Offensive

Sorry about this picture, but I needed a place to post it online to use in my fantasy basketball league. Just pretend it's something from a nature show, or an astronomical wonder or something.

The 2008-2009 DIV Champion

A New Home

I know I’ve been remiss about blogging regularly like I’ve been promising to do, but it’s been a stressful last few weeks here at Chez Loganamus. I’ve been hunting like mad for a new apartment since my lease is up at the end of this month. And I am pleased to say that I finally found one, and have signed a lease. The new place is in Brooklyn, South Williamsburg to be exact, and it’s both bigger and cheaper than my current place. Plus, the neighborhood is about 16 times more hip. Friends and family can expect an e-mail in the coming week or so detailing the new place and address. Until then, my posts here will remain intermittent, since I’m still extra busy trying to pack up and move.

The Hunt Continues

The Lo-dometer returns! Alright, not really, but I did get up before 6:00am today to go running. A whole 1.6 miles! Awesome! Right?

Also, I shaved my head again. Although she professes shock and awe, I think The Girl secretly likes it. Or, at least, that's what I hope.

So I’ve been doing my due diligence homework on prospective neighborhoods in which I might live, and trying to study for my next architectural exam (still), which is why I haven’t been posting too much of late. And which is why this is going to be a wee short post. But here’s a link to a site I look at every single day, at least twice or three times a day:

CRAIG’S LIST.

Specifically, Brooklyn apartments within a certain range of New York rents (I’m broke, biiatch!), that have no broker’s fee (because I refuse to buy into this ridiculous system). Check out some of the pictures--some of these apartments are pretty cool.

The search has been going well (except for one or two neighborhoods that Ursula was privy to as I was on the phone with her when I got off the train—she was able to overhear my yelps of terror quite clearly). I’m glad I got an early start this time, and it’s been fun to go scope out neighborhoods (except for the aforementioned yelps). Tonight I’m looking at another one in Williamsburg, which is where I’ve been focusing my search primarily. But this weekend I’m going to go look at Lefferts Gardens and Red Hook, both of which are in another area of Brooklyn entirely. I’ll keep you posted. Heh.

Trial by Fire, Pt. 2

We last left our hero having just arrived at Butler to find himself in the middle of a roaring (read: small and unseen) forest fire, and wondering what next to do. No one can fault him for opting for the only logical option—to partake of something that rhymes with “schmeed” with Ass Scorpion and Chesa Boudin the Venezuelan Rebel, and eat some snacks.

And that’s kind of the way it went for the next few days. We would wake up, wonder aloud to each other about the latest status of the fire, and try to go about our normal activities.

"I Love the Smell of Forest Fire in the Morning."

Except for the fire, it was almost a normal Butler vacation. We would eat together, work together—even Ass Scorpion worked a little bit, it must have been the forest fire to make him act so crazy! I had a picture of him doing dishes, but it has strangely and mysteriously disappeared. You'll have to take my word for it--he got his hands dirty. Thankfully his back was to the rest of the room, so he couldn’t see that everyone else’s collective jaw was on the floor behind him.

We would go to the river to swim, which was particularly beautiful this year, maybe made more so because of the imminent danger, we would get hundreds of bug bites together (oh wait, that was just me), and we would occasionally go down to Orleans to visit Rachel, Zydrunas, and The Wee One.

The River Where We Swam


Teeny Waterfall at the River

My Best Friend

Gradually we were able to collect information from both our neighbors and the fire fighters who were camped out around our various properties. Apparently this:

Somes Bar Fire Seen from Choplifter

…is a relatively small (or at least, it was at the time) forest fire, and a “good” kind, if that’s possible. Good in that it’s low to the ground, and moving very slowly, without burning the tops of the trees along with it.

But of course, there were different opinions offered from every person you asked, and politics reared its ugly head even here, where you would think that something as polarizing as a forest fire would have everyone on the same page. I mean, there were varying political camps within the fire fighters, within the locals who have lived through many of these fires, and even within our own little group of peeps at Butler. I personally thought that the most interesting theory was that the Native Americans who live and lived in the area used to actually SET this type of fire, albeit later in the season, because it would help with the regrowth of the forest and with keeping the insect population down.

In any case, it was a strange sort of vacation. On the one hand, it was usually pretty sunny and hot, just like normal, and it was tempting to just try to forget about the fire. On the other hand, one couldn’t help but look up at the sky once to remember that in many ways, we were in danger.

Bill, Ass Scorpion, and Bernardine Admire the Haze

So, as good things always do, my Butler vacation finally came to an end, and I drove back to Napa to spend the afternoon and evening with my Dad’s side of the family and my sister, who was in town to give a talk (about what, I still don’t know). It was great to see them. I was incredulous to do the math with baby sis and figure out that it had been over a year since I had last seen her. Does that happen?!? Very strange. I see many, many people more often than I do my own family. But I guess that’s the way it goes when you move to the East Coast like a bad son. BAD son! BAD! (Hunting for the rolled up newspaper…)

And then that Saturday evening I flew back home on a redeye to lovely Newark airport, where I spent a most surreal 3 hours getting back to my apartment. Let me preface this story by saying I was already dazed, having passed out partially drunk (thanks, Dad!) on a plane and having woken up in New Jersey, and in an airport I’d never been to in my life. At 7:30am. So to then be confronted on the escalator with the sight of a screaming young woman and a dude falling down on the opposite escalator was a lot to handle.

At first glance, I thought this was a stereotypical Jersey guy and his trophy girlfriend (thanks, TV!), and that he was having a heart attack. Girlfriend was hysterical, crying and screaming and trying to hold him up. Guy was heavyset, and would start to try to get on the up escalator and then topple over. It was a bit insane, I don’t mind saying. So since no one else was looking all that interested in helping, and because in my delirious state my brain suggested that “architects help people,” I stumbled over to see what I could do. When I got closer, I saw that girlfriend was a lot younger than I first thought (parents—what in the world are you letting your daughters wear these days?!?), and finally got her to calm down enough to explain to me that the guy was her father(?!?), and that he was drunk. Drunk?!? IT’S 7:30AM! Just the slightest bit maddening, I say.

Anyway, I helped Dad over to some seats, where he sat down looking extra sad, and got more of the story from the daughter. Apparently they were late for an important flight (hence her hysterics), her Dad was smashfaced, and she didn’t know anything about traveling by plane. So I told her that if the security people saw her dad in this condition, they’d never let him get on the flight (I’m helpful like that), and that we would have to convince them that he was sick instead. In my defense, it’s still a little before 8:00am at this point, and I’m bleary-eyed.

So I asked her if she had their boarding passes, and she said no. Um. Okay. So I asked her if she had their e-tickets, because I could get their boarding passes without Dad having to come with us, and she said no. Dad helpfully pointed out to Girl that he gave her the tickets last night, which the girl vehemently denied, adding for good measure a little “how could you do this to me, Dad!?!?” Rightly so. So Dad points to a folder she’s carrying and says that the tickets are in there. I asked her to check, just to be sure, and sure enough, when she opens the folder all I can see are some college interview-looking papers, which Dad promptly points to and says, “there they are.” Uncool. So, being the innovative architect (or almost-architect) that I am (I don’t know why my brain kept harping on this fact), I noted that we could get boarding passes with his credit card. Which earned Girl and me a very sad, slightly confused look from Dad. Apparently he didn’t have his wallet with him. Really uncool. Girl entered new stage of hysterics at this point (“you don’t even have your WALLET with you, Dad?!?), when Dad somehow produces his passport. Cool! So I take Girl and passport up to the ticket counter, swipe passport, and the computer doohickey tells me that the flight is closed to the gate because they’re already boarding. Uncool.

So we got the attention of a ticket agent, who told us that not only were we too late for the flight, but that we weren’t even in the right terminal. That’s never a good thing. She tells us that the next flight is at 1:30pm, but that there’s only one seat left.

This felt like a really pivotal moment for me. Or rather, not for me, but for girlfriend with the drunk dad. I really felt like this might be the turning point in her life that would help her grow into the next stage of her adulthood. So I pulled her a few steps away from the ticket counter, put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “you should take that last seat. Leave your dad here and take that seat; go to where you’re going, take a cab to your hotel or wherever, and stay there.” With the unspoken part of the sentence being, “and when your dad eventually gets there, tell him that this never happens again. Or else.” These are the kind of soap opera thoughts that my brain comes up with when exhausted and confused.

The ticket agent then dashed all my plans for this young woman’s burgeoning independence by reporting that the last seat had just been taken, and that Girl and Dad would have to try to fly standby. Holy moly, like it wasn’t enough for this girl already?

So with ticket status “secured,” and no rush now to make a flight, I asked the ticket agent lady if they could get one of those wee trucks to pick up Girl and Dad, since—and here’s where I got really crazy—Dad had recently had a stroke and couldn’t navigate the escalators and walking to the next terminal very well. To which she replied no, but that they could take him in a wheelchair. Bet! That’s perfect. So we got Girl a wheelchair and someone to push it and direct them to the next terminal, and we parted ways.

I felt guilty leaving this unfortunate girl like that, and that there must be something more I could do to help. But she seemed a lot calmer, and looked ready to take control of things.

So I spent the next two hours on various PATH, subway, and AIRTrains getting home, and hoping that Girl would eventually make it to where she was headed, and that she resolves things with her Dad, and wondering about how weird and wondrous life can be.

And then I got back to my apartment, threw down my bag, passed out on the couch, and woke up a few hours later only to head to JFK to pick up The Girl, MY Girl, who was also returning home from California. And that, my friends—when I saw The Girl in the airport—was a most satisfying embrace.

The End.

Phew.

Trial by Fire

I’m back from my trip to California, and have tried twice now to start writing about it here, but both times have set the task aside as too daunting. So instead I’m just going to parcel it up and write about it in chunks when I can. I think that will be easier. Needless to say though, it was a full and wonderful trip.

Two Saturdays ago I woke up early and flew out to S.F., where my Mom and Russ picked me up at the airport. We spent the afternoon relaxing and talking about the renovations to my Mom’s house that she wants to do. I've included a really quick rough sketch of how it looks now below. I'll post what we're planning when I finish that sketch. Which will apparently be months from now, judging by how quickly I've been moving on her project up 'til now. JUST KIDDING MOM! I'll get on the ball, I swear.

Clayton Street Backyard - Existing Conditions

So after I fought off some initial jetlag by sleeping for a few hours, I roused myself long enough for my Dad to drop off his car (which he's giving to my sister--more on this in a sec), and eat a cheeseburger. Then it was back to bed, since I was planning on getting a really early start to the 7-hour drive the following morning.

Unfortunately I received some unsettling news from Precious, who reported that there were forest fires very close to the place we stay up there, and that Rachel, The Wee One and Zydrunas weren't sure if they were going to stay up there. I immediately started having visions of the end scene from 'Bambi,' in which the entire forest goes up in a raging wildfire, and with it, my vacation. But I figured that since I had already flown all the fragging way out here that I would still make the trip.

I woke up around 5:30am (go jetlag!), chatted briefly with Mom, turned down her offer of 34 different water bottles, accepted her offer of some energy bars and a banana, and was on the road by 6:00am. And when I say I was on the road, I mean, I was ON THE ROAD, dood. I love road trips. I love the drive to Butler. And even though a lot of people bitch and moan about the drive--it is 7 hours long, after all--I think most of them do too.

So I sped along (and when I say sped, I mean, I SPED, son!), listening to my "Butler Road Trip" playlist I uploaded to my iPod before I left New York (see: Bloc Party, Sufjan Stevens, and The Arcade Fire). I like listening to comedy on the long drive too. Particularly Richard Pryor. I don't know why. No one else seems to. But it's easy to listen to whilst driving, and it makes me laugh, and helps the time pass lickety-split. So I mixed in some Eddie Murphy (see: 'Raw') and Chris Rock (see: 'Bigger and Blacker'). Neither of whom is Richard P., but they were serviceable companions in his stead.

6 hours and 37 minutes later, I was taking the Salmon River Road curves slowly and confusedly, as I was driving through really dense smoke. It smelled like the campfire from summer camp, only multiplied by like, a thousand. The sky was dim and the sun, normally super-bright and blazing hot up there, was a sickly-looking red ball. My throat felt like I'd been at a party the night before and had smoked a bunch of cigarettes. It was pretty gross.

A few minutes later I pulled up to Red Square and got the full story from Bill, Chesa, and Malik (a.k.a. The Ass Scorpion). Essentially, it had been smoky like that for the previous few days, and that Rachel, The Wee One, and Zydrunas had all taken off with Bernardine to go down to the little town of Orleans to find a place to stay that was less smoky. Bogus. The rest of the day was spent alternately catching up with people and staring up at the smoky sky and wondering what the frag this would mean for the houses on the property, the surrounding forest, one of my favorite places on Earth, and my vacation.

More to come in the next day or so. What a cliffhanger! You never knew reading someone's blog could be so exciting, did you?!?

In the meantime, I'm going to keep working on my 4,300 projects I have going that are starting to stress me out. And tomorrow night I'm going to see Zydrunas's play 'Permanent Whole Life' at the New York Fringe Festival tomorrow night. I saw this play in Boston too, and it's extra funny. If you're in the area, find a way to see it.