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hot wheels

Despite what you may have heard,¹ DC’s metro isn’t actually the worst transportation system ever conceived.

Yes, sometimes it seems that administratively WMATA would like to vie for that title, but normally you can get from point A to point B (even if you have to stop at point Q and wait for a WMATA bus driver named “Mike D.” to actually feel like stopping at all the points on his route that day because DC bus routes are voluntary).

So, over the past couple of weeks, it has been weird to see people making choices other than just using a transportation system already in place and going with something socially unacceptable instead.

My favorite example:

quickest way to salvation; slowest way to everywhere else

quickest way to salvation; slowest way to everywhere else

This is a Team RFC urban-assault vehicle outside Matchbox

Pretty snazzy, huh?

For scale, notice the average-size dude behind it.  I bet you can get in and out of that thing in a flat 75 minutes; easy.  So as long as you don’t mind cracking ribs 1, 4, and 5, dislocating your left shoulder and rupturing your spleen, this is the vehicle for you.

And check out the back windshield:

Jesus is not a substitute for milk

Jesus is not a substitute for milk

Almost completely unrelated, but along the same lines of champion-caliber absurdity, was this scene on the train the other day:

IMG_0915

On a segway… on the metro.  He literally rode it onto the train.  And he had the nerve — the nerve — to look at me menacingly when he noticed I was taking pictures of him without his permission.

_________
¹From me. I complain a lot.  Example #10623.
²Okay, okay. I can’t confirm the “urban assault” part. But no one has denied it.

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Note to criminals, creeps and their sympathizers: this post involves identifying info you could’ve found anyway by clicking on the “Contact” tab above and finding me on Facebook or Twitter.  That said, if you get any stupid ideas, you’d be surprised how easy it is to find you.
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I used to be a Bugle Boy.  This isn’t a trumpet joke, although I did play the trumpet for 8 years and there is close-up video of me in my high school marching band on YouTube…

No.  Bugle Boy was a style; a lifestyle.  Okay: so it wasn’t a particularly original style.  Every dude I knew between the ages of 6 and 10 was a Bugle Boy, too.  If this is gibberish to you, imagine an entire line of pants and shorts for boys in the 80s built on tapering and elastic cuffs.  With me now?  Cool.

The clothing choices from my Bugle Boy phase have been left behind — way, way behind.  But as I dug through the attic this week while packing for the move, I found that some traits remain.

Take, for example, my 3rd grade report card:

report card

Inside that envelope is a whole list of subjects for which we were graded, complete with a smattering of relatively abstract grades like pluses, minuses, checks, etc.  It also has some pretty dead on balls accurate insight into the person I’d become.  For example, on the progress report, my teacher — Mrs. Lieberman — noted that I “thrive[d] on the rewards of a job well done” and that my duties as “computer director” brought me “great satisfaction.”  I read those parts a few times.  Not because they basically said I was natural-born-awesome at stuff, but because it meant we had computers in 1990.

But Mrs. Lieberman wasn’t perfect.  She made mistakes like we all do.  When grading my physical education skills with this rubric

report card 1she gave me these grades

report card 2Two periods of merely “satisfactory performance” in gym?  No way.  I was an all-star and everybody knew it.  But whatever: that I can get over.  What really sandpapers my balls is the “G” I got for exhibiting a “fundamental sense of rhythm.”

First, who even grades that?  I didn’t even know I was at risk for not passing the 3rd grade if I had two left feet and/or couldn’t find the downbeat.  But, more importantly: my fundamental sense of rhythm is EPIC, as in I deserved an “E” for “excellent performance.”  She cheated me and had I understood this report card and all of its insulting implications years ago, it probably would’ve stunted my emotional development.

Anyway, since this post has become a sweeping look back at my childhood, I guess I have to show a lame picture.  I found it in the same box with the old report card.  This is me on “Oral Biographies” day, when we had to dress up as the person who was the subject of our report.  I think I was supposed to be Scott Joplin.  You could never tell, though, because I just look like a black kid in a horrible suit with worse shoes¹ and no piano.

bio day (1 page)_________
¹ The photo is black and white, but the suit is LIGHT OLIVE GREEN and the shoes are red, black and white SNEAKERS.

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credit: C1ssou

credit: C1ssou

Miss Bianca, her trusty Orville and I are moving.¹  We’re not quite at the packing boxes stage, though maybe we should be.  Actually, we’re still at the “looking for a place” stage.  And that brings me to the point of this post.

Lessors, landlords and property managers alike, take heed.

1. When you don’t include pictures in a listing, we assume it’s because the place advertised actually looks like this:

credit: Bee Skutch

credit: Bee Skutch

2. If you provide an ambiguous address, we assume it’s because the actual location contains horrors we wouldn’t even wish upon our worst enemy; you know, the kind of fate equaling death the Griffins wouldn’t even wish upon Meg.

Everybody spitting on Meg in a panic room.

Everybody spitting on Meg in a panic room.

3. If we show up for a walk-through, do us the courtesy of a courtesy flush.

We showed up at one place and stepped into the bathroom.  That’s a pretty standard thing to do.  No surprises there, right?  Well we were surprised by the stains inside the toilet bowl and the rolled, used, shreds of TP on the seat.  Apparently the property manager had gotten bored or bloated and sloppily used the show-apartment to solve that problem.

4. If you don’t want pets, just say so.

If you can say “no” to this face —

IMG_0098— so be it.  But there’s no need to scream it by writing it in all caps.  Also, if you don’t want pets, just say it upfront.  If you leave it out, thinking maybe it’ll come up and maybe it won’t, trust me: it will, except not until after we’ve wasted our time by pursuing your place.

5. Do not tell us the house has “character.”  Tell us it has exposed brick, or a fireplace, or a reading nook, but don’t say it has “character.”  Seeing apartments and houses is like going on a blind date and everyone knows what it’s like when the matchmaker stresses that your blind date has “character.”²

6. Tell your current tenants that we’re coming.

This is easy.  We don’t want to walk in on anything by surprise any more than you do.  Actually, we want it even less.  Also, it wouldn’t hurt if the place wasn’t a complete sty.  That way, we could get a sense for how the space actually feels and it wouldn’t smell so weird.

Have we forgotten anything?  We’re definitely taking any advice you’ve got.

_________
¹The Rescuers? Anyone?
²Ugly. It means the date (or house) is ugly.

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I’ve been doing a little more shopping than usual lately.  I haven’t done a lot of buying, but I have been doing a lot more looking.

So here’s what we’re gonna do about that.  Below, there are pictures of four products I have come across in stores in the past few weeks.  I have purchased one of them.  But rather than wax poetically about how the product has changed my life for the better, I thought I’d leave it up to you to guess which one I bought and, if you’re adventurous, just how my life has changed.

Ready?  Go.

Extreme Moose Tracks ice cream.

img_08701

An egg tree.

img_0842

Vegas cologne, by Playboy (yes, that Playboy).

img_0846

The ShamWow.

img_0848

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oh, snap!

I got tagged a couple days ago by Patrick at The Definitive Dmbosstone.  But if you’re reading this, and have a blog, you probably know just how bad I’ve been at reading blogs and taking care of mine, lately.  So right now is the first chance I’m getting.

“Tagged” means there are some rules, right?  Always.

1. Take a pic of yourself right now.

photo-311

2. No primping or preparing.
Yeah. I think we’re good.
3. Just snap a picture.
I did this part already. *confused*
4. Load the picture onto your blog.
Yep, yep.
5. Tag some people to play along.
Liebchen and PQ, you’re it.

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I had no time for you, today, NaBloPoMo. And I liked that. So this is the best you’re getting from me today, oh venerable blogging challenge.

Ok, ok. I’m sorry. I take that back. I’ll make up for it tomorrow. Please forgive me.

But, uh, for now, how about a joke?

Ready?

What quacks and drinks gasoline?

Yep. A duck truck.

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