My mom’s pretty much the best in the world, but those of you inclined to waste five minutes of your time here certainly know that already.

Two examples of why my mom is pretty much the best in the world:

Today, she left a message. “Hey, son. I have literally nothing I’m calling about. Ba-bye.”

I think it’s pretty funny. I called back shortly thereafter, and we wound up talking about not-inconsequential stuff for 15 or so minutes. Highly productive, really.

Yesterday, she called after I returned from a run. She was interested in using the computer to print out a chart that her students could use to help them fill in some information. She’s not the most computer-literate person in the world (though she’s certainly not the least computer-literate, either, by a long shot), but she is somewhat of a technophobe. I was impressed that she wanted to use the computer rather than a ruler or some actual graph paper or the myriad other options at her disposal.

I was even more impressed – briefly, anyway – as the conversation progressed.

Mom: “So, should I use Excel then?”
Me: (hesitating, very impressed) “Yes! Very good. I’m impressed!”
Mom: “Well, I know that sometimes we use it for this kind of stuff at school.”
Me: “Cool.” (or something similarly unimportant)
Mom: (haltingly) “So, what do I do now?”
Me: “Well, first you need to open up Excel.”
Mom: “But I don’t even know where it is!”

I helped her locate the Microsoft Office arrow (not the Microsoft Office Tools arrow), and we opened up the program, and the instruction just wouldn’t translate long-distance. Still, though, the immediate, high-pitched response – “But I don’t even know where it is!” – will remain one of the funniest things I’ve heard in months. Also, she’s willing to try, and that’s certainly worth something.

My parents are also the greatest in the world because they spent a large part of the weekend lugging boxes of my crap up from the basement and, more impressively, hauling old fantastic furniture. I’m greatly looking forward to their appearance in The Ring Fingernail this weekend, largely because of the furniture, and largely because of the free meal(s), but also because of the company. They’re pretty awesome.

The Boy helped move furniture this past weekend, which makes him cool, and my older brother will do the same this coming weekend, which makes him cool. My sister, meanwhile, will offer moral support and, apparently, bathe in whole milk. I’m not sure what that makes her.

Oh, yeah, another conversation with my mom:

Mom: “Hey. We’ve got a lot of lamps. What kind do you think you want?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Mom: “Well, we’ve got some really nice brass lamps. And we’ve got some chrome ones, too.”
Me: “Well, I don’t really know. What do you think?”
Mom: “The chrome ones are a bit more modern, I’d say.”
Me: “I think I’ll go with the modern ones, then. I’m pretty young and hip.”
Mom: “Oh. Do you really think you want those?”

Pretty funny, too, no?

And, yes, I’m 26, almost 27, and, yes, I’m still using my parents’ old furniture. And the old furniture from my childhood bedroom. And the washer and dryer that they’ve stolen from a neighbor’s trash. But I think – think – that I’m on the verge of buying my own dining room table and chairs. And I’m pretty sure that I’ve stolen a coworker’s old desk, a high-quality desk, she assures me, perfectly on my own.

The move was grueling on a lot of levels, and I’m happy it’s partially done. Last Thursday saw me, essentially, spend the hours of 5:45 until 10:45 moving boxes and furniture and being generally irritable when I received phone calls, and then I spend the hours of 10:45 to 12:15 trying to unpack and get settled (and, well, buy a shower curtain and some cereal and some plastic utensils) before I fell asleep with the lights on throughout the new place. I woke up at about 3:15, sifted through the boxes until I found my alarm, and nearly slept through work. Though I made it, and on time, but I complete sleepwalked through the day. And then, come Friday night, I was home by 6:10 and asleep reading on the floor by 6:25.

But, come the end of the day Sunday, it felt as much like a home as a place with a bed, a chair-in-a-bag, a 13-inch TV that doesn’t get reception, and a laundry basket for a kitchen table can feel.

Part of the reason it felt so much like a home is because my iPod arrived safe and sound on Friday. It was a tough three weeks without it, but I think I’m a stronger person for having gone through it. Let me tell you, friends, I’m quite impressed with the care taken by my pal Nemo to ensure safe delivery. Delivery confirmation. Insurance. Awesome. I picked it up at the post office at 5:50 on Friday afternoon, and it was cranking the tunes by the time I fell asleep on my floor.

One thing that’s been completely rocking my world for, well, the last 24 hours, is the new Bloc Party album. I was almost dismissive of it when I initially wrote about it a few weeks ago but, gosh, there are some absolutely great songs on here. “I Still Remember” is the second single, and really, truly should be a hit. It’s an absolutely chugging, lush pop song. It just moves forward and forward, and the chorus is so bouncy and it’s a sappy kind of young love song, and I just think it’s mass appeal. This album really, really triumphs whereSilent Alarm only really fell short - in its length: A Weekend in the City is just 11 tracks long, and it leaves you wanting more of Keke whatever his last name is. His yelping voice is toned down here, and his lyrical content – the disenchantedness of blacks in Britain, Sudoku, “watching the under-15’s play football in the park,” the effort of teenagers to fit in precisely by acting like their not fitting in, driving to Brighton, witches – is certainly universal. I just think it’s a great album.

Also great was The Arcade Fire’s performance on Saturday Night Live this weekend. And I don’t know if it’s because it was actually funny, or only because Dwight Schrute eventually utters the words “anonymous sex in the Bennigan’s at the Newark Airport,” but I thought this was one of the greatest sketches I’ve ever seen on the show. I watched the sketch twice – once when I got home, and once on Sunday, when I realized that I couldn’t get Ohio State-Wisconsin with my lame-o rabbit-eared mini-TV. I’ve only watched The Arcade Fire’s performances once, but I’ll probably watch again soon enough.

Tonight was the Tuesday Night Running Club. My first appearance since the week before I went to New York, owing to various commitments and things like apartment hunting and packing. So my coworker and I arrived at the appointed location, twenty minutes behind schedule, and nobody was there. Panic.

Then, he invited me to dinner. Then we had some leftover hot and sour soup and some tandoori chicken. And then, friends, I realized that I had won that battle. Not just free food, but free awesome food. Pan-Asian, or something.

Hey, do you realize that, on Thursday, it’s March? I don’t know what March means to you but, to me, it means “Three paycheck month.” Woof. It also means spring, though three days of getting pounded by snow and freezing rain change your outlook.

Still, though, winter number one in The Ring Fingernail has been not-that-bad at all. Once I got used to the actual “always driving when there’s snow falling” thing, the behind-the-wheel time has become relatively easy. Peaceful, even, it a twisted way. But the real reason that it’s not been a winter is because I’ve had a carport. I’ve never had to scrape a windshield in the morning and, let me tell you, it makes life infinitely better.

I definitely – and sketchily – proposed to a neighbor who has a password-protected wireless signal – under his/her email address – that we split the cost. To this point, I haven’t gotten a response. Which is why, as I post this, I’m sitting in a running car outside of somebody’s home. Very cool, and very classy.

Three posts, three specific urinal stories. Readership, on the upswing!

This is a follow-up on our not-washing-his-hands story from last week.

Today, I arrived at the urinal as a germophobe ("coughs and sneezes spread diseases!") coworker was finishing his work. Options are wait, or use the stall. I wait, just a moment, and initiate conversation while waiting. He goes to washing his hands. Our culprit from last week enters, and heads straight to the stall.

I and the germophobe continue our discussion - about the Tuesday night running club, workday-related small talk, whatever - and he exits. I finish at the urinal. Our culprit whisks out - "Have a nice night - see you tomorrow!" - as I head to the sink. I do some scrubbing and some screaming and I'm out.

I sit back to my desk, and I do some day-end end stuff, and the germophobe comes and sits next to my desk: "Did I just see what I think I saw?" "Huh?" "Did I just see what I think I saw?" "What?" "Did you see what I just saw?" "Wha?" "I think I just saw that. Tell me I didn't see that." "What did you see?" "Did he just leave the restroom without washing his hands?" "Yes. Second time I've seen it in less than a week!" "I'm putting up a sign."

I'd fully expect there to be a sign up there tomorrow. Awesome.

- - - - - - - -

So I mention this to my carpool-mate on the ride home. My carpool-mate is next to the men's restroom.

"Yeah," she says, "I saw that happen on Thursday!" "You saw that happen!?" "Yeah, I see it all the time." "What do you mean?" "It's pretty obvious when someone doesn't wash - you hear the flush, and they're out the door immediately." "Wow." "To be honest, last Thursday I thought it was you - and I thought you were pretty gross." "Yeah, it wasn't me."

So, the final count:
2 events, witnessed by 3 individuals. 1 confirmed non-washer, on two occasions. Ewww.

Also, my carpool-mate indicated that she thinks that there's at least one other coworker who regularly chooses not to wash. Germs are bad.

- - - - - - - - -

Usually, the "following up on my New Year's Resolutions" post would come, say, year-end. But let's look at the goals set forth in my finest post of the last three months, the 2006 end-of-year post (skip the Christmas part - start just over halfway down the page, at "So, that's the fringe-mandatory...").

As set forth that night, things I'd like to accomplish:

Get a haircut: Accomplished January 6. Today, I was asked if I had gotten a haircut over the weekend. "Not since the first weekend of the year," was my truthful reply. But I got one, which is a good start.

Buy a bed: Accomplished January 6, as well. I've slept quite well on it several nights, and have even washed the sheets several times.

Avoid arrests: So far, so good. Though I pluralized "arrests," which is a bit disconcerting. I should have sought to avoid even one arrest. Still, I've been successful.

Maintain friendships, and form new ones: I think I'm okay on both counts so far, right? Right? Good, I hope.

Avoid traffic tickets: Again, so far, so good.

Move: Friends, it's happening, it's really happening. It's happening, quickly, too. Thursday night, my bed and whatever else I have will move from one side of our humble near-downtown lake to the other. Thursday, I will help my roommate pack his gigantic van after moving my bed to the other side of the lake. Thursday, I will also watch The Office, but most of my energy will be devoted to moving.

I'm quite happy with new place, though I've only seen it once, and only with a kind of surly lady showing it to me (she's a part-timer) and trying to hustle me out and seemingly discouraging me from renting ("if you can afford it," she continued to say, no doubt a commentary on my ever-present nappiness). But, gosh, right on the water. And right by a track around the lake. And pretty close to the downtown are and, especially come June or so, quite close to our office.

Also, my parents are awesome. They're loading up a van and coming up not this weekend, but the following weekend. They're even working on procuring a used washer and dryer, because they're awesome. And don't tell The Boy, but he'll definitely be enlisted to help pack sometime next week. Sucker.

My parents are also awesome because they sent Lou Malnati's pizza to me last week. Two of 'em. I'm finishing the second for lunch tomorrow, because I'm committed to days of grease and stinky belches. Yum.

- - - - - -

I thought I had something else to write, but I can't remember it anymore. But I think I've forgotten this same thing several times. I used to take notes when things popped up at work, but I've not done that for a while. Hmm.

- - - - - - -

I just did a bit of 'off the top of my head' editing to the rock music list at right. Of note: I added "Screaming Infidelities" because I really, really miss singing along to it while drinking with my friend Greg from The Quad.

The nice thing about Greg is that you can call him any time of night, yell "Your! Hair! It's! Every! Where!" and he'll join in.

Is there anything better than pumping your fist like an overly-emotional 14-year-old girl and singing along:
As for now, I'm gonna hear the saddest songs,
and sit around, and wonder how your making out.
And as for me, I wish that I was anywhere, with anyone, making out.

Shut up.

It's pure genius.

And then you get to ask about eyes looking fake and hair being everywhere and making out some more and, if you're lucky, some idiot comes by and buys you shots. And then you pump your fist and yell louder.

Probably, yelling along to "Screaming Infidelities" is, in some way, the thing I miss most about The Quad. Though I've called Greg and yelled on a few occasions in the last seven or eight months, so that's worth something.

Let's talk hygiene. Cleanliness. Avoiding the spread of germs.

(This is definitely the second straight post with the word 'urinal.' I think that's probably my readership cause.)

We all know that we're supposed to, you know, wash our hands after using the restroom. Do we do this all the time? Probably not, right? Me, I'd say I have about a 90 percent success rate at home, and a 100 percent success rate in public locations (except when the sink doesn't work, or there's urine in it or something). 90 percent is probably overstating, slightly, but not by much.

So, there's a urinal and a stall in the primary restroom at our office. On a particular day earlier this week, I arrived at the door shortly before a newish coworker. I headed to the urinal and, with the urinal taken, he headed to the stall. I finished first. I then proceeded to the sink.

Some soaping, some scrubbing, some pounding my hands against the sink to dry them off a bit before heading to the automatic dryer. As I walk away from the sink, he walks out of the stall. He makes a pithy joke, picks up his coffee mug from a countertop, and walks out. Just walks out. Didn't even make a move towards the sink. Didn't even do the 'run some water over my hands' thing. Just left.

I was a little disgusted, I think. Well, rather, a lot disgusted. At least put up the appearance, pal.

Some will argue that, hey, if you didn't touch anything, or if you didn't pee on your hands, you don't need to wash. I'll respectfully disagree.

- - - - - - -

Cats hoops optimism: I'll be honest, here, I've got less than I usually have. This team's incredibly frustrating, only because there's not a single shooter on the roster. Moore sucks. Okrzesik sucks. After Coble and Prince Vince, there's not a single guy I want to see shooting from the outside. And, of course, that's your 4 and your 5 right there, which is fine. I'd rather see Sterling Williams shoot than Moore or Okrzesik or, sadly, Ryan.

It's nice to look at Coble's fantastic freshman season, particularly the fact that he's getting more aggressive on the defensive glass. And it's nice to think that Ryan and Nash will get a year better. But the problem here is that Moore and Williams have certainly not gotten a year better, and Moore seems to be a bit of a headcase. It's like he's had his Winston Blake meltdown two years early.

What is interesting is that, next year, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the Cats wind up starting 6-8 (Coble), 6-7 (Ryan), 6-6 (frosh Capocci), 6-3 (Moore), 6-3 for the roster, with 6-7 doing the majority of the ballhandling while also defending the top of the 1-3-1. I just saw that Nash is listed at 6-4, which I find tough to believe.

Right now, the only true post-ish kind of player on next year's roster is Coble. The two Croatians are redshirting, and there's not another post player in the pipeline. But maybe that's okay, I guess. It's a philosophical thing - problem is, the philosophy doesn't rebound. (Actually, as I think about it, Tolic might come back next year, too. I think he's junior-eligible, but I also think he might go get a real job, too.)

Can 'the system' work in the Big Ten? I don't know, but I think it can. It can certainly work in the Big East (Georgetown, especially West Virginia), and it can work in the WAC (Mountain West?) (Air Force), and it worked in the ACC (NC State), and it might get off the ground in the PAC 10 (Arizona State), though that one'll take time.

The problem is, for all the emphasis on the fundamentals - dribbling, passing, bounce passing, dribble-handoffs, forced bounced passes, sky hooks, shooting, perhaps - there's never an emphasis on ferocity. I don't know how many times they've missed around the bucket because Scott or Coble or Ryan are afraid to dunk the ball. (I know Ryan can dunk, and I can't confirm that Coble or Scott can, but they're big guys, dude.) Part of the reason NU lost the first Wisconsin game is because Scott got swatted from behind on a wide open layup - throw it down, dude. The ferocity particularly comes across in the rebounding numbers, which is why I like that Coble's been so violent in pulling down boards in the last two games - not just getting his hands on the ball, but getting his hands on the ball and ripping it away from everyone else. They need more of that.

I love Carmody - he's funny, he's straightforward, he's likable, he's committed - but he's never been an emotional type. You can't win as a coach strictly with fire - O'Neill and countless others have proven that - and you can win without it - Coach K certainly never has been fiery, or Self, or any number of top choops coaches - but I certainly wouldn't mind it. It's got to come from somewhere, and I wish it could sometimes come from someone on the coaching staff. Under BC and staff, it never has. Maybe Tavaras can take that role. He is, after all, the freakin' Tavaras.

I also wish we could recruit some...non-whites. We'll have Sterling and Nash and the new Michael Thompson next year. They say he's pretty good.

Enough about next year, though.

A thought on this year's roster: Gosh, I kind of love Tim Doyle. Only at NU.

- - - - - -

We're coming down to the wire on the apartment thing. I'm looking at a lakefront (though not the lakefront) place. I've only got to confirm that the complex actually has a lakefront unit available. No washer / dryer, no real laundry on site but, wow, what a view. And a really accessible track around the lake, too. Otherwise, it's probably the same complex I'm squatting at right now, because it's pretty nice.

- - - - - - -

I definitely drank two straight nights this weekend. I'm feeling it today. Roomie's last Saturday in town, after all.

Readership here is plunging, my friends, and I don't know what to do about it. Create a repulsive but false roommate? An option, I guess. Perhaps I can just write about false achievements on the athletic field. Or maybe I can, I don't know, create some other sort of drama somehow. I'm not sure. (Actually, I've found a method. Keep reading!)

I talked to Tina last night, and I just got off the phone with my parents, and I think I left them fringe-depressed, and that's just too bad. Kind of stressful at work, in general, and sometimes it's getting to me that I'm a half-hour from home when I'm at the office. But, on the bright side, the fact that I live in the Arctic Circle leads to great daytime hours - I'm getting home in the light at 6 p.m., and we're about a month from Daylight Savings Time. There might be snow on the ground, and I might not have seen grass in about a month, but, gosh, we're only a month from spring. For real, y'all. That's pretty cool, I think, and it gave me a smile while I was standing at the urinal today. That's totally the first time I've typed 'urinal' here, I'd hope, anyway.

Also, my master plan of 'not reporting my income earned as an untaxed temporary employee' has backfired on me, as I received one of those 1099-Misc forms. This means that Uncle Sam's getting a paycheck-sized check from me in a few months, and that kind of sucks. Puts a damper on those pending "Tax Refund Sale" sales that are about to start popping up. And, to think, I could've really used the hot tub in my backyard.

I'm in the market for a new apartment, as my roommate is leaving town sometime in the next month or so. I could stay at my current location, certainly, as it's pretty nice. I would have to come up with an alibi for where I've been the last five months, as I've been here, well, "illegally" over that time. Or, shall we say, I've been "undocumented." But it's a pretty nice place.

It seems like a lot of places up here have in-unit laundry, which is just awesome. There's at least one place that has an indoor garage connected to the unit, which is pretty fantastic, too. So I've made about six or seven calls to privately-owned places, and I've seen a few, and I've got to make some calls to complexes, I guess. Is there anything more boring than talking about looking for an apartment? Probably, actually.

On about a tri-monthly basis, I get the urge to read actual literature, and not to stop at Newsweek and Sports Illustrated and Slate and... pitchfork. My last two weekends home, I've also done a fair amount of month-old New Yorker reading, which is uniformly good reading. Long reading, which is both good and bad.

On Saturday afternoon, I picked up Phillip Roth's American Pastoral at the library. The opening chapter was riveting, in its own way, and it's a shame that there's about a 20 percent chance (and that's being generous) of me finishing it. But even if I don't finish it, I'll have encountered this fantastic passage:

The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It's getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That's how we know we're alive; we're wrong. Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that - well, lucky you.

It was preceded by a cool part about 'getting them wrong while you're with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them all wrong again.' I've not read books for meaning in a long time, my friends, but I think this part is getting at the theme of the book. How can I tell? Because it's what the first chapter is about, and it's what the jacket is about.

I've just learned how to increase traffic on my blog. Jenny's officially an expert.

You can a) write and post photos about Icelandic hot dogs, apparently good enough to draw a marriage proposal, or b) write about Chicago's Margie's Candies, but include a hilarious-but-creepy anecdote about a teenage crush on Steve Dahl, thereby causing Steve to read it on air, and thereby surging site traffic. I, however, can do none of the above.

What I can do, however, is write briefly about the albums I've bought in the last two weeks (I realize that this list is bringing me close to the level of aging-non-hipster just trying to hang on, but I'll deal with it. Just about everything I buy now is at Borders, and on sale at Borders. Even the cool stuff):

The Shins - Wincing the Night Away: They're pretty tough to not-like, right? I was surprised recently when I read that James Mercer was 36 years old. I'd like to write that I saw them "before they were big," because it's true, but I think they were opening for Spiral Stairs' Preston School of Industry at the Double Door in October 2001. And, sure, it was a good show. And I knew the Shins, and was looking forward to seeing them (more than PSOI, certainly), but I didn't yet have Oh, Inverted World by that time. But, actually, I most enjoyed The Standard, the first of three bands, and they aren't any good at all. My favorite song on Wincing is "and you had to know that I was fond of you (fond of you)," which is called "Turn On Me." It's not the single, but I think it's what they played on Letterman. I think James Mercer is something approaching a beautiful lyricist, but I don't listen to music closely enough to realize it. I wish I had the patience to really study a record, like I did when I was 15, but I haven't done that for years. A shame, really.

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Some Loud Thunder: I swear, while driving to Detroit last week, I flat hated this. It sucked. Sucked. But then you get over the guy's voice, and what's left are some pretty fantastic songs. There's nothing as immediate as "Over and Over (Lost and Found)" or "In This Home On Ice," from the first record, but, chances are, I didn't like those much at the beginning either. Everyone probably kind of likes "Satan Said Dance," I think, and I think my favorite is "Mama, Won't You Keep Those Castles In The Air & Burning." The songs are slow builds, lengthy, and that's kind of neat.

Of Montreal - Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer: The packaging here sucks. If you like CDs, like me, you might still opt for stealing. Or iTunes-ing. Because it's this digipack that folds out in all four directions and requires a cumbersome plastic sleeve to keep it from popping open, and then the liner notes are this kaleidoscopic polygon that falls out when you open the sleeve, and it's just annoying. But I really, really like the record. It's a breakup record, which is kind of cool. And it's got "The Past Is A Grotesque Animal," which is 12 minutes of the most intense kind-of twee you'll ever hear. It's got this great part, the part that makes me run faster on the treadmill, when he kind-of wails, "Let's have some fun! Let's tear this shit apart! Let's tear this fucking house apart! Let's tear our fucking bodies apart! But let's just have some fun." It's kind of cool. And then there's this other one, "Cato As A Pun," where it's his rhythm and inflection that truly make the lyrics: "I. Can't even pretend that you. Are my friend. What has happened to you and I? And don't say that I have changed, because, man, of course I have." It's cooler, and less sixth-grade, than it sounds here. And it's certainly not punctuated like that.

Beirut - Lon Gisland: Yeah, it's pretty cool. "Scenic World" is rerecorded, and there are two instrumentals, and it was worth my five bucks at the register at Other Music.

El Goodo - El Goodo: I don't know anything about them, but they're presumably named after a Big Star song, and their disc was in the four-dollar bin at Other Music. I'm so hip. It seems like some pretty wistful pop at times, and it's a little more rocking. I went through it three or four times last Monday, and I'll probably never listen to it again, but I think it's better than I've given it credit for here.

Swearing at Motorists - Last Night Becomes This Morning: I really liked Swearing at Motorists live, but that was opening for GbV, so I was probably overly excited and overly enthusiastic. This is the second record of theirs I own, again a cheapo Other Music purchase. I've only been through it half-asleep on snowy roads at 2:30 in the morning, so my opinion is unqualified on it.

Nellie McKay - Pretty Little Head: This'll never make regular rotation, but it will get played sometimes and put on mix tapes and will probably cause me to go, Oh, yeah, I forgot about that record if one of its many quite-catchy songs pops up on my iPod in shuffle mode. Or, also likely, it won't make it to the iPod because I'm about out of memory.

Bloc Party - A Weekend In The City: The cover art is just fantastic. A cool overhead cityscape, with a series of overpasses and a football pitch (!) off to the right and a basketball court kind of peaking underneath the highway. And it's got bleak urbanish lyrics. ("I'll love you in the morning / when you're still strung out" is the lyric I just heard moments ago.) I think I like Bloc Party, too.

Arcade Fire - Neon Bible: My god. My god. So good. Oh, gosh, so good. Just so fantastic. Sweet baby. It's just so intense, but melodically and intelligently and cryptically and creepily. And it makes you want to scream along and pump your fist to the point where you don't realize you're screaming along and pumping your fist while you're joining in on an opening stanza:

Don't want to work in the buildings downtown
No I don't wanna work in the buildings downtown
I don't know what I'm gonna do
Cause the planes keep crashing down two by two
Don't wanna work in the buildings downtown
No, I don't wanna see it when the planes hit the ground

and then you continue

Don't want to work in the buildings downtown
No I don't wanna work in the buildings downtown
Parking the cars in the underground
The voices when they scream, they make no sound

I totally got it prerelease, because Gurs emailed it to me. I think they're just fantastic. Funeral became great over time for me, and I think this one became great on about third listen.

In Sports Illustrated last week, a player for the University of Oregon declared The Arcade Fire to be his dream Super Bowl Halftime Show. Bruce Taylor, or Bryce Taylor, is now my favorite Duck ever. Ahead of Donald, and Luke Ridnour, and even Joey Harrington.

- - - - - -

I was talking to a coworker this afternoon, and he was telling me about his brief - and failed - standup career. He apparently MC'ed a weekly event well-attended by students at a local Christian college, which isn't exactly a great comedy audience anyway. On one particular occasion, he heard an audience member say, "Oh, Guy," to which my coworker stopped his routine, and kind of looked quizically, and said, "You really think God doesn't know what you mean there?" That wasn't that funny, I guess, but the part about the kids going out to their cars to drink wine coolers was.

Another coworker and I have a new catchphrase of sorts. It's awful, but awesome. But mostly vulgar. When something exciting happens, we simply say "Balls." More awful, I guess, but there are probably vulgar-er things that we could say, too.

- - - - - -

I feel like my sister, because I almost forgot to shower. Thankfully, I didn't. Good.

I had planned to write sometime last week but, alas, planning and lack of accessible stolen internet access and life and oddly-long kind-of dinner parties got in the way. As a result, I was unable to properly preview my trip to New York, and I was also unable to properly preview the Super Bowl.

After-the-fact Super Bowl prediction:

With their largely blitz-free defense and pressure from their three fine defensive ends, along with timely big plays from the defensive backfield, the Bears will hold Peyton Manning in relative check. With the combination of Thomas Jones and Cedric Benson grinding it out, and with Sexy Rexy finding his customary one big play for the game, the offense will do enough. Devin Hester will generate one huge play in the return game and Robbie Gould will outperform Hall of Famer Adam Vinatieri. The Bears will win. 27-24. Mark it down.

Oh well.

- - - -

Thankfully, the Bears’ abysmal performance of Sunday night was far and away the only bad thing to happen this weekend. Otherwise, the weekend was perfect. Too-quick, but perfect.

Timing:

Thursday: 6:30-10:30 – From the Ring Fingernail to Ann Arbor.

Friday: 7:00-12:45 p.m. – En route from Ann Arbor to Detroit to downtown NYC

12:45-2:30 a.m. Saturday – Some lunch, some touristy-ness, some dinner-ness, some bar-ness with high school friend Chuck and his crew.

Saturday: 11-5ish – In the city with my sister. I don’t think we truly did anything of significance, though we have photographs that perhaps prove to the contrary. She took about 15 minutes to get gift certificates at some French restaurant, and we shared a slice of New York style pizza, properly folded, and we stopped twice - twice - at Starbucks. New York has several Starbucks locations, it turns out.

8-10 – Watching Annie in a pretty fantastic performance of Twyla Tharp’s The Fugue. No, I didn’t 'get' it, though it was properly explained to the audience. Yes, I could tell she nailed it – her smile was about six feet wide at the end of the performance, and she let out an intentionally-audible yelp once offstage. The performance and the aftermath were both tremendous. The gigantor grin was probably my favorite singular moment of the entire trip.

10-midnight – Diner food with her crew. The potato skins sucked, I heard. And heard. And heard. And heard again. The home fries were pretty good, and the rye toast worked out pretty well. I totally should have paid.

Sunday: Midnight-3ish, 4ish? – Sitting around, drinking a bit, talking about nothing. The company was perfect, the dates were half-eaten, and the gigantic mammal was successfully slain. Or something. I’ve not read the book, and get the beginning of the metaphor, but don’t completely think it holds up. Still, it’s a nice metaphor, in its way. As I go to sleep, I put on Band of Horses.

7:30ish – Sleeping on the world’s most uncomfortable couch, I stir a bit. But no complaints.

9:45 – As I wake up, I quietly put on Band of Horses, again.

10:30ish – Six of the eight housemates emerge for at least part of brunch, and three more fine individuals find their way over, and a variety of pancakes are served. (Pumpkin butter!) For my part, I sit in the corner of the room and say stupid crap. At times, I sit, silently, transfixed. College is pretty cool, you know.

12:30 – Departure. Too soon. Great people. Then there was a flight and a Super Bowl party and a drive home and a 3:15 shut-eye time. But it was worth every lost hour of sleep and every treacherous curve in the snow-covered Ring Fingernail roadways.

(My sister just sent some pictures along. I just looked at them. Generally, pure joy on my face. Seriously. It was awesome.)

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So, there’s really no way to write how perfectly everything went. I was explaining to a coworker today that I, quite simply, left New York as a Proud Older Brother.

Proud of the fact that: a) My sister’s pretty fantastic, and b) she’s pretty talented, and c) she’s found a great group of friends, and d) she’s pretty clearly an adult, or almost there. I last spent a lot of time with the girl when she was, what, 13 years old. It’s eight years later now and, obviously, you know people change and get smarter and cooler and funnier and more mature, but you can’t truly realize that until you spend some time – even just 24 hours – in their territory. And, let me tell you, friends, she owns her territory.

Also, her friends are truly 100 percent fun. I don’t know if my sister was joking or not, but there was apparently some drowsiness-and-booze-induced discussion of a trip to The Ring Fingernail this spring. Whether it will happen or not, I don’t know, but, if things are working that way, I will do my part to wholeheartedly encourage it. Truly, truly awesome.

I also should tell you that these kids are much more grown-up than I was at that point in my life. I said this in response to the high quality of Sunday’s brunch. (And perhaps in response to the fact that their refrigerator had nothing resembling Miller Lite, though I’m not sure that’s a good quality.) It was quickly pointed out to me that, duh, they’re girls – they appreciate high-quality brunches more than, well, I do. But, also, they’re probably more grown-up than we were. (Noted, however, is the fact that I already had a job by this point. Hmmm. One for me?)

It would be interesting if they still made answering machines. Eight names, some with several syllables, and none that rhyme with the word “Lyin’.” I wonder if these kids could have come up with a message to the tune of “The Super Bowl Shuffle.” Probably not. Score another one for E2. Go Bears.

Except for the one kid who flaked on the diner and then showed up drunk, I liked everyone. I enjoyed hearing about horses and chainsaws and India before it was cool and pesos and Poland and the World Series Champion Chicago White Sox and ‘tech’ and I liked lecturing ever-so-briefly about the beauty that is Stanley from The Office and I liked seeing “The Thumb Trick” and I liked giving crap to the girl who needs to be given more crap and I liked giving crap to the girl who handled it pretty well, really, and I liked most everything that happened. I particularly liked the locals at the diner.

Anyway, I’m clearly not doing this trip justice, but I also don’t know what else to write. It was fantastic. Fantastic. Thanks to everyone involved.

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I’m really, really, really, really happy that my friend Nemo is okay. Our walking-to-the-other-store-in-an-effort-to-get-Old-Style-for-the-party male-male hug was a little awkward, or at least not as good as usual, or at least not as planned as usual, but it was really nice. Maybe the unplannedness and anti-theatricality of it made it, in a way, better. Though they’re always good.

Anyway, he’s one of the four greatest male individuals I’ve ever met. You can probably figure out the other three. (Note: Michael Jordan is not one of them, though he’s in the team photo.) I’d be really, really, really sad if he weren’t okay. Crushingly sad.

If he weren’t okay, this post would be a lot less buoyant, for instance.

Wear your seatbelts, everybody.

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I’m also happy that the car was okay enough that my iPod made it through. That wouldn’t have left me crushed, but it would have left me upset.

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This shit’s so not funny. There are probably some disappointed first-time readers. Generally, actually, it’s not that funny usually. Just over-comma’d, for the most part. Get ‘em next time, I guess.