Saturday, October 02, 2004

You've got red on you 

The weekend has arrived and tomorrow I will have paid my initial deposit and first month's rent toward my room in Columbia Heights. The house is two blocks from Metro, a ten minute walk to the high point of 18th St. and all that Adams Morgan creaminess, and close enough to George Washington University that I just may be able to start cycling to and from classes (though I may change my mind once winter arrives--I don't want to die à la Isadora Duncan by being yoked into traffic by my spoke-mangled scarf).

Even though I expected it to be fun, "Shaun of the Dead" exceeded my expectations: family drama is kept to an absolute storytelling minimum (and Simon Pegg is a good theatrical lacrimator), there was just enough campy gore to recall the gag-inducing inspirational material, and British humor with witty pop-cultural repartée filled out the rest to make this an absolute success. How can you not like a movie that features a zombie being beaten to death to a Queen song?

Here's to the SOB who demonstrated excellent beer restraint last night in the face of a morning bout with the LSAT.


Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Stewart vs. O'Reilly 

"Comedy Central had no statistics on how many people watch "The Daily Show" stoned."

As it turns out, the stoned masses are actually more intelligent on political issues than the average O'Reilly viewer. How you like them apples?

Stoner hilarity courtesy of CNN, AP.

Feeling the musical tingle 

The first news, of course, is that I'm infinitessimally close to having a room of my own (which will now, of course, fall through because I've mentioned it with a shred of confidence). Columbia Heights, here I (might) come.

I consider my chances of making it as, aiming to be as statistically appropriate as possible, greater than null, but only because when I met with one of my potential lady roommates last night to hand over a copy of my credit report she asked that I meet her at her neighborhood bar, and then she introduced me to her bartender pal Sal as her "new roomate." Then we got drunk on Chimay and Miller Lite and slurred our way around talk of salsa dancing and selling hair and whatnot.

That said, the final decision comes down to the living-in-Italy landlord, who is, by all accounts, an asshole who obsesses over details. I was pleased to learn, though, that taking out a few tens of thousands of dollars worth of federal loans makes your credit score look excellent.

Though I despise superstition, it's fun to follow omen-like suggestion when the details add up in one's favor. Case in point, just before I went to meet up with potential lady roommate at the bar, I received: a letter from my Dad (which, if you know my dad, is kind of like waiting for Lurch the Butler to wax poetic), a letter and pictures from Becky, and some sentimental art (involving high school prom) from Megan packaged with the long-awaited Runaway Planet album. All in all, I considered the day a total score.

To distract myself from thoughts of being out of transientness I've been filling every feeble moment of idle time with music. Some quick suggestions from my feasting:

Runaway Planet's album No Part of Nothin' is out. Bluegrass fans unite. Dig the red barn.

Angie Reed is the new Peaches. Actually, it would be more accurate of me to say that Angie Reed is Peaches with an intellectual lean toward concept albums. I want to be her habibi.

Jeans Team, I still love you (aber bitte junge Männer, benötige ich neues Material jetzt und dann).

Bang Gang, your album cover wants to be on my wall. Icelandic boys always think that there's something wrong.


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