it not. Quick, to the internets.

I begin surfing the web and discovered several nice options at several stores. I also happened to be furniture shopping and so began to look in furniture stores, as well... However, I soon discovered that furniture stores are places of nearly limitless magical power to take ordinary stuff you should be able to find at the Wal-Mart and make them astronomically expensive. I found a great wine bar / liquor cabinet for like 800 bucks. Sorry furniture folks... I was born at night, but not last night.

Briefly, I consider making a wine bar. I then remember that I didn't even know what one was until a few days ago, that I had managed to seriously injure myself by simply opening boxes, and that, even though I own a laser guided circular saw, that sort of last resort may be best saved for a post-apocalyptic setting. I think better of the idea. Then I discover World Market.

World Market, for those of you without one, is a mildly overpriced quasi-grocery, pseudo-furniture store that sells "rare" and "exotic" merchandise like fancy chocolates or salt that you put in a bath and not on food... Anyway, World Market had a very nice selection of wine bars, so I go to the only one I know to see them. I like one of them immediately (and it happens to be the second cheapest) so I say "I'll take it".

Unfortunately, Susan, a delightfully knowledgeable and friendly lady who abhors traffic, lives in D.C. (yet has trouble with wild deer... something about the Rock Creek Park) and commutes to Bailey's Crossroads for work, says they don't have any. Drats. Operation Wine Bar is off. She offers to check the other World Markets nearby... "Eh? Other World Markets?" Awesome... wine bar mission back on.

Turns out that they have one of the wine bars at the Tyson's Corner location. I hate Tyson's Corner... it's the definition of pretentious urban sprawl, made iconic by its Volvo dealerships, Tiffany's Jewelry Store, and an unholy mall. Being that I was already at the alter of consumerism, I made an exception and went right over.

It is very important to note, ladies and gentlemen, that I drive a Honda Civic. This is a good car, but a small Japanese car... Well, maybe not by Asian standards, but for SUV loving, wine bar toting, red-blooded Americans I am in a near perpetual state of being 1/3 the size of everything else on the road. I take the parameters of the interior space and/or trunk space into consideration and, after math fueled by optimism and giddiness, decide I'm totally fine.

Friends, I was not totally fine. I was not "cool", I was not "good to go", I was not even "ok, because at least you're not stuck with this thing". I had purchased the wine bar (and 30 bottles of wine to fill it) and signed the receipt before I was shown the box.

The box is huge. Large... Very large... So much so that I use my own body to "measure" it to see if it'll fit. It is roughly 3/4 as tall as I am, exactly as wide and about 2 1/2 times as deep. No big deal, I think... it'll be cool... I fit in my car with room to spare. What I wasn't counting on was the fact that I bend considerably when I enter my car and wood, while it may be prettier than I, does not. Also, I think this thing and I would be in the same weight class if we were to fight... and it almost came to that.

It is at this point that I really started rethinking the purchase of a two door civic. The seats were the problem really. I couldn't get the thing in around the seats and the seat belts... Next I try the trunk... No good. The box is simply too large to fit in the opening.

Eureka! The BOX is too big, but maybe not the actual wine thingy... I walk back into the store and ask for a box cutter. It was actually pretty easy for me to find someone to ask, as all of the members of the staff had come to the front to watch the idiot, clearly first time wine bar buyer, try and fit a very large square peg into a car door shaped, small hole. By this time, several customers had come by and were extremely amused, offering such pearls of wisdom as "I don't think that'll fit" and "I see you're having trouble" and the occasional snicker. One nice guy offered to help, but I doubted he could alter the physical properties of my car or the wine bar in a manner acceptable to me, so I politely declined. Seriously, I should have sold tickets.

Anyway, I get the thing out of the box and realize that it is still very heavy and that the glass is now exposed, so extreme caution is due. Again, the wine bar that I had to have for whatever reason is too large to fit into the back seat. It's too stubborn to fold its legs and sit nicely in the front seat like a considerate passenger and it only sort of fits in the trunk. I was about to give up when I remembered that the seats fold flat...

It's just that I didn't know how they folded flat. I'd never had to resort to seat folding before. It took me ten minutes to figure out how to get them down, but I did it (turns out, the release lever is in the trunk... helpful tidbit from your friendly neighborhood Staffman to all you Honda owners). Next I loaded the wine bar into the trunk, top first... She looked like she was just going to make it. Miracle of miracles, it was going to... no. It would not work. It got exactly halfway into the trunk and then the top was too big to fit through the opening.

Now is the time in my story, friends and family, loyal readers, and casual visitors into my life, when I do something profoundly stupid. Half out of desperation, half out of exasperation, and not unlike Keanu Reeves ponderous statement "We're gonna jump the tracks" in Speed when he's driving the subway train, I decide that I'm going for it. The wine bar is lodged pretty good into my trunk... It's out of the box, so I can't leave it there, and I have spent too much energy, too much sweat, and too many brain cells coming so far. I was going for it... I was going to navigate Northern Virginia and Washington D.C. traffic with something that weighed about 150 lbs. perched out of the back of my car and the trunk lid open. No rope, no bungees... nothing but a blanket to keep it from scratching my trunk deck, a piece of styrofoam to protect the glass from the trunk and a prayer. Oh yeah, and there are literally 30 bottles of wine in various stages of ridiculosity rolling / sitting around.

Often I wondered, sitting in torts class, how people got into situations like this. Where, say, something so obviously and inevitably stupid is going to happen that there is no way to believe that the person was unaware of the chances for failure, yet they do it anyway. Think something along the lines of the elderly lady who sets her RV "cruise control" at 70 mph and then goes into the back to make a sandwich, or the guy who decides welding without a face mask is a good idea... I now know the answer: because, despite hubris and ignorance, sometimes, it works.

I ended up on the G.W. Parkway with this thing, which normally has a speed limit of 50. For the first time in my life I was thankful to see bumper to bumper traffic... I managed no more than 10 mph for most of my experience in Northern Virginia, cringing at every bump, trying desperately to stay in front of crappy cars... All I needed was for some jackass in a BMW to get a headlight cracked from my wine bar being shattered on the parkway...

I even made it on 395 and across all four lanes of traffic into D.C. for as long as I needed to... I made it down 14th St. and all the way to my apartment. I didn't get pulled over, even though I rode beside police officers. I didn't lose the wine bar, even though the streets in D.C. are not far from what I imagine the streets in Somalia must be like. No glass broke, no car damage, no wine bar damage that I could see. I even dropped the behemoth once as I was trying to get it into my apartment... no damage at all. My wine bar, I now believe, was the recipient of divine intervention... there is no other way to explain it. What?... Jesus drank wine....

A Letter of Farewell to My Dairy Queen T-Shirt

Dear Dairy Queen T-Shirt,

You and I have been through a lot together. Ever since that day I first saw you hanging on a thrift store rack in Dayton, Ohio, I knew that we were meant for each other.

You were simple, and elegant, with just enough of that "thrift store feel" to make your corporate logo ironic. And oh, what a logo it is... The sensuous curve of your lip-like outer design... Giant block print "Dairy Queen" just like on all the classic signs... The hypnotic glow that your faded whore-nail-polish red hue gave... I wore you as often as possible, in college, in law school, and even now that I'm an attorney, I'd throw you into heavy rotation in my free time T lineup. You were and still are magical.

It is precisely because of our history (remember that time we played a flag football scrimmage outside of the law school and people kept yelling "cover Dairy Queen"?), that it is so hard for me to say goodbye. I know what you're thinking, Dairy Queen, I know... shhhhh..... shhhh... It's not that I don't love you anymore. It's not even that I'm angry at your corporate affiliation (you and I both know that I love me some Heath Blizzard (tm)... except when they put the chocolate sauce in it... I don't know why they mess up such a good thing like that). No, sweet Dairy Queen, it's not you... it's my neighborhood.

You see, Dairy Queen, I've moved now... moved on to a new neighborhood in a new place, and that neighborhood might just take you the wrong way. Oh, not Chinatown... I'm sure you'd be fine in Chinatown and I know I'm on the border... It's the other area. The Logan Circle, Dupont area. I'm not sure if you're aware Dairy Queen, but Dupont Circle traditionally and Logan Circle more recently is the vibrant hub of the Washington D.C. homosexual community. It's a wonderful, fun place with a lot of things to do... it's just that, from the nights you've spent on my (or other people's) floors you know I'm not gay (in fact, I had to jealously guard you from some of my lady friends, who believed that they should have access to you).

I hope you understand, Dairy Queen, that I can no longer, as I did today, wander around this neighborhood oblivious to the smiles from well groomed men in festive shirts. I began to realize something was wrong from all the staring I received in the Whole Foods and couldn't quite put my finger on it at first... I thought perhaps my fly was undone or I had made some giant fashion faux pas, but, no... I am sure now that the smiles and knowing nods were directed my way because of you.

It's not that I dislike these men, you understand... I respect them and the decisions they've made and the genes with which they were born. It's just that I'm not a tease and, whereas back home in the Midwest you were ironic, here you suggest that I'd like to do something involving milk products and male genitalia... I cannot lead these men on this way. I know how pissed you'd be if you saw a hot chick in a "Dick's Sporting Goods" T-Shirt and she turned out to be interested in neither Richard or his sports. I hope you see my point.

So, Dairy Queen, this is it... Goodbye... I will wear you the rest of the day and then, ceremoniously, will wash you and fold you and place you on a shelf for a happier time... A time at which I no longer taunt men with my rippling biceps caressing your sleeves...

Love always,
Staffman

Furniture, Exit Signs, and Fees

I learned a lot today... Most of it would have been really useful if I had learned it prior to today, but I learned it nonetheless, starting with:

(1) furniture delivery guys operate on a clock that is 48-148 minutes behind everybody else.

I have to believe that the problem is a standard issue clock found on all delivery trucks. I also noticed that the guys didn't wear watches (Touche, Mr. Delivery guy, I don't wear a watch either, but i don't make vague promises like "I'll be there between 11-2" and break them). After they show up fashionably tardy, I learn:

(2) my building has a front desk girl who wanders around at designated times "checking things"

I know this because my delivery guys happened to be delivering stuff during one of her walks. She claims they "knocked down an EXIT sign". You know, the kind that they have in large buildings that are back lit and red and say "EXIT"? Yeah, those.
So I'm standing in my apartment trying to direct traffic and keep an eye on things when one of the guys comes in and says "there's a lady who wants to talk to you downstairs, she says we knocked down an EXIT sign". Now, I'm generally an optimist, but that's sort of disheartening, so I follow the dude downstairs. The elevator opens and I see that the EXIT sign is not knocked down at all... simply one of the covers has been removed and rests against the wall. Fine, a two second fix, I'm already on it. However, then I learn:

(3) my building is governed by a shadowy group of people known as "The Board".

Ok, so immediately after assessing the sign situation and before I have time to act, I see two people: Front Desk Girl and Mean Old Lady. Mean Old Lady is the one who wants to talk to me and, after I ask "what seems to be the problem?," begins by demanding who I am, where I live, and what I'm doing there. I still don't know her name or much about her, except that she is one of the underlings on the Quincy Park Subcommittee on Falling Signage.
So after I try to identify myself, say I just moved in and live in 306 and have a lease, she says something along the lines of "We don't have a record of you. We don't have a move in date. You're not supposed to be here." She then goes on a rampage about how damaged the sign was (again, it is not damaged, just the cover is removed) and I ask, politely, "Did you or anyone see them do it? If so, I am sure they are insured." Mean Old Lady takes offense and goes into orbit, at which point, I learn

(4) there are policies regarding moving in, a move-in fee, and more policies regarding the ingress of furniture.

So, not a big deal, I figure, right? I mean, sure, I point blank asked my landlord whether there would be a move in fee (I have it in writing via email). Sure, I asked specifically how to go about moving in myself and my furniture and sure, I had used the loading dock before (apparently I missed walking around girl's patrols). Apparently, I had done all of that wrong (which I was able to decipher through a series of Mean Old Ladies alternating rants and exhales of disgust)... I should have filled out papers, paid some kind of deposit (on what, I was never exactly clear). This is too big for an underling from Subcommittee of the Board... they need the president... stat... which is when I learned:

(5) my building has cameras that can record the halls.

So, no more naked strolls for me. As it turns out the Board President is a pretty nice asian dude with long grey hair. He says "we'll just review the tape" to which Mean Old Lady explains why she's just a member of the Subcommittee when she says "oh yeah, that's a good idea" and then promptly disappears. I don't know why she disappeared, but she did... I was not sad to see her go.
Board President is now, appropriately, more interested in me as a rogue tenant than the clearly disassembled, not broken, sign. Ok, so he needs a copy of the lease... fine, I run and get one, have them copy it, send the delivery guys on their way (after pointing out that they brought me the wrong thing... don't worry they said, it'll be shipped out when I get the rest of my furniture... I tipped them, they left). Next, I have to write a $250 dollar check for the "move in" fee... even though I'm already moved in and disrupted no one. I then call the landlord to see what's up, which hips me to the fact that:

(6) Landlord has disconnected her cell phone.

Shit, I think. I really am a rogue tenant. Damn me and my infernal need for objects upon which to sit. Sure the floor is hard, but it never outed me to the Man.
Somewhat frantic, I search the lease for another number, find it, and to my great relief the landlord picks up. I explain to her what has happened, she gets very upset. I get to the part where I gave a copy of my lease to the front desk, she gets even more upset. It had never occurred to me that:

(7) the lease contained personal information that Landlord does not want the Board to have.

Fuck. I'm in some Orwellian type bullshit. The condo owners are afraid of their government, the condo government is afraid of their condo owners... Which leaves me, the guy in the middle, to go back to the front desk to ask for the lease back from the girl who works there. It turns out:

(8) they keep the leases in a locked box.

Ridiculous. Made more so by the fact that this isn't really an impediment because front desk girl has a key. She claims she can't give me back the copy, though, without specific Board President approval. She gets on the phone with Landlord. A heated discussion occurs. I'm standing there saying for the hundredth time today "I'm just doing what I was told. I had no way of knowing any of this. I'm just the guy who signed the lease."
As of this moment, the Staffman has a date with Board President for some time tomorrow to exchange my registration information for Landlord's original lease. It's like some kind of document hostage trade and, frankly, I'm no Jack Bauer. If paper's gotta go down, paper's gotta go down.

I would like to point out that, throughout all of this, I never once said "look, bitches, I'm a lawyer..." followed by instructions. I think this means I'm maturing as I learn.

10th and L - O - V - I - N - G it, NW

Ok, so it's been awhile. Not just awhile. A year and a half. Maybe more, as most people can attest, I'm not very good at math. Here's a brief synopsis of this life of mine:

1) got a girlfriend. That was the beginning of the end of the blogging... I blame you, the reader. None of you are sleeping with me, and therefore I am less motivated to entertain you than the girlfriend.

2) got a clerkship with an absolutely amazing judge. He's phenomenal and by that I mean the man can do the legal equivalent of walking on water... I'm not exactly sure what that is, but I think it might have something to do with being able to explain the Rule Against Perpetuities in one breath..

3) moved to South Carolina to take the clerkship where I spent a pretty great 14 months. Saw the fam, developed an appreciation for the irony inherent in Civil War reenactments (with my main man Spike), and developed an unhealthy obsession with Mustard Based barbecue. Then again, it is nearly impossible to have a healthy relationship with any form of smoked pork.

4) lost girlfriend. 450 miles of interstate between you will do that. We gave it the ol' college try, though, as my 2006 Honda Civic with 40,000 miles on it will attest.

5) moved back to D.C. to take the same job I left nigh on a year ago. I love how life (and my resume) has a way of displaying continuity...

So, I'm back and my situation is much better than before. I, once again have my own place... (While I was in SC, I either roomed with undergrads, graduates, or my parents... all of which have stories to be told... none of which will be told now). This place is pretty spectacular for DC: I can walk to work, it has a (very small) second bedroom for friends, and the price was able to be negotiated because of the general collapse of the condo market here. Yay general collapse of the condo market.

So, I've been scouring the D.C. metro area for furniture and other such necessities (one of which I can't seem to get right is curtains... you're welcome across the street peeping tom neighbor guy). Anyway, most of my furniture will be delivered Wednesday and I will give you an update on it. Some of you old schoolers may remember the last time I bought furniture and you may be thinking quietly "hey man, I thought that guy bought some sweet furniture". I did. Ex-girlfriend sold it. Yet another story to be told at a later, less interesting interval in my life...

Anyway, that's enough to shake the rust off. I'll probably post again soon, but one of you is going to have to step up and start putting out.