2 years.

For about two years, I posted not a thing. I think it's because my job -- no, my life -- has been exhausting me entirely too much emotionally. Writing isn't easy. Even when it comes to writing a silly blog post. (Especially when it comes to writing a SILLY blog post?) I don't work 24 hours per day. Not even close. But there's not much left about me after what I do. Poverty is exhausting. It must be even worse to actually BE poor. (NOTE: I don't make a lot, but I get by.) But there's something about malaise that leaves you unable to share yourself with others. (Well, without a few drinks, at least.)

I miss writing. These weren't exactly my memoirs, but it was fun to keep up this blog. I liked feedback, whether it was a friend's comment or a simple visit from a Snorg Girl afficionado from abroad. It definitely meant something to me that someone out there was reading my writing. It kind of felt like it did back when I had my column in my college paper. People read me. I want to be read again.

So here goes. I'm not going to advertise this anywhere right now. Maybe someone who is strangely committed to me will come back and see it and hope that I'll write again. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. I'm going to try to write again. Maybe not every day. But I'm going to try. And trying is the best I've got these days.

Holla.

Excuses, excuses...

I know what you must be thinking: He gets us all excited with a bunch of posts all in a row and then he disappears again!

But, no! I'm not disappearing! It's just that I need a certain amount of inspiration to blog and there's not been much inspiring me this week.

I mean, I could write about Sarah Palin, but I don't feel like she's really worth my time. (But check out this site for some women who are less than pleased with her.) I would write about a few clients that are driving me batshit crazy, but that would be a breach of client confidentiality rules and I'm not looking for a lawsuit. I thought about writing about September 11 (a friend did so here), but I don't know that I have the emotional energy to really explore that.

Even last night's viewing of this week's 90210 wasn't enough to move me to write. Sure, it was at the same time squee-inducing (Someone from high school is Kelly's baby-daddy! Jackie's back and she's still a drunk!) and terrible (Except for Dixon, everyone looks 30! Aunt Becky is too young to play Carol Potter! I hate every character except Silver! Where the hell is Lucille Bluth this episode?!), but not so much that I cared to delve into it.

So, yeah. Deal with the fact that I have nothing to say right now. Hopefully something inspiring'll happen over the weekend and you'll have new material come Monday.

Snorgtastic.

I love seeing how many people read my blog and -- even more interesting -- how people get here. True, the majority of my readers are friends and acquaintances, but I've mentioned before that a few curious Google searches (e.g., "Ahmedinejad hotness") have led quite a few strangers my way, many of them foreign. With my latest return to Colonial Jumbo, I've started checking my site meter again and I couldn't help but notice a bit of a trend. A large percentage of my traffic comes from one particular image search on Google: "snorg girl."

So I tried it myself. My blog is the FOURTH link. This post gets more hits than anything else I've ever written on here.

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that.

UPDATE: "Let's give the boy a hand..."

My office looks out on an alley with another office building no more than 20 feet away. Across the way, is a man sitting in his office. His back is toward the window (and us). His blinds are mostly drawn. He is, without a doubt, masturbating to internet porn. Apparently, he's been at it all day. He even has headphones on. And the best part is that his office door is wide open.

I just wanted to share that. It's the sort of thing you see on the televisions all the time, but never in real life. Yay!

UPDATE: He's STILL at it. Yesterday, it was funny; today, it's sad. I feel bad for the guy. Not because we've seen him (or because I'm reporting his masturbatory habits to my readers), but because this is clearly someone who's had a bit of a mental break. I feel like psychologically stable people don't masturbate constantly at their desks with their doors open. (But please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.) Is there a hotline for this?

(I changed the headline because I thought it was a more appropriate song lyric than yesterday. I think that it's a nice amalgam of humor and concern.)

Because it is my name.

And the never-ending nightmare of my existence continues....

So, as you may or may not know, I recently began the process of applying for my Italian citizenship. They require that I present both of my parents' birth certificates, my dad's certificate of naturalization, my parents' wedding certificate, and my birth certificate. The latter two documents need to be "certified" copies, have an apostille attached, and must be translated to Italian. Awesome.

My mum, being phenomenal, went straight to work and got me both their birth certificates (in long form) from Italy in a little over a week. They were in my hands before I even went to my birth state's Dept of Vital Statistics to figure out how to get my own birth certificate. After a little clicking around, I was able to submit my request online (I had to fax a copy of my license to prove it was me). Imagine my pleasant surprise when I got an e-mail informing me that my birth certificate was on its way less than a week later.

Now, imagine my outraged frustration when I looked at my certified, embossed, freshly-signed birth certificate and saw that my name was spelled incorrectly.

I hoped that it was merely some kind of typo in preparing the document, but a call to the issuer confirmed that it was, indeed, a copy of my actual birth certificate. Somehow, my municipal birth certificate and every document created since the date of my birth have had one spelling of my first name. The spelling I thought correct. But my actual, legal, certified, official birth certificate had another spelling. Every time I corrected this common misspelling of my name, it was ME who was wrong. I have been living a lie for 29 years.

This, of course, has caused my soul to disconnect from my body.

Now, in order to "correct" my record (as if I was the one who made the mistake -- I was 0 years old!), I have to provide proof of my name before the age of 7.

Proof. Of. My. Name.

Think about that. I have to prove to someone that my name is what my name has been for 29 years. Obviously -- for reasons that were not explained to me -- my municipal birth certificate is not enough. Neither is my expired government-issued passport from when I was a child. Instead, I must provide one of the following:
1) School records;
2) Baptismal certificate;
3) Immunization records; or
4) Census records.
I cannot begin to process why a baptismal certificate will suffice where an effing United States passport won't.

Once I submit the above, they'll let me be the me I've been for 29 years within four to six weeks. (At this rate, I'll get my citizenship right around retirement age. Part of the point was to be able to flee if John McCain is elected president.)

What surprises me is just how furious I am at the moment. I'm a pretty easy-going person in general. (Right?) I want to be calm and rational. Didn't Shakespeare write,

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Ah, fuck Shakespeare and that stupid slut Juliet, too. She was wrong. John Proctor got it right in Arthur Miller's The Crucible:

"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!"

There's no place like home.

After a period of angst earlier in the summer, I recently found myself becoming more peaceful about my existence. I'm an attorney at a great organization, doing the sort of work I imagined myself doing when I applied to law school. I'm teaching again -- albeit this time at a law school. My angsty thoughts of the past few months are beginning to coalesce into a solid plan for the future. And certainly not least, I'm living with one of the most spectacular people on earth in an apartment that we've both come to love. Obviously something was bound to go awry.

Then our landlord told us that he wants to sell our apartment. Natch.

First, the obvious issue: We'll probably have to move. In DC, it's actually quite hard to evict a tenant, but personal use and occupancy is a legitimate reason to have someone vacate. From when notice is given, tenants have 90 days to vacate. If they do not, the landlord can sue them in landlord-tenant court. I guess it would be an interesting experience in learning what it's like to be one of my clients. Bah. Although we were committed to being in this apartment at least through May, that may very well not be an option.

Also annoying is what comes with a landlord's desire to sell. We got a phone call tonight from the realtor. She wants to come and take pictures of the apartment. She wants to come up with a schedule to show the apartment. She prefers that we not be here when she's showing it. We prefer not to care so much about what she prefers. If she thinks she's rolling in here on the weekend, she'd best be ready to find us splayed out on our lovely couch. And, although I plan to perhaps avoid one of my standard clothes explosions, I am not going to go super out of my way to make the apartment look like the Bluth model home. (Although, I'd happily allow my landlord to get us a cleaning lady.)

All this nonsense leaves us in a bit of a quandary. Do we just hang tight, put up with the realtor, and carry on until the magic moment when this place sells? Or do we take on the unhappy task of finding a new place now and perhaps control our destiny just a tiny bit more? And then, regardless, do we try to find another 2 bedroom/2 bath that we can afford? Or do we try to capitalize on the moment and perhaps suck it up for a little bit and live with a few others in a larger space? If I really have to move, I wouldn't hate paying less rent.

In the meantime, we've been brainstorming how to make our apartment as unappetizing as possible. First, I think we should leave the blinds all the way up. Show prospective buyers the beautiful, street-level W Street view. Second, I think it's very important to put out as much gay porn as possible. Finally, we're looking for a tasteful photographer. After a lot of discussion, we decided that it would be awesome to superimpose twin images of our naked crotches from below. Then we'd blow it up and hang it over the couch.

If we have to leave, at least we'll leave with our pride intact.

I'm inappropriate.

Apparently. If I had a nickel for everyone that expressed some level of concern over my last post . . . well, I'd have quite a few nickels. In the end, even after a few edits, I decided to just take it down. Why worry the people who love me any more than necessary?

If you missed it, the post was about a "teachable moment" that led to a little speech about censoring our internet presence to my new class. (For what it's worth, I named no names, posted no pictures, and even self-censored some of the initial judgment that made its way into the post.) I like to think that the final version was something that I would've shown my kids (perhaps not on the first day). But oh well.

It is interesting to me that a post about being mindful of one's internet presence led to so many being concerned about mine. Sort of meta, really. In any event, don't assume that I've been silenced permanently. I'll get something inappropriate up soon. Maybe my subject will be restroom sex. Or I'll share the vagina dream that I tell most people the first time I meet them. Or perhaps I'll just finally write that treatise on my idea to ship old people out to a deserted island where the rich can hunt them for sport (but you make it good TV by arming the old people with rudimentary weapons). Only time will tell.

I'm back?

Your engraving goes here.

This past weekend, I was in beautiful New Jersey for Nancy's beautiful wedding. It was a truly lovely ceremony and reception and a ton of fun. I was still a bit hurting from the prior night's festivities when I boarded my 6:22pm train at 7pm. The train was packed, but I didn't care so much. My plan was to pass the hell out the second I hit the seat. I was passing between cars when my headphones were pulled off my neck, where they'd been resting. The cord had caught on one of the train attendants. He apologized. I said, "No sweat," and kept walking. And then I looked at my headphones and realized that the right ear piece had been completely ripped off. Sweet.

As I sat in my seat listening to the woman on my left talk into her cell phone about some crazy party she'd attended the previous night and the guy on my right talk into his cell phone in an attempt to make plans with someone for later that evening, I decided that maybe it was time to purchase that new iPod I'd been considering. I've been planning to purchase the new iPod nano (after I decided that the iPod Touch was a bit out of my price range) but had been putting it off due to other expenditures. Now, I figure that the $20 I would invest toward a new pair of headphones would be better spent going toward a Nano.

As you know, I'm not great with decisions, but I immediately opted for the red Nano. It's part of the (product) Red campaign and the most aesthetically pleasing. (Frankly, I sort of hate Apple's new range of pastel colors.) Who knew that I could make decisions on my own?! Then, the silly people at Apple foiled me: Free Engraving. What was I supposed to get engraved on my iPod? Clearly, this isn't the sort of decision that I can make on my own. I've gone from something as banal as my name to an only mildly less banal quote about justice to -- so far my favorite -- simply the words, "I'm the Boom King."

Help.

[Edited to add that "I'm the Boom King" was originally Cicie's idea.]

"Insight of the Moment"

I had the following posted as the "Insight of the Moment" for the last few days, but I felt that it deserved to be front and center. I think that it's important to be reminded that the root of behavior such as this is not homosexuality in and of itself but, rather, the damage caused by repressing it.

"I have nothing for this ruined ex- politico ex-senator ex-nice family man Larry Craig. Never met him. Never heard of him before. I don't care a fig about him. I don't care about Idaho either. I don't even know where that is, other than you get to Chicago and make a left. Aside from a baked potato topped with sour cream, who-the-hell ever makes mention of Idaho? So, I have no horse in this race. It's just that in my limited, not-very-smart view, his guilt is primarily hypocrisy. The rest of the crime, if in fact Craig is gay, is of our making. The tawdry solicitation leaves us partly to blame. Draping homosexuality in shame is what forces the weak to hide and lie and rail against it publicly in order to cover themselves privately. A guess would be he spoke and voted and campaigned against it in fear for himself. To draw a curtain around his own being. Those Enron guys probably didn't start out bilking billions. They started small. A little here, a bit more there. It's always the first step. Suddenly you're in it up to your eyeballs. Same with this shivering little scared mess of a man. Terrified of his own self, he early on made one statement. Then maybe had to back it up. Then he maybe enlarged it. All in mortal dread that his innermost voice might make itself heard. Possibly someday, if all of us, each with our own demons, could wash away the stain of whatever tints our sexuality, this pathetic soul would never have picked a bathroom for a bedroom." - Cindy Adams [From Towleroad]

"Queen of Green"

Anita Roddick passed away last night. She was the founder of the Body Shop and a terrific example of someone who was way ahead of her time. The world's a better place for her having been in it. On a day when we sadly remember people for how they died, it's nice to remember someone for how she lived.

Read more about this remarkable lady in the Times.

Two Months

I'm back. I'm not going to pretend to make any promises about how long I'm going to keep this up, but I felt like writing for the first time in a long while. Maybe it's because I had my first truly shitty week at work. Maybe because I felt a need to share that I got my socks knocked off by this "special comment" by Keith Olbermann:



Or maybe it's because I miss writing this blog. I used to write much, much more when I was in college, and even while I was teaching, and I definitely missed it during law school. I know this isn't much, but at least it's something. Meh.

Watch the Olbermann clip. And let's see if this is a one-off or, to invoke High School Musical 1, "the start of something new...."

Rescue Engine?

This is a Colonial Jumbo first! I am blogging from inside my Amtrak train using my brand spanking new BlackBerry. (Her name is Bebe.)

I decided to blog because I have some unexpected extra time to kill. My train pulled into Penn Station Newark right on time at 5:20pm. I thought it was a bit dark as I searched for a seat, but I didn't think anything of it when I managed to find on on double seat just for me. Then an announcement came on: "You might have noticed that all the lights are out....". Our engine wasn't working and they were attempting to fix it by rerouting power. No dice. Now we're waiting for the "rescue engine," which we we were just informed has only now -- at 6:15pm -- left NY Penn Station.

Effing super.

Oh, FYI, the air isn't working.

Quote of the...Month, I guess.

"I've been in these foxholes with these kids...let me tell you something, nobody asked anybody else whether they're gay in those holes...." - Senator Joseph Biden (D-Delaware)

Dear American Spectator Blogger:

[NOTE TO MY READERS: My blog got linked to by The American Spectator, specifically my post about the second Democratic debate.]

Dear Sir,

Although I appreciate your amusement, I must tell you that my wee site is the last place to look for hard-hitting analysis of any kind -- liberal or otherwise. I apologize for being a let-down in that respect. The site is merely a bit of a hobby that I maintain (poorly, I must admit) for the amusement of my friends. But, if my middle-of-the-night ramblings about the debate -- I actually wrote that post from bed -- made you (and your readers) smile, then I'm happy to have brought just that much more joy into the world.

All the best,
Me

PS. To anyone who wanders over here from American Spectator: Don't poke around the site if you're offended by foul language. I have a bit of a potty mouth. Instead, go to one of my favorite sites, CUTE OVERLOAD, and get totally chock full of cuteness. I promise it'll brighten up your day.

Mad Props

Although I am not supporting her husband's bid for the presidency, I find Elizabeth Edwards one heck of a lady. Not only do I give her props for telling Ann Coulter that she's a hateful hack, I am happy to oblige with what Mrs. Edwards is way too classy to say:

Hey, Ann Coulter: Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Peace.

(The link is to Towleroad, one of my favorite blogs on the interwebs.)

SWEET RELIEF

The restaurant has my wallet. I was so glad that I nearly peed.

It's not in the fridge....

I'm still awake because I've been dismantling my place looking for my wallet. I've concluded that it is not in my apartment. The last time I remember seeing it was at the 4th Estate (17th and I NW) this evening when I got drinks with Charles, Jen, and Prescott. Right now, I'm hoping that I left my wallet on the table and someone turned it in at the bar. I have been known to put my wallet (and my phone for that matter) on the table after I take it out of my pocket instead of replacing it. It's not the best habit, to be sure.

I'm worried that it may have fallen out of my pocket on the walk home. This is particularly probable on the last half a block to my apartment. You see, I REALLY needed to use the bathroom so I took it at a half sprint while pulling my house keys out of my pocket. Of course, I keep my house keys in my right front pocket, same as my wallet. I tried going for a walk outside, but I didn't see it (not that I expected to). Now all I can do is sip this glass of scotch, get some sleep, and hope that fate is on my side.

Still, as I attempt to chillax, I cannot help but think how very extremely fucking crazy irritating it will be to cancel my credit cards, bank card, AAA card (I have no idea why my pedestrian ass carries that around), SmarTrip card, and, of course, my beloved NJ driver's license. Pardon me while I go stick my head in my convection microwave.

Cross your fingers for me. I will update as I know things.

Choice.

I had to choose between work and blogging over the last few weeks and, obviously, I chose work. It's been great here, but also more than a bit stressful trying to get into the groove of being a legal services attorney. That said, I feel like I'm nearly there and I refuse to abandon Colonial Jumbo. Expect more soon.

In the meantime, I just read this terribly sad article. It's long and sad, but worth a read.

Intruding on my stress....

I have my first trial on Tuesday. It's a bench trial. I'm very excited and somewhat nervous and I feel extremely cool. Needless to say, I've been a bit busy. As an attorney, I suppose I'm most sensitive to the legal dumpster the Justice Department has become so, when I noticed this article in the NY Times, it caused me to pause from my brief writing.

Uhm...ARE THEY FUCKING KIDDING ME?