Flight #6482

Sitting on the plane, learning how oxygen masks may drop from the ceiling in the event of pending doom. Going to Toronto! Going to be great! I heard they have a paved road up there now. Good job, Canada.

EVER SO TRUE.

I hate it when ecards are right. Someone sent this to me at the same moment I was looking at immigration requirements for Quebec.

Unclear how to solve problems at work? Immigrate! Passports and visas and landing permission fix everything!

Whatever, I'm right.

Would you like a pillow with that Wanderlust?

Our friend J. came to visit us the other day. She was standing in O'Hare and decided that because the subway ride back to her apartment was too daunting, she would fly to DC. She's a flight attendant and she can do that. And I am ever, ever so jealous. I mean seriously.

Can I imagine myself wearing a navy blue blazer and pushing a drinks cart? In a word, no. But still... the freedom.

48 Hours in a Square State

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Kansas. I'll admit it, I have a soft spot for my home state. From the outside, it must look like what Syria appears to be: a harsh landscape full of screaming hysterics. It's not really. But much like the Syrians, Kansans don't do them self any favors when they vote against teaching children about evolution or decide that the ten commandments should be displayed in court (this law was struck down by the very court in which the commandments were to be displayed, which is delicious irony, dripping with goodness).

Every time I return for a visit, I decide to move back, and within a few days, decide that maybe it would be a better idea to drink bleach or shower holding the toaster. Here's a chart that explains how this process went this time:

Desire to Move Back (Scale of 1-10)	Approx. Time in Kansas	Comments
3	-4.0 h	Baseline level of wanting to move back to Kansas. Board plane.
4	-2.0 h	So many nice midwesterners on this plane! Even the flight attendants are acting like maybe I am not a turd! Also, compared to the hyper-educated world of Washington DC, I am basically Professor Badger amongst these people. Also, I am dressed really cool, even though in DC I look like a refugee.
5	-1.0 h	After plane change in other square state, approaching Kansas. Accent begins to resume it's strange quirks. Creeks become cricks, roofs sound like a dog barking, ten and tin are pronounced identically. Square states look very peaceful from 30,000 feet.
7	0.25 h	Disembark in an airport full of polite people.
10	0.5 h	See my brother! Hurray!
9	1.0 h	Drive fast on an uncrowded, open interstate through the country side. No traffic.
11	1.5 h	See my sister-in-law, niece and nephew! Hurray!
10	4.0 h	Eat lunch at cool restaurant that does really nice food. Feel like maybe Lawrence might be the tiniest bit hip. Meal costs $20 for two and is considered expensive. I swoon.
14	9.0 h	Fun times eating dinner and drinking wine after the kids are asleep with brother and sister-in-law, enjoying deck and yard and big house.
46	22.0 h	After a good night sleep, in which I did not hear the No. 96 Bus or a single ambulance, police car, or helicopter, K informs me that the three bedroom house with a huge yard and a deck next door is for sale and the mortgage would be 200 dollars less than my rent. I weep.
10	38.0 h	Still riding high on real estate heroin, but read local newspaper. In six minutes. I think I might need a longer newspaper than that.
9	39.0 h	I haven't seen a 7-Eleven in awhile. Muy triste.
-4		In the name of research, check out the number of gay personal ads on Craigslist: five. Uhhhh... am I the only gay in the village?
-11	39.5 h	Cousin's crazy girlfriend calls my brother's wife to ask if she can baby sit her kid cause she and my cousin are having some tough times because she forgot to tell him that maybe she is a lesbian but maybe she isn't so anyway she moved in with a drug addict and anyway why don't they get together some time and can you take care of my kid while I get my meds adjusted? I realize there are benefits to living thousands of miles away.
-412	47.0 h	On plane home and nice midwestern lady next to me WILL NOT SHUT UP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT'S SIX FIFTY-FIVE AM.

In summary, my scale of 10 is incapable of expressing the emotional roller coaster that is returning to Kansas.

Motion For the Sake of Motion

I get sort of pent up sometimes, writing wise. There's a lot to say but the words are colluding to evade deployment, battening down the hatches and drawing the blinds, so to speak. And then I can't figure out how to put it all down. I do this fairly often. I need a respite, a break, a change in scenery before anything will come out. To be honest, I need the change in scenery just to want to get anything to come out.

So now I am writing this from a quiet, air-conditioned commuter train that is slicing it's way though the Maryland summer to Baltimore. I never realized how soothing it was to just sit here and look out the window while the country side slides past. It makes me jealous of people who have a commute that includes this quiet train ride. I know that people who actually commute are probably raising their collective voices as they read this, ready to beat me with suitcases and rolled up copies of the Washington Post or the Express, but I maintain that this quiet slice of heaven is not a bad way to spend your evening hour after work. Plus, I like trains.

We are sliding into Baltimore now, skirting past the industrial suburbs by the airport, and into neighborhoods that used to be outlying country towns before the Baltimore/Washington corridor ate them up. Wide porches and bungalow fronts used to house industrial workers, and now house the people who I am riding this train with. Apparently most of their careers involve dressing poorly and reading trashy novels. Postal Inspectors? Assistant Archivist III at the State Department? Secretary to a nameless guy at the Internal Revenue Service? I assume the worst, but most likely they are people like me who are going home to barbecue and read a book and maybe have a shower. But I like to assume that they are nameless drones that get no satisfaction out of life. It makes my wry observations more wry. And that's how I like my observations.

West Baltimore looks like life has been rough; ridden hard and put away wet. At one time I thought we might like to move to Baltimore, to live in a house I could actually afford and have a yard and a dog and be super bohemian in a city that wavers between dark depression and exuberant assumption. I thought maybe I would ride my bike to this very train station to ride this very train south to earn a good salary in DC, returning each night to sit in the backyard and drink beer and roast meat on a grill. I still maintain that this is not the craziest of ideas, however the expression on J's face every time I bring it up conveys a different story. But it does seem like a quaint and distant notion now.

We slip into a tunnel and spend a few rumbling minutes in the dark, flashing past florescent lights that line the wall. And then we are in the sunshine again, in Baltimore.

I'll buy a drink at the train station bar, if there is one, and spend twenty minutes wandering around before getting back on the southbound 4:55, returning me from my pointless trip, back to where I need to be.

The Poopypants Complex

This post is going to make me deeply unpopular. Deeply. Be forewarned. Maybe if you already have children, then you should just stop reading it now.

There is a phenomenon that afflicts some people with children. Let's call it the "I-procreated-therefore-I-get-to-do-whatever-the-hell-I-want” complex, or “Poopypants Complex” for short. I know lots of kickass parents. They are really good with their kids, and they are also fun people to hang around with, both when the kids are awake and when the kids are in bed. I like kids. I like families. Hurray for propagating the species!

But some parents, oh, woah is me. How do do you ever expect to convince the gays to participate in rearing our collective young when you act like this?

Let's explore the poopypants complex, shall we? We shall.

Normal Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this bag of potatoes with me, and, well, I'm embarrassed to say this, but it's a lot heavier than I thought it was going to be, so could you switch seats with me so that I can sit close to the front of the plane?

Passenger Dos: I'm sorry, what?

Passenger Uno: Move seats so me and my bag of tubers can be in front of the plane.

Passenger Dos: I will cut you.

Other passengers: Hurray!

Poopypants Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this baby with me, and well, I'm embarrassed to say that the baby wants to sit close to the front of the plane so we can get off earlier. Could we switch seats?

Passenger Dos: Look, that's why I chose this seat- I have a tight connection to make in Detroit. I'm sorry.

Passenger Uno: But- a baby! I have a baby! I did something that every species has done forever since the beginning of time, and that entitles me!

Other Passengers: Kill him! Baby hater! Maybe they like your kind in Detroit, but not here! Boooooo!

Now, we should all be considerate of people on whom destiny has placed heavier burdens than our own. People should give up bus seats for old people, and disabled people, and yes, pregnant women. It's hard being those things, and it's hard work having kids. But other things is life are hard too. So if you chose to have children, remember to replace them with a bag of root vegetables and rehearse conversations in your head to determine if you are making a polite request, or being a fucking raging bitch with an ugly baby. Smooches to you, lady in seat 23B!

**Disclaimer: the only babies in my life are M and K and D, who are, of course, amazingly beautiful babies, and have awesome parents who I would never refer to as raging bitches. Also, I was not a party in the above conversation, just an observer. I would have hit her, not argued with her. Don't wave your baby at me like some limitless credit card.**

Detroit

Riding the bus from the Detroit airport to the cross-border tunnel: this city is punctuated with smelters and burn off towers and exhaust stacks. There is no one on the streets- everything is a strip mall; the bus is full of the people who can't own a car in the Motor City. I've been riding this bus through this abandoned factory of a city for longer than it took to fly here from DC.

Ô Canada! Terre de nos aïeux

For all of you nay sayers, you can just shut it. I love me some Canada. It's nice. It's polite. They have excellent beer and people don't die just because they don't have insurance. I harp on about it, I am aware of this. But really, it's quite a feat.

Also, it's nice to have Canadian friends. They are just like us, except normally slightly better. Like this friend here:

This is C. We met her during the Tsunami. She has, at different points in her life, saved both Christmas and dinner. She later moved into our apartment in Japan. She is basically, as the Quebecois would say, "Le Totally F***ing Awesome". She can drive a boat.

She can also look mysterious in an arty-style picture while driving a boat. Well done! Oh, the practice she put in to that. Also, she is an amazing water skier. I, you will be shocked to hear, am not. What? I know. Your previous assumption that I was perfection in male form has been shattered. It will be ok. We will heal together.



I do look quite fine *in a boat*, I think we can all agree. Where is sexy J.? He had to take pictures this trip because my camera is broken.



These are C.'s sisters. They are hilarious. From left to right, we have J, ever smart and attractive, C, smart boat driving Le Awesome, S, who just graduated from Halifax and is full of hilarity, and M, who pulls off being both some sort of super intelligent being AND able to ice skate. The talent was non-stop, I tell you. We were eating a delicious feast of grilled things. It was raining outside, so it felt very drunk-swiss-family-robinson. Good times.



The LCBO is where Ontarians buy the liquor. I think in other provinces they buy it elsewhere, but it's hard to tell. Ontario is huge. It's cold in Canada, so people need a lot of liquor. I am apparently, for some unknown reason, demonstrating that we are experiencing a slight decline.



What's better than relaxing on a deck on a lake? Drinking Bloody Caesars on said deck.



Like I said, it was beautiful.




This is C's family dog, Jersey. When she said it's name was Jersey, I raised my eyebrow and asked "Like the cow?". C stared at me as if I had just pooped on the floor. "No, like the candy bar. She's brown. Like chocolate. It's not very original." No, but it is confusing for someone from a country where they don't have Jersey Milk Chocolate Bars. This dog is the most fun dog ever. We played swimming fetch, where by I throw something into the lake, and she goes to get it. Or, I jump into the lake and the dog tries to drown me/love me with her sharp, sharp claws.



That's right: Trees. Like it.



This is one of those things that doesn't make sense until you try it. Poutine is french fries with gravy and cheese curds melted on it. Heart attack in a paper carton? Oh yes, yes indeed. It was delicious. I would eat it again in a heart beat. Or lack of heart beat, which ever happens first.



It's OK to eat four pounds of grease if you are doing it outside.



For all of those who grew up in flat-square-state America, I am sure you will recognize the IGA, which was probably your hometown grocery store. It was kind of dusty and the only sold apples, potatoes and mac and cheese from a box, but you hung out in the parking lot being really cool in your jean jacket. Canada has IGA, too. This one sold avocados, duck, rabbit, and tins of foie gras. Will the wonders never cease? No. No they shan't.

So there it is: it was an awesome trip. Driving up there, I felt that maybe taking a six day trip that required twenty four total hours of driving was a mistake. But it was totally worth it. Plus Bonus!

Up Next: Moving this weekend! Next Friday: Last day of work!

Requiem for some Underwear

It’s difficult for some people to imagine, but I get pretty attached to certain pieces of clothes. I have a pair of socks that are perfect for flying in. I guard them closely. They fit ever so tightly, and have this nappy (no offense intended, ladybasketballers), terry cloth quality, but they also have lycra sewn into them or something which makes them not lose their shape. They are thick and grey, and warm enough to not wear shoes on long overnight flights. I would buy ten pair if I knew where to get them (actually, I do: the Montbell store in Osaka’s Gare Outdoor, underneath Umeda Japan Rail station- so next time you swing by, I am size 12).

Yesterday, I had to say good buy to a storied pair of underwear. It made me kind of sad. They pretty much just died. There was no going on for them; they expired, kicked the bucket. I had no choice. I would have brought them home, but I had biked to work in them, and well, to put it delicately, that didn’t help their cause much. I bought them in Jaipur, in northern India. They were made by Dara, a company I have never heard of before. They were brown square cut trunks that made my butt look awesome. Sigh. Did they ever dream that they would travel across the world to be unceremoniously dumped into a rubbish bin in the locker room of my building? Did I ever think when I was buying them that they would finally fail me on a grey April morning?

Maybe it’s time to go back on the mood stabilizers.