coming or leaving

My wallet hurts

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 10:41:00 +0000

There are two situations in which I will buy coffee from Starbucks. The first is in airports, typically when I haven't slept much but have given up on the idea of sleeping on a flight. The second is when I'm with my mom and sister, usually in California, and they want to go to Starbucks. In neither case do I ever pay with actual cash for the coffee because I seem to constantly have 2 or 3 Starbucks gift cards in my wallet that have been gifts from various relatives.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm in Europe and missing American things, or maybe the online advertising subconsciously got to me. But last week I had a craving for the Starbucks holiday drinks. I was in the library at the time, so another possibility is that the 1CHF vending machine coffee had finally pushed me to the point where I wanted SUGAR AND GINGERBREAD in my coffee so that I wasn't just drinking a rather tasteless, dark brown liquid caffeine. Actually the vending machine coffee here is surprisingly decent, and instead of keeping a box of useless change at home, almost all of my spare coins go to feeding the library coffee machine. With the exception of the 5 cent coins which the machine is too stingy to take. Those were saved for the US Consulate since I had to pay 72.80 in cash to have more pages added to my passport. If they were going to be assholes and make me pay an odd amount in cash, I was going to be the asshole who walks in with a bunch of change. Which I promptly dropped all over the lobby as I tried pulling a handful of 5 cent coins out of my pocket.

When I left the consulate I had over an hour to kill before class and was in a part of Geneva I rarely spend time in so I decided to try and find a local coffeeshop to sit and read. The only one I found in the area was full, but across the street from it was a Starbucks and I remembered my earlier craving. I hesitated, briefly, before saying fuck it and going in and ordering a small gingerbread latte.

Starbucks guy: "Sept franc soixante, s'il vous plait.
me: "quoi? C'est combien?"
Starbucks asshole: "Seven sixty."

No, I got it the first time. I just thought I had mis-heard because paying 7.60 for a god damn small coffee is fucking absurd. The exchange rate has improved a lot over the past month but that's still over $8.30 for a small amount of crap coffee, milk, and gingerbread syrup. I reluctantly handed over the cash, feeling too awkward to just turn around and walk out since they had already started making the drink. I'm so used to drinking black coffee that any kind of flavored drink just feels like a dessert to me. I drank the entire thing in about 2 minutes and was left sitting there thinking, "really? was that worth 8 dollars for two minutes of only mediocre enjoyment?" The drink had been served in a huge ceramic mug, and coffee mugs are in short supply in my apartment. I had thought about buying an extra mug at the grocery store recently and here I had this great big mug right in front of me. 7.60 seemed like a decent price for the mug plus some coffee. I stuffed it in my bag and walked out, feeling much less shitty about my recent purchase.

Legal disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. I would never, ever pay 7.60CHF for a coffee or steal a mug, much less post a story about it on the internet. That would just be stupid. I do not condone theft, particularly when in a foreign country.

How to improve America's image abroad

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 08:46:00 +0000

In the picturesque Belgian square in the middle of Leuven are three types of businesses. Firstly, the bars. Lots of them, of all different types. Dark, dingy places with super cheap beers and foreign drug dealers to slightly more upscale places that will kindly tell you that yes, you can come in, but next time please don't wear Converse because we're classier than that. The second type of business in the square are the local restaurants. I believe there were three, including a frites shop, a waffle/ice cream place, and my favorite, a cheap falafel and schwarma restaurant. And finally, there were the two American chains: Pizza Hut and McDonalds.

I can't say I ever walked into that McDonalds, but several of us did drunkenly find our way into the Pizza Hut one evening with the intent of enjoying a cheap reminder of home. We were inside for all of two minutes before realizing that it was a nice, sit-down restaurant where people were actually dressed quite well. One look at the menu prices confirmed that this wasn't at all like your shitty Roxbury, Massachusetts Pizza Hut where you pick up your $10 order and get the hell out before getting shot. But we left just as quickly anyway, sans pizza.

Geneva doesn't have Pizza Huts but they do have several Dominos locations to choose from. Six, in fact. I've spotted a few while biking around but hadn't thought much of them or considered ordering from one. I would assume that with six locations in a fairly small city they're doing quite well, but even profitable businesses sometimes need an occasional boost to get people in the door, and what better way to do that than with Groupon. The Groupon deals here have been completely worthless thus far, mostly spa/beauty services and a few "deals" on 5 star hotels in the area. This past weekend they offered a 70% discount for two 30 centimeter pizzas. That's about 11 inches, so we're talking two Dominos medium size pizzas. Original value, without the Groupon? 65.80CHF.

Source: groupon.ch

65.80 francs at today's exchange rate is $71.88. That's $35.94 for one medium pizza. And we're not talking gourmet shit either, this is Dominos. They don't even stuff their crust with cheese for gods sake. Yes, Geneva is absurdly expensive and is consistently ranked as one of the most expensive cities in the world. A friend from Texas (sorry Jess, you don't have a blog for me to link to) was here this past weekend and spent $25 on a cheeseburger meal and some jalapeño poppers at Burger King. But Burger King isn't crazy expensive elsewhere in the world (as far as I know), those prices are simply endemic here in this city. What the Dominos prices show us is a worrying trend in the export of certain American goods that is undeniably effecting Europeans' perception of America.

I'm going to assume that Dominos is stupid expensive elsewhere in Europe, like Pizza Hut, and that the Geneva prices are only moderately inflated above the Euro average. Pizza from large chains is an American staple, almost as traditionally American as McDonalds or Coca Cola. And yet you can get relatively cheap McDonalds and Coke anywhere in the world. For some unknown reason, American pizza chains have decided that they want to rip Europeans off as much as possible. Even in this city you can get a similar sized take out pizza for 10CHF if you know where to look.

It's been clear to me here that European youth don't have a great view of the US, and who can blame them? They are the 99%, forced to stare longingly into the windows of the exclusive American pizza chains that they couldn't hope to be able to afford. They haven't been experienced the 2:30AM drunken Dominos trips that have been an important part of the development of American youths. With these prices, that would be like Americans walking into a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse in the middle of the night to get some drunk steak and potatoes. Absurd to even think about.

Dominos has come to represent America in their minds: a greasy, overpriced behemoth that doesn't want to help out the lowly Europeans. If we want to improve the way Europeans look at America we must either force these chains to lower their prices here or begin heavily subsidizing pizza in Europe. How can the hippies camping out in Parc des Bastions give up their Occupy cause now, when American pizza is still so far out of their grasp economically? The Chinese love America because we exported KFC and made it affordable to nearly everyone (citation lacking). Until Peace Corps Volunteers are sent to Europe to begin distributing pizza aid, America is doomed to be loathed by the Euro youth.

Dominos, you are the 1%.

Things Europe sucks at, Part I

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 15:07:00 +0000

Europeans do some important things really well. For example: trains. Public health care (although not here in Switzerland). Chocolate. Wine. There's something very important that they completely and utterly fail at though. I am talking, of course, about cereal. The breakfast variety. The cereal aisle in a grocery store is not an aisle. It's a small part of an aisle. There are perhaps 20 different varieties to choose from, if you're lucky, and more than half of those are the popular American sugary cereals. Cheerios can only be found, so I'm told, at the American Store for 10CHF per box. My economics professor even used cereal choice in America as an example in class once, an example which unfortunately was lost on many of the students.

I'm not typically a fan of sugary breakfast cereals. I like hearty, hippy granola cereals that I can add fruit to. The closest thing available here is muesli, a mixture of oats and nuts. But even this has been mostly Americanized now with added sugar, chocolate, and sometimes sugar coated fruit, a la Raisin Bran raisins. I've been trying different the different brands and finally found one that seemed what I was looking for. It had "natural" in the name and the label read "sans sucre." Perfect. The first morning I tried it I realized it appeared to be just oats and something resembling sawdust. No nuts or granola-y stuff. Not what I was looking for, but I was undeterred and poured milk over it to enjoy my new find.

There's a very surreal feeling when you take a bite or a sip of something that you think is something else. Your brain is expecting a specific taste, flavor or consistency and is confused when your mouth reports differently. My brain was expecting some kind of hippy, delicious cereal. What was in my mouth was essentially raw oatmeal. I paused, looked down at the bowl to see what I was eating and realized I might have made a terrible mistake. I'm not sure why but I finished the bowl that morning. I think I might have been in a rush before a full day of classes and needed some form of sustenance to make it through the day. I certainly didn't enjoy it. I checked the bag later, thinking that surely there were instructions saying to cook in boiling water or something of the sort. Nope, they really eat this with milk here. Now that I've checked that wikipedia page for muesli I see that it does say "raw oats," but the other muesli cereals I had tried either didn't have raw oats or they went down unnoticed with all of the sugar coated nuts and dried fruit.

There's a reason that you cook the oats. It makes them not taste like shit. The stuff was basically horse feed, and I have a feeling even horses would have demanded more refined oats. Thankfully it did not taste anything like Malta, which is essentially liquified horse feed or I would not have continued eating it. I experienced an interesting phenomenon with this particular brand in that the sawdust type substance absorbed all the milk. It didn't matter how much milk I used, I would always end up with a bowl of brown mush with raw oats. I didn't want to throw the whole package of this stuff away so I continued to eat it every morning for no other reason than to not be wasteful. I won't be buying it again though, but I've also gone through most of the European brands of cereals now (I think I've tried 4).

While I currently have nothing in mind for a sequel to "Things Europe sucks at," I'm sure I'll come up with lots more in the future and I envision this being a regular multi-part series.

Photos from Mozambique and South Africa

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 15:39:00 +0000

I went to Maputo, Mozambique for my job in March 2010 and also took a day trip to Kruger National Park in South Africa. I clearly haven't been on top of organizing and posting photos as it's been well over a year and a half since this trip. At some point I intend to write up some of the stories from this trip. They don't disappoint. I'll also post photos from Nigeria and Amsterdam at some point as well.

All of the pictures of animals are taken in an around the Kruger reserve. I hired a driver in Maputo to take me there, but after spending a couple of hours driving around the park he got tired and decided I should drive. No problem, except they drive on the left side of the road there. Straight line driving was not a problem but anytime I turned a corner I'd find myself on the right side of the road. The driver, who wasn't actually doing the driving at this point, thought it was hilarious.

I saw more animals than the ones in this album but I didn't have a telephoto lens so my pictures of cheetahs, leopards and hippos came out as nothing more than specs in the distance and weren't worth uploading. I'll never make the mistake of going somewhere like this again without multiple lenses. I also have almost no photos from Maputo itself because, as I found out, it's not exactly a safe place to walk around with a nice camera.

The full album with the rest of the pictures is here.

L'homme de Tortillas

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 09:43:00 +0000

My life has been in a perpetual tortilla drought since 2005. Sure, Boston had tortillas. You could go to the grocery store and buy a pack of overpriced tortillas that had probably been made several weeks prior. Even Whole Foods didn't have great fresh tortillas. For years I resigned myself to buying Mission brand tortillas, trying not to shed tears each time I tore into one. Not at all like the soft, fluffy, cloud-like tortillas I was used to in Texas. Friends can attest to the massive packs of tortillas I would bring in my suitcase after trips to Texas. Typically I'd make it back with 50 flour tortillas, all of which would be gone within two weeks.

In Geneva it's even worse. 6 vacuum sealed tortillas can be had for the outrageous price of 7.50CHF. And since they're vacuum sealed, you know they're as fresh as the day they were made... three months ago. Clearly at the rate I eat tortillas, prices like this will deplete my savings within the first year. And so I decided to strike out on my own and attempt to make tortillas myself. I'm a decent cook and I'd say I know my way around a kitchen fairly well, but I've never attempted to make any bread/dough related things before. I used the recipe from Homesick Texan which seemed simple enough.

Let me reiterate here: I had no idea what I was doing. Not only that, finding simple ingredients in this country ain't so simple. Baking powder? I asked a francophone friend and was told it's "levure." Nope, that's yeast. I think what I ended up with is dried yeast, but I combed through the supermarket and asked two employees (although we've already established the fact that my French ain't tres bien just yet) so I'm not sure that baking powder as we know it exists here.

I followed the recipe from the blog, and holy shit, the tortillas turned out amazing.

Look at those beautiful things. They looked and felt just like the tortillas from Mamacita's (a favorite Tex-Mex restaurant in New Braunfels). I skimped on the salt which turns out was a mistake, but overall they were amazing and I'll be making lots more in the future.

I wouldn't have posted this normally because, one, I realized that whenever I write about cooking it's pretty boring, and two, I've sent this picture to the majority of the people who read this blog with the caption of "LOOK HOW AWESOME I AM" or something similar. Ricky has suggested that my new nickname be "Tortilla Dan," or "L'homme de tortillas." I approve. However, something happened that made me decide this was blog-worthy: Amy attempted to make the tortillas.

Amy loves baking. Or I assume so based on the fact that she has a blog that's mostly about food and is always experimenting with crazy awesome things. Like bagels. After sending her the picture of my awesome tortillas and raving about how simple it was, she asked for the recipe and gave it a shot:

I'm inclined to blame the fact that she's a New Yorker. She hasn't grown up seeing tortillas being freshly made in the kitchens of restaurants like I have. The first time I got Mexican food in New York, my vegetarian quesadilla came with broccoli and carrots in it. She probably confused the concept of tortilla with "flat, tasteless bagel" or something. And even though she's now a California transplant, she's in San Francisco which doesn't have the good stuff in the way that Southern California and Texas does. Clearly Amy does not earn the title of "la femme de tortillas."

It's all French to me

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 08:33:00 +0000

My French hasn't improved as much as I had hoped. Part of that is due to the fact that everyone's common language in this city and at my school is English. The few times I've had people approach me on the street and start speaking in rapid French to me, I've told them that I can understand but they're speaking too quickly. Then they switch to English.

I have one course that's taught in French: anthropologie et aide au développement. If there's some kind of contextual clue, say a powerpoint presentation in which I can translate a few words with Google Translate, then I can understand at least some of what the lecture is on. Without any context I'm totally lost. Basic French classes don't typically teach you vocabulary like "female circumcision."And yet I've made it through the first half of the semester thus far, but only with the help of some absurdly generous francophones.

The midterm was yesterday and I actually felt ok about it going in. For one thing, I hadn't stressed quite as much about this one because, hell, the lecture was in a different language that I can't really understand so there wasn't much of a point in stressing myself out. Since the school is officially bilingual the test would be in both French and English and I went in yesterday without too much concern. I figured I'd sit down, be handed the exam booklet and get to work.

Instead the professor came in, turned on the computer and put up a list of readings on the projector. And then started speaking. In French. You cannot know the terror I felt at that instant. Was he telling us that the test would be over those readings? Shit, I don't think I've read all of these yet. Is he giving us instructions for the test? Fuck, what if he's giving us specific instructions for this exam... maybe there's a typo, and he's telling us not to answer the third question. WHY CAN'T I UNDERSTAND FRENCH.

I was freaking out. Thankfully as it turned out he was just talking about what we'd be covering in the next few weeks of lectures. Or so I'm told. There was another brief moment of terror in the middle of the exam when someone went up to the TA and asked her a question. She then stood up and started speaking to the whole class. This time I was actually able to stop freaking out and pay attention, and loosely understood her to be saying that we needed to explain our answer for the second question.

Midterms are finally over. Alhamdulillah.

It runs in the family

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 12:55:00 +0000

Friday afternoon I was in the lounge of the student residence where I live trying to find things to occupy my time in a continual attempt to put off studying. I was trying out a new app for my phone that's supposed to manage your travel itineraries. You forward the airline confirmation email to them and they sort all the relevant info into your account on the app for easy access. Simple enough. I was sitting on a couch juggling my laptop, phone and coffee while trying this out when I realized that I'm a complete idiot.

For whatever reason, booking a round trip flight from London to San Antonio was $500 cheaper than booking it from Geneva. And since I can easily get to London and back from here for significantly less than that, it seemed like a good excuse to spend a day in London while also saving money. I had looked into flights the previous weekend while avoiding studying for midterms (this is becoming a noticeable trend) and had worked out the travel dates. Buying them seemed like a lot of effort at the time though, in that two roundtrip international flights needed to be booked separately, but while ensuring I had enough time to transfer within London's Heathrow airport on the return leg. I decided to put this off until after midterms and get back to studying.

Monday night I intended to devote myself fully to cramming for Tuesday's tests. Naturally I woke up sick and got progressively worse throughout the day. Biking home from a review session on campus that night I got into a bike crash (solo, I might add- no cars involved) and managed to fly head first off the bike (again). Banged up and bruised but in one piece, I made it home but my resolve to devote the night to studying had waned. Sleep deprived, sick, and now banged up from the crash I decided that the cost of the flights to Texas would probably increase imminently if I didn't buy them that instant. I looked up the flights, made the purchases for the dates I had settled on, took a handful of ibuprofen and went back to studying.

So on Friday when using this app I realized I had missed something crucial. I had intended to fly back to London from Texas on the 29th of January, and that is indeed the flight that I booked. I also wanted to book the return flight from London to Geneva that same day. No need to spend another day in London since I'll be doing that on the way to Texas. I had checked to see that I would arrive in London by noon and booked a flight out of Heathrow that same day at 6pm. Plenty of time in case of delays, security, changing terminals, etc. Except what I hadn't thought about in my sleep deprived and injured state the night I bought the tickets is that even though I leave Texas on the 29th, I won't be arriving in London until the 30th. Transatlantic flights to Europe are, from my experience, always overnight flights. Always. I had booked a flight from London to Geneva for 6PM on the 29th, around the time I'd be in the air somewhere between Detroit and the East coast.

This realization brought on a sudden wave of panic, the "oh shit oh shit, what have I done and how much is this going to cost me to fix," variety. I was on my laptop and tried to make a Skype call to Delta while mentally trying to tally up the potential cost. $200 change fee, difference in price of the correct flight, fuck fuck fuck. I verbally recited my Delta number for the automated system and was transferred to a representative who greeted me with, "hello Mr. Stevenson, how can I help you today?" Clearly the voice recognition with Delta hadn't worked out too well and I tried to tell the woman my correct account number. She interrupted me repeatedly. "Sir, I'm sorry, the line is breaking up. Can you switch to a different phone? Sir, I can't hear you at all, the connection is very bad, I'm going to recommend that you hang up and call on a different line." The internet connection here is the bane of my god damn existence. I can hardly stay connected to gchat much less make a VOIP call half of the time. The line went dead and I remembered that the router was located at the other end of the lounge. I quickly grabbed my messenger bag, laptop, phone and coffee and rushed across the lounge as I envisioned the cost of my mistake increasing with every minute I wasted not on the phone booking the correct flight with Delta. Surely that $500 in savings was totally eaten up by now.

I dropped my belongings on a table, sat down and redialed on Skype. The connection was much better and as I was repeating my Delta number I felt warmth spreading across my body. I was confused at first; was this a feeling of calm seeping through my skin, letting me know that everything would be ok? I looked down and saw that I was holding my open coffee mug sideways and had poured coffee all over my shirt and pants. Shouting an expletive confused Delta's automated phone system as I was told, "I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. Please say or enter your Delta sky miles number, followed by the pound sign." The internet connection in my room is even worse than in the lounge so I stayed put despite having a massive brown stain on my shirt and looking like I had pissed myself. I got through to a representative, explained that I'm a complete idiot, was currently covered in coffee, and needed help changing a flight I had booked that was clearly impossible for me to make. Thankfully due to the mileage status I have with Delta from work trips I don't have to pay change fees in these situations, so my absentminded mistake was made right in about 2 minutes with no additional costs.

After telling this story to my mom she had this to say:

Sounds like something I would do. I pulled out of the driveway this morning and as the car was going down the driveway under that big Burr oak tree there was a large crashing sound on top of my car and I saw something big and white fall off the back of the car onto the street. We had temps in the thirties last night but I couldn't imagine where a chunk of ice that big would've come from. No it wasn't ice - it was my new white coffee mug that I had set in top of my car while I was loading my stuff in the car. I just left it shattered in the street because I was already late for school. This is about the 4th or 5th thing in my life that I have left on top of the car while driving off. Uugghhh!

One of those previous items she's left on top of the car before? Her and my dad's wedding rings when she picked them up prior to the wedding. With her genes, I think I'm fortunate that this is only the second time I've fucked up booking a flight.

This is cheating

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 04 May 2010 22:47:00 +0000

I know better than to blog about my job. Dooce taught us very early on that that shit will get you fired. That's why I'm going to pose a hypothetical situation and then give you my commentary. In this completely hypothetical, completely fictional situation an employee is sent to a "time management" course. Not as punishment or anything like that, but simply because there is money in the budget for everyone to have some kind of training and, hypothetically, someone mandated that all new entry level employees should take such a course.

If I had had to spend a day at a completely worthless time management course, the following is probably what I would have posted to Twitter throughout the day.

Spending all day at a time management course. It's as if someone had looked into my mind and found my own personal version of hell.

This woman is very intense and always smiling. Always. She must get daily colagen or Botox injections to keep this up. And crack.

"The idea of values dates WAY back to ben Franklin." I didn't realize values didn't exist until electricity. Maybe she means voltage.

Watched a video w/eagles, Olympic divers and flying text w/phrases like "how do I love?" and "where can I learn?"

I can't make this shit up

"There is a neurological transmitter released in your brain when you check something off." She has a phd in bullshit, not neuroscience.

Being taught how to use a paper planner w/ sections to list email and voicemail. Can't wait for someone to invent a computer and iPhone.

The woman keeps referencing her iPhone. I wonder if the large group of verizon people here die a little inside each time.

This course provides many examples to disprove the age old cliché that "there's no such thing as a stupid question."

"You can use the index as a way of referencing things." There's such a thing as a stupid statement too.

I will say this for her- she gets points for mentioning NPR a half dozen times. These points are the only ones accrued and are worthless.

Less than one hour of clichés left and then I can go for a long bike ride to clear my head. Or drink heavily. Possibly both.

Pro-tip: funny stories about out of office auto-replies are not funny stories.

This time management course has killed my iPhone battery. How the hell am I supposed to manage my time without it?

Thus concludes this special report. We now return to the regularly scheduled silence.

Corby

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 20:40:00 +0000

Back in the day this blog used to detail random aspects of my life. That hasn't happened for a while and a big update from late September went unreported. I adopted a ~1 year old female cat named Corby (after Schapelle Corby). I had really hoped for a friendly cat like Mumkin rather than one that would only appreciate me only for being the provider of food and otherwise ignore me. Corby is undoubtedly the friendliest and most loving cat I've encountered. She'll sidle up to me the moment I come in the door and loves nothing more than to lie next to someone and be petted.

Corby is always locked out of my bedroom at night because she won't hesitate to walk on my limp body at 3AM and then curl up right next to my face and purr like a god damn lawn mower. I just got back last night from a week long visit to Texas, and while Kevin and Katy had graciously agreed to take care of her in my absence, I thought she might be a little lonely from not having Dan or I around every day. I left my door open last night in the hopes that she'd appreciate being able to see me at home but resist her desire to wake me up repeatedly. This of course did not happen and I did not get an uninterrupted night's sleep. I think her cuteness makes up for it.

February the 13th

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 03:35:00 +0000

The gunshots ripped through the clear silence of the night and jerked me from my uneasy sleep. I had been half-awake when the twin explosions destroyed the silence and sanctity of her bedroom. They were not the staccato pop that you heard on TV but a ferocious boom, a roar from a man-made lion of steel and corrugated metal that exploded lives and tore apart the hours of the night.

Only moments ago I had been at the hockey arena miles from the scene. I was trying to buy tickets to see BU slaughtered. BU, who had to die, who must be given a violent and bloody death on the ice at the hands of the Huskies for their reproachful win of the Beanpot a few nights prior. This injustice could not stand! I must have tickets, they’ll be taught a permanent lesson, I’ll jump onto the ice and kill them myself if I have to!

And suddenly I was in a too-warm bed, the shots rousing me from this dream. It was not BU who had been mercilessly torn to shreds but the flesh of a living human only a block or two away. I couldn’t help but think this as a silence came over the street in the wake of the noise. Maybe it was just a car backfiring, I told myself. That must be it. There’s not a person lying on the cold sidewalk just down the street from where I lie. His blood was not seeping through the burnt hole in the coat and out onto the concrete. The blood did not run down the cracks until it met the dirty ice at the edge. The ice did not soak up the blood, changing from a corroded gray and white color to an eerie pink and red shade in the night. There was only a car at a stoplight, too old and beaten down for the driver to bother taking it in to fix the annoying backfire.

The first siren didn’t silence these thoughts as it approached from a far distance. The second, beginning only half a minute after the first had arrived, succeeded. I didn’t need the third to convince me.

My heartbeat could be heard distinctly and I tried not to wonder if the person in the street still had one.

here for the gang bang: a craigslist story

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 16:35:00 +0000

The company Christmas party is coming up in a few weeks, and despite a mutual understanding with my friends at work that we'd all go stag or bring a friend of the same sex, everyone is now rushing to find an actual date. This quickly devolved into Anna, Michelle and Kate (again, names changed to protect the innocent) writing up a list of requirements for potential dates. On Friday, this was posted on craigslist with hilarious results.

Seeking Short Term Technical Friend for 12/11 - 3 positions avail (Boston)

Seeking Short Term Technical Friend

Qualifications:
Bachelor's Degree, Masters preferred
Straight
Single, non-divorced, no baby drama
Cleanly
Likes sports
Loves dogs
Has a job
Tall - 5'9" plus
Can lift heavy things
No Baggage, at least not over 50 lbs.
Wears a watch
Drug-free
Casual drinker - alcoholics need not apply

Responsibilities:
Available December 11, 2009 from 5:30-9pm for a holiday party with possibility of overtime
Able to dress appropriately
No vomiting, all eyes on me
Ability to mingle without supervision
No lurkers

3 S.T.T.F positions available

The first few responses were about what you'd expect: terrible spelling and grammar, old guys and creepers.

hey it's kevin.i'm 5'7" 255lbs of pure loving.i do have ajob with plenty of freedom(collect cans)love all sports.love animals.can i asume u have a dog(does he bit?i carry a bag of cans around all day some lifting is no problem 4 me.(will i b lifting u)i got a new watch yesterday came with my happy meal at mcdonalds.can i shower before we go.i ride a bitchen huffy with spinners.u will look sweet on it !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hello, I'm repsonding to your add for a great man if I might say ;) No one married me so as not divorced. I've gone to school as you'll be able to tell when we meet. I can hang and crack jokes with the best of them, I like it, most poeple do too. I can watch sports without drinking much so I think you'll like me when we are around.

I like kattens, not on your list but u should konw, dogs are ok if they don't bark hard. I can lift heavy things, but not baggage (like you want ;( ) because my arms hurts. You'll be glad to konw I also do have a watch, I don't use the band because it broke but I keep it in my pocket all small like and it works great!!1! I'm technical. I can keep eyes on you as you say without vomiting unless other people do that a lot?? but I hate lurking too! It should be a good time with me, you'll see give me mailBack and well hit it off!!

Ok sounds like fun. Single, professionally employed 51, 6' 221, can dress up in a suit and tie, Batchelors degree, manager in a small company, Not sure why I would need to lift heavy things but in my younger days I did work fro a beer distributor. I wear a watch have good hygene and present myself well in all settings. If any of this interests you respond with a picture and i will share one with you.

Because its Friday and everyone has taken a half day except me... i decided to browse CL for fun. I assume this is a Christmas party of some sort?? Ok, 27, live by 93/95, bacherlors in Engineering, work for myself in the pharmaceutical industry, clean, like sports, am 5'10", what else did you want to know? Oh, don't wear a watch... I think that covers it. Let me know if you are interested in knowing more.

All of these provided some amusement to us throughout the day on Friday, but absolutely nothing compares to the message they received late Friday afternoon:

Subject: here for the gang bang

From: jack collins
What's up bitches,

I saw your desperate craigslist ad and wanted to respond with my qualifications:

Bachelor's Degree, Masters preferred:

I am a bachelor and I am masterful at many things. For example, a woman once looked at me with her sweaty, satisfied and adorable face and said "you just completely opened my eyes to a depth of pleasure I've never known..." It's my curse, really. I'm so good women hate me. The reality of the situation is this: as soon as a woman experiences me, they are screwed (both literally and figuratively). Why, because once you go Jack, you never go back. The euphoric pleasure that grips a woman when I'm with her is beyond orgasmic, and no man will ever get them there again. I'm pure heroin.

Straight:

I have a slight bend, but I believe the women enjoy the bananarama I bring to the sack. You will not be disappointed, unless you dislike overwhelming pleasure.

Single, non-divorced, no baby drama:

Although I don't consider myself single because there are a half a dozen women in rando cities who believe I'm there boyfriend, I'm far from committed. I have commitment issues when it comes to stupid shit like getting married and being a good father, but I am desperately committed to taking you to pleasure island on an hourly basis, if you wish.

Cleanly:

I vigorously scrub my junk after a questionable lover choice. I monthly tea bag a bowl of acid with my shaft (sans balls) to make sure it doesn't get too use to the sweet nectars of vaginal crease. This keeps it guessing and clean.

Likes sports:

Not sure what you mean here. I've done sports-themed role playing before...

Loves dogs:

Okay, beastiality is not my thing, but I'll watch you and the pup if you want.

Has a job:

Trust-fund count?

Tall - 5'9" plus:

Wow, you are demanding little bitches. I don't know of anyone who has a 5' 9" schlong, but if I did I think I would recommend that they get some loppers and shorten that bro up before he kills an unsuspecting slam piece.

Can lift heavy things:

You girls are so kinky and Jacky likey. I'm usually not into HUGE boobs, because when you get weird with the size of those things it's just plain distracting and absurd. But, yes, I would be happy to lift your 'heavy things' ... i've taken the class on how to take care of implants and have my certificate to prove it, so your heavy things are in good hands.

No baggage, at least not over 50 lbs:

I don't spend the night, ever. And why does the weight of my luggage matter? Are we going to fly somewhere? Mile high club, perhaps? O hell yeah... okay, I'll keep my bag under 50 lbs

Wears a watch:

wtf is this about? If I wear a watch your skin will be so cut up.... def. not wearing a watch. i once made this porno and the working title was "Chuck nOrris goes ape shit on sexually starving amish community" because, from an outsider watching, it looks like I'm beating the shit out of my lovers but really it is just extremely sensual rubbing and quick transitions. sexually violent is a good way to describe it. but, can you describe it with words aptly? hell no. there are about 143 women who know what I'm talking about and they won't shut up about it. heroin, bitches, heroin.

druge-free:

viagra not needed. my sexual rage comes straight from the reservoir of hate and pain i have from growing up with a whorish mother and alcoholic father...

casual drinker - alcoholics need not apply:

I only need water every 2.5 hours. my porn name is "camel bro" ... it's like camel toe, but with bro and it refers to my ability to perform for hours without a break.

Well, I think I answered all your questions and at this point you hos are wanting me pretty bad. respond if you want the time of your life. if not, i'll probably pick all 3 of you up at a bar at some point.... whatevs, you choose.

Oh, and I'm not sure what you require for technical assistance but it has been my experience that technology is not needed in the bed chamber. but, i have been known to fix a diesel dildo or two in my day. usually it's just the batteries... small screwdriver

You may think that I am nothing of what you want, but I believe you will find that I am everything you need.

Jack "no means yes and yes means hurt me" Collins

Craigslist personals

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 16:05:00 +0000

The story I'm about to tell happened two months ago. I had meant to write about it at the time but never got around to it. On Friday an infinitely more amusing story involving craigslist happened that I want to tell, and so I had to write this one first because all other stories will pale in comparison to the recent one. So I hope that you will read this, be moderately amused and then read the next story.

Craigslist has been a continual source of amusement on the slow days at work. It started within my first month when my friend Britney (all names have been changed to protect the innocent) began reading the missed connections aloud. If you haven't read them before you should really take a few minutes and browse through them. It was probably just the suggestive and slightly creepy voice that Britney used to read these that made it so amusing, but it was a weekly tradition on Fridays to go through them and laugh at the people who anonymously tried to connect with someone they had only briefly met or made eyes at. After Britney and another coworker expressed a desire to have a missed connection written about them I hatched a plan to write one for her.

I waited a few weeks before acting and I debated the efficacy of such a prank with several people. All of them said it would be awesome and encouraged me to go for it. "That's not crossing a line?" I asked. "What if she gets pissed?" No, everyone said, it would be brilliant. Then I had to wait for an opportune moment. For this to work I had to know a specific place where Britney had been on a given day. Our office or the work shuttle would be too obvious and simply stating the location as "the MBTA red line" would be too vague. So I waited until Britney went to a show at the House of Blues, knowing it would be the perfect locale for a missed connection. The next day I posted my "missed connection," describing how she had been waiting in line with two friends and our eyes had locked on several occasions. I included a rather vague physical description of her and submitted it. And then I waited.

Of course right afterwards we both got busy with things at work and the week passed without any readings from craigslist. On Friday I decided to take things into my own hands. After lunch I asked her to read some missed connections. "Not now, I have a lot left to do today," she replied. Fuck. The post had been up all week at this point and I didn't want it to disappear into the hundreds of pages of desperation that exist on craigslist. I brought it up again an hour later. "Just take a break for a little while and read some of them," I prodded. Britney consented and read through a few pages worth but somehow skipped over mine before saying, "ok, back to work."

"Come on, read a few more," I begged. "No, I'm done. Read them yourself if you want," Britney replied. If I read the one I had written to her it would be way too obvious. She would definitely catch on, but fuck it, there was no other apparent way to get her to see it. I read out a few random ones to not be exceedingly obvious before getting to mine. "Hey, this one is from the show you were at the other night," I told her. "Really?? Read it!" she commanded.

I began reading it but keeping a straight face during this was one of the hardest things I had done. After only three weeks of working here, Britney had told me that she had already identified my "lying face," and she had been extremely accurate at identifying my lies since then. Let's just say I wouldn't make a good poker player. I knew that to pull this off my face would have to be a fucking stone. I had only read two sentences when she shrieked, "ohmygod! send it to me!" I sent her the link and her excitement about potentially having a missed connection took over. I watched her face closely as she read the rest of the ad, as it went from an expression of hope and eagerness to pure joy. "This is me!" Britney yelled while pumping her arms in the air. "I have a missed connection!"

Her shouts attracted the attention of several coworkers who were then told the story at about 15 words per second. Somehow they managed to understand what Britney was saying. I sat there continuing to do a great fucking job of not cracking up. Britney emailed her roommates to tell them her accomplishment of having garnered a missed connection. They urged her to reply to it, saying that it could be fate and other such nonsense. While she debated whether or not to respond, I was trying to figure out at what point I should tell her that I wrote it.

Our friend Scott walked up to hear the story and as Britney told it again it became clear she was going to respond to it. I couldn't let it go that far. I was already worried I had potentially crossed the line between prank and destroying someone's dream, and letting her send out a heartfelt email to her mystery soulmate would just be weird.

"Are you going to write to him?" Scott asked.
"Yes, I HAVE to! This could be destiny!" Britney said.
Fuck. Yep, have to end this now, I thought.
"Don't reply. He could be some freak. Writing an anonymous post on the internet to someone is weird," Scott said.
"Oh come on, as if you've never written some anonymous message to a girl online before," Britney retorted.
"No, I haven't. That's messed up," Scott said.
"Yeah, I haven't done that either," I chimed in. "Except that I did. Just now."

There was an awkward pause. Britney looked at me curiously and it took several seconds before the meaning of what I had just said dawned on her. Scott burst out laughing and I was laughing too, although still worried about Britney's reaction. It was as if she didn't actually believe I had written it. "Did you really write it?" she asked and as I told her that I had, I prepared to duck behind my desk in case a stapler or other metal objects came hurtling in my direction. Fortunately Britney has a sense of humor and she laughed about the whole thing. After work I told the friends who had advised me to go through with it the whole story. Their responses were all the same: "I can't believe you actually did it! That could have backfired horrendously!" Thanks a lot, assholes.

A briefly interrupted hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 01:16:00 +0000

There it was: that ephemeral experience of waking up and not knowing where the hell I was. It came to me quickly, as it usually does, and I understood that this strange apartment was my own. The couch I lay on was not mine, nor the coffee table or bookshelf next to me. It felt like a fucking hotel. Clean, unencumbered, sterile furniture that wasn't my own. What else could this be? But this place was my home and I'd have to adjust to it sooner or later. Still, I was not in my bed. I closed my eyes and waited a full minute before opening them again. The headache wasn't going away. Somehow I managed to remember where I had put the bottle of ibuprofen when I unpacked. I downed three pills with a standing glass of water and trumped down the stairs with one hand steadying myself on the banister. It was darker downstairs, and colder. I liked this, and fell right back asleep the moment I hit the bed.

A completely rational fear of dying naked

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 20:32:00 +0000

I've long questioned just how structurally sound my apartment building is, particularly the exterior bathroom wall. This wall is right at the L bend in the alley, so looking out the bathroom window gives a view up the alley towards the street. For whatever reason, the garbage trucks always enter the alley at that entrance by driving in reverse towards our building. I can't imagine that the tight 90 degree turn is easy in a huge truck but I have absolutely no idea why they do the whole thing backwards. It seems to unnecessarily complicate an already difficult situation, but I must assume that there is some sort of logic behind it. On several occasions I've walked out of the back entrance to the building only to find the garbage truck backing towards me. I would quickly retreat back inside and use the front door instead. I had already assumed that the exterior wall was in such disrepair that the simple act of hitting the bricks with a hammer could potentially bring down the entire building. Each time I witnessed the garbage truck driving in reverse down the alley I would always wonder if the building would be intact when I returned. And yet the garbage has been picked up twice a week since September and our apartment has yet to collapse into the basement.

A few days ago I was taking a shower earlier than usual when I heard the rhythmic beeping of a large vehicle backing up. I flipped the curtain back briefly to glance out and was confronted with the back of a bright yellow garbage truck. I'm not the type of person who pictures their own death around every corner. I don't worry about plane crashes, car accidents or T drivers texting while operating trains. But when I saw that 25 ton yellow behemoth headed slowly towards me, I was convinced it was a harbinger of my imminent and very naked death. In an instant I saw how it would happen: the truck would just scrape the bricks, cracking the wall as it began to cave in. First the basement wall would go, and then the floor and the tub. I'd fall along with the rest of the bathroom as brick and wood tumbled down around me. My body would rest in the rubble, stunned and injured but still alive, until the upper floors began to cave in on top of me. My last living memory would be of that incessant beeping of a truck in reverse and maybe a fleeting thought of, "they'll find me naked!" Initially the police and firefighters would think nobody had been injured. But then one of the search dogs would catch my scent and signal that there was a body in the rubble. They'd work frantically to clear the debris, only to find my naked and soapy body crushed helplessly. The incident would, of course, make headlines. My 15 minutes of fame would be carried in newspapers and cable news: "Boston Man Dies While Showering in Freak Garbage Truck Incident."

I briefly considered jumping out of the shower and running naked down the hallway. No, I would stay in the shower and risk death rather than make a huge ass out of myself. There isn't a good way to explain that situation to roommates. "Well, the garbage truck was about to slowly crash into the building in reverse and I didn't want to die naked," would probably not be something they would sympathize with. I stood there motionless, all too conscious of the beeping getting louder as the truck approached. The sounds finally passed as the truck continued on its backwards journey down the alley. I finished washing the shampoo out of my hair and dried off, altogether relieved that I hadn't died in a most embarrassing fashion.

Cycling misadventures

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 18:17:00 +0000

This is not turning into a cycling blog. I can't promise that this will be the last thing I write about biking but hopefully I won't have any more exciting stories to share. Wednesday morning I woke up and went for a ride out to Olmsted Park in Jamaica Plain. It's about 4 miles from my apartment and the loop around the park is another 3 miles. There are biking/walking paths going around the park and I thought it would be a nice ride before going to work that afternoon.

At times there are separate paths for walkers and bikers around the park, but in some places they merge and the path must be shared. I was riding hard and whenever there were walkers or runners I would shout out, "passing on the right!" and the people would move to the left and allow me to pass. I had lost my voice on Monday and was still hoarse but I had enough of a voice for people to hear me shouting. About halfway around the park the biking and walking paths had converged and shortly beyond that were two women walking side by side, just distant enough from one another to block the whole path. I called out, "passing on the right" and kept pedaling towards them, only they didn't respond. I shouted it again and louder, but my voice was failing me and they didn't seem to hear.

To my right was a rocky embankment and to my left was the pond. There was no way I could go off the path. "Fuck," I thought, and hit the brakes hard and yelled "RIGHT!" as loudly as possible as I skidded towards them. I was as far right as I could be on the path, as I hoped that the women would hear my shout and respond. With my last cry they finally noticed. The woman on the right looked back at me, paused, and then moved to the right so she was squarely in front of me. My bike skidded straight into her ass and then everything slowed down.

The back of the bike lifted into the air and I was thrown off head first in slow motion. The ground was above me somehow and I had an upside down view of the bike as I flew through the air. It was a very surreal experience until I hit the pavement. My left foot was still hooked in the pedal but I smashed my right knee into the ground and caught myself with my right palm. I bounced back up immediately to check on the woman I had hit. We were both apologizing to one another but she seemed to be fine. Her rather large ass had cushioned most of the blow which probably helped both of us in the end.

I knew a a crash was inevitable in a big city and I feel better knowing that I got my first one out of the way quickly and without serious injury. I'll definitely be more wary around walkers and runners in the future.

There was almost another incident of a different variety that afternoon. I had ridden my bike to work and was feeling more comfortable in Boston traffic. Most drivers are actually pretty courteous and try to give bikers as much room as possible. On the way home from work I noticed a driver behind me driving slowly instead of passing me. I was as far to the side as I could be but it was a one lane road and I can understand if drivers don't want to risk passing close to bikers. I had had a few others do the same and while I'm sure it's annoying to be stuck behind a bike there was nothing that I could do about it.

After following me for a block the driver honked at me. I looked back at him briefly but again, there was nothing I could do about it. The street finally widened into two lanes and he pulls up along side me with his window open and shouts something at me. I couldn't hear what he said with the wind blowing past my ears but I was pissed. There was no reason to honk at me and even less reason to shout at me as he drove past. The driver sped up as we approached a light and I screamed back at him, "share the road fucker!" The car hit the brakes and stopped at the light as it turned red. "Fuck, why did I have to say anything?" I thought. I road slowly up next to him and the guy begins yelling at me. Stories of road rage shootings flashed in my mind and I realized what a dumbass I was to have shouted back at him. The light was red but there was no traffic. I figured it was better to run the red light and get away from this asshole than risk whatever might have happened had I waited at the light next to him. He continued to scream as I rode away. From now on I plan to ignore any assholes on the road.

The bike arrives and my problems begin

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 16:56:00 +0000

The bike finally arrived Thursday morning. When I went out to greet the UPS man, he greeted me with a cheery, "hey, I've got your bike for you." Bike boxes are pretty easy to recognize but he could tell with certainty that there was a bike in it since the top of the box was completely open. The whole package was pretty banged up.
"Uh... yeah, but is everything still in there?" I asked him.
"I think it just ripped open as it was being moved to the truck. I'll mark the package as open though, just in case," he told me.

A quick glance inside showed that everything seemed to be there except the pump. I dragged the box inside and started putting it together in the living room. I had put together a bike once or twice before with my dad, but that was at least 5 years ago and I had just done whatever he instructed. It wasn't too bad though, and I was able to get it together in about an hour while watching the Red Sox game on TV.

The first thing I noticed after it was put together was that both tires were rubbing up against the brakes. You need a wrench to adjust the brakes and of course I didn't have one, so I walked the bike over to Kevin and Katy's apartment to use a wrench. The front brakes moved easily enough but I couldn't get the back brakes fixed. Kevin and I realized that the back wheel was bent. I had ridden this bike when I was in California in April and it had been fine so the damage had to have occurred during shipping. I walked it over to Back Bay Bicycles and one hour and $28 later they told me they had fixed it. I'm hoping that UPS will reimburse me for the repairs.

I started riding it back home and my first thought was, "damn, I never realized how bumpy Boston streets are." This is true but I then noticed that the bumpyness was coming at a regular interval from the back wheel. I turned around and road it back to the shop where they actually fixed it this time at no additional charge. It was about 5:30PM by this point and I road it home but didn't want to go for a long ride in rush hour. I decided to save my first real ride for the next day.

Naturally, I woke up sick on Friday and didn't feel up to riding. I spent most of the day in bed and hoped I'd feel well enough to ride on Saturday. After Dan heard about all the problems I had gone through with the bike and how I got sick upon its arrival, he asked, "did you consider that maye you're just not meant to ride a bike in Boston?" I did feel a little better Saturday, although I still had a sore throat but I wasn't going to wait around forever to ride the damn thing after having waited for so long to get it. I took a nice ride out through Jamaica Plain to the Arnold Arboretum and back. I also rode the bike to the movie theater by the Boston Common that afternoon and left it locked up outside for a couple of hours. I was half convinced that when I came back out it would have been stolen, just because practically everything else had already gone wrong at that point, but the bike was still there. I realized that anytime I ride the bike instead of taking the T I'll end up getting to my destination quicker but quite sweaty. To my Boston friends: you're going to have to deal with it.

Monday was my first day back at work after the bike arrived. Finally I'd be able to give up the T once and for all. The MBTA will have to do without my $3.40 per day. The ride to Coolidge Corner only took 20 minutes riding at a leisurely pace. I still got to work a little sweaty but it was so nice not to have to depend on the T. I biked home that evening with groceries from Trader Joe's in my backpack and without having to endure the headache of taking the T around rush hour.

Upon waking up Tuesday I discovered rain and a forecast for steady rain all day long. It stopped early in the morning though and by the time I was ready to leave for work the roads were almost dry. Still, I decided to take the T since I assumed that the weather forecast was correct and that the rain would resume. It didn't rain all afternoon and a light drizzle started right as I left work. I was pissed that I hadn't ridden to work and it didn't even rain. Just to spite me, the T took close to half an hour to arrive and was then packed full of people. I'll be riding to work every day from now on, barring a heavy downpour.

Waiting For Nishiki

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 15:21:00 +0000

My last attempt to purchase a bike didn't go so well. I made a few more half-hearted inquiries through craigslist after that but couldn't find any decent road bikes in my price range. I did have one person reply and say that he had about 10-15 bikes at his home in Dorchester that he was selling for cheap, but I didn't particularly feel like getting robbed or buying a stolen bike. When I told my grandfather about my bike woes he offered to ship me the Nishiki road bike that my dad had kept in California. He took it to a bike store in Claremont and was told that I would have the bike delivered either last Friday or Monday.

Since the bike was being shipped UPS freight we had no tracking number. I spent all day Friday inside my apartment waiting for the front door buzzer to signify the arrival of the bike. I didn't even want to risk taking a shower in case UPS showed up. It didn't come and I was disappointed but not surprised. They had said it might not get there until Monday and I could wait three more days for the bike. Unfortunately, I had work on Monday and could only wait around the apartment until 1PM. The bike didn't come before I left for work. When I got home that evening I went to the front of my apartment building, hoping to see a UPS sticker on the front door showing that they had at least tried to deliver it. Walking up to the door I could see a familiar brown and yellow sticker. yes! They had tried to deliver it! I ripped the sticker off eagerly to see when they'd be back for another delivery attempt. Then I saw the name on the sticker. It wasn't mine. Go to hell, Josh in apartment 25. I sheepishly replaced the sticker, disappointed once again.

But before I got to my apartment another glimmer of hope appeared. Maybe they had actually delivered it. Maybe Nick had been home this afternoon and had signed for it. Maybe the bike was sitting in our hallway! I unlocked the apartment and walked inside, squinting in the darkness and searching for a large cardboard box. Nothing. Maybe Nick put the box in the living room. Again, nothing. Fuck. Ok, well this will be an exercise in patience, I thought. The bike will get here when it gets here and there's nothing I can do about it in the meantime.

My grandfather called me that evening to ask if the bike had arrived. I told him in a cheery voice that no, it hadn't, but I'm sure it will get here soon. I was trying to be very optimistic about everything when really the delay was fucking killing me inside. "I'm going to call the bike store and find out what's going on," he told me. I said not to bother, that the bike had been shipped and I'm sure they didn't have any more information than we did. It's all in UPS' hands now, no use annoying the nice people at the friendly local bike shop. My grandfather called back 15 minutes later. "They really screwed up. The bike is still sitting in the store. They forgot to ship it last week," he said. Guess it was a good thing he decided to call the store after all.

The store said they would ship it the next day (Tuesday) and that it would be sent via UPS 3-day air. UPS currently says that the package is in Shrewsbury, MA and is scheduled for delivery today. It has been 17 days since I made that first attempt to buy a bike. During that time I have spent $33.85 on the T, wasted countless hours hoping the bike would arrive, countless more hours being disappointed and an untold amount of money and time drinking beer to cope with the disappointment. The title of this post is a reference to "Waiting For Godot," a play in which the two characters wait for the mysterious Godot to arrive. Godot never appears, but I'm confident that the Nishiki will be delivered today.

Even homeless people need lovin'

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 16:40:00 +0000

Summer seems to have really brought out all the crazies in Boston. Their winter ice caves have melted and they have dispersed themselves among us, in the streets, the stores and, of course, the MBTA. Saturday night found me taking the T home from Cambridge with my friends Kathryn and Alex. We had spent the evening drinking at a friend's BBQ, but due to the T sucking ass and closing around midnight we were forced to leave the party early in order to avoid shelling out money we didn't have to an angry cab driver.
And so we walked somewhat drunkenly to the Lechmere T stop where, despite Alex's brief attempt to fight the mechanical T gate, we happily made it onto a train. The three of us sat down together, Kathryn in the middle and Alex and I on either side of her. For a brief period of time, all was great in the world. And then he got on the train.

I think Alex noticed him first, as he later recalled that, "the second I saw that dude I fucking knew he was going to talk to us." He was short and dirty, obviously homeless or very poor, and made no move to hide his insobriety as he stumbled onto the train and practically fell into the seat facing me.
"Hey... you've got nice hair," he slurred, and I looked up at him. "Uh, thanks," I replied. I glanced at his hair. Light brown and gray, dirty and very curly emerging from under a soiled blue Red Sox cap. I turned back to my friends, wrongfully assuming that our chat was over.

"That's a nice shirt you've got, too," he said. I thanked him again without looking up. Kathryn and Alex were giggling at this point while I squirmed awkwardly in my seat and moved closer to them.
"Is that some chest hair sticking out?" he asked, and I looked at him again to see him grinning at me and staring at my chest.
"Uh, no," I said and turned my body away from him and towards Kathryn to block his view. It was then that my good friend Kathryn decided to intervene on my behalf and smash her purse into his wrinkled face while screaming at the drunken fuck to leave me alone. Or so I wanted. Instead, she said, "actually, I make him shave his chest." Alex burst into laughter and I wanted to kill them both.
"Don't fucking encourage him," I tried to quietly scream at her through clenched teeth.
"Looks like a hairy chest to me. Why don't you unbutton that shirt and show me," homeless man said. I quickly buttoned the top collar button on my shirt.

By now everyone around us was paying rapt attention to this conversation. The girl next to homeless man was staring straight at the floor and trying not to laugh, while the girl to my left stared in open enjoyment at the scene before her.
"I make him keep his shirt on while we're on public transportation," Kathryn offered. "Trust me, it's shaved." Finally, some support.
"Heh-heh, what else do you make him shave?" homeless man asked.
"Oh, I make him shave eeeeverythiiiing," Kathryn replied without missing a beat. I don't know how she managed to keep her composure. Alex was about to piss himself, everyone around us was openly laughing and I just wanted to disappear.
"You wanna show me?" homeless man asked hopefully.
"No. Absolutely not. Fuck you, Kathryn," I said.
"I think you and me should get together," homeless man suggested. Apparently I hadn't made it myself clear. I wasn't interested. I put my arm around Kathryn and said, "I don't think my girlfriend would like that very much."
"Oh. Well we could have a threesome," homeless man said with a grin.
"No. I think my friend over here would get jealous," I said while reaching behind Kathryn and grabbing Alex by the shoulder. He stopped laughing momentarily, until homeless man suggested we just go all out and have a foursome together. Alex resumed his fit of giggles while Kathryn declined the offer.

"She's no fun. How 'bout just us men have a threesome then?" homeless man said. This time I burst out laughing while Alex replied with, "nah.. man, no way," and collapsed into laughter once again.
The girl next to homeless man was laughing and typing rapidly on her phone. I can only assume she was texting about the awkward situation going on around her. Homeless man was still staring at me like a piece of meat. By now we had reached Copley Square. When the stop was announced, homeless guy sat up straight and said, "oh shit! I think I missed my stop! Is this North Station?" North Station had been the second stop after Lechmere, and we were pretty sure that's where homeless guy had boarded the train. He jumped up and stumbled towards the door. We all laughed and I was relieved that he had gotten off. I had been somewhat concerned he would get off the train when we did and follow us home.

And then seconds later he was back in his seat. "This wadn't my stop! I'm getting off at Prudential!" homeless man shouted, happy to have figured out where he was. Prudential was one stop away and at least he'd be off the train before we had to get off. He leaned forward and leered at us.
"He's gonna impregnate you," homeless guy stated quite matter of factly while looking at Kathryn. I couldn't look at the guy I was laughing so hard. And also creeped out.
"Mark my words, he's gonna impregnate you tonight!" homeless guy shouted. People not in our immediate vicinity were looking over and laughing now. We finally got to Prudential and the girl next to him reminded him that it was his stop. He once again stumbled on his way off the train, but turned around once more before stepping off to again shout, "he'll impregnate you!"
Nobody could control their laughter at this point, especially when we realized he hadn't walked off but was standing right outside the train window staring in at us and waving, a big toothy grin on his face. Homeless man stood there until the train left. Yet another reason to avoid the MBTA.

Be wary of free

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 15:52:00 +0000

If there's anything I've learned in Boston it's that you should not always take advantage of something just because it's free. I learned this lesson the first week of freshman year when I inadvertently ended up at a LGBT meeting based on the promise of free pizza. There was no pizza. The internet, however, is a treasure trove of free stuff. Just in 2009 alone I have gotten several free sandwiches from Quizno's, a $50 prepaid Visa card, a 24oz bottle of ketchup, some terrible Stride "Always Mandarin" gum and, most recently, 4 tickets to a concert at the House of Blues (note: none of these free things were obtained by clicking on a flashing banner or links contained in emails. I do not endorse attempts to sign up for free things on the internet and cannot be held liable for damage to your hard drive, credit rating or mailbox if you attempt to get free stuff after reading this blog. By continuing to read you submit to a legal agreement to abide by the Terms and Conditions of the "coming or leaving" blog. For a full copy of the Terms and Conditions please send $1.99 US via PayPal to comingorleaving [at] gmaildotcom along with your physical mailing address. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery. For international requests I also require an additional $5 for the purchasing of a beer on the way to the Post Office. Additionally, this beer is not for you and will not be mailed with the Terms and Conditions).

The House of Blues occasionally gives away tickets to concerts that aren't sold out through their Twitter account. I follow them since I like live music and free things that don't suck. Last week they were giving away free tickets to see some band to the first five people who replied with the locations of other House of Blues venues. A quick google search on my phone later and I was one of the lucky winners. I texted my roommate Dan to see if he'd be interested in going and got a quick response back: "fuck yea who is playing." The band was called The Bangles and neither of us had heard of them. I was pretty excited to have something fun to do after work that day. If you know of The Bangles then you already know where this story is headed.

When I got home, Dan said he had told some people at work about the concert we were going to. His boss replied, "oh wow, I used to listen to The Bangles all the time in the 80s!" Well, that wasn't what I was expecting. Obviously any show that they're giving away tickets to isn't going to be really popular or sold out but I wasn't expecting a band from 20+ years ago. So we searched YouTube to find out who The Bangles really were. This is the video we saw.

Yes, The Bangles are the 80s girl band who brought the world hits such as "Walk Like an Egyptian," "Eternal Flame" and "Manic Monday." They weren't a band I had ever planned on seeing live but we couldn't pass up this opportunity. When we got to the House of Blues I went to the box office window, handed them my ID and said, "I, uh, won tickets to see The Bangles... from Twitter. God I feel like such a dumbass." I was handed four tickets but I was only able to convince two people to come with me. While we were waiting in line to have our IDs checked I was given hope that there would at least be a young crowd there. The guy in front of us couldn't have been more than a few years older than us and was bragging to the bouncer about how he had just left court after fighting his DUI charge. He appeared to be pretty drunk.

Once we were inside the crowd was about what we had expected: the place was only about half full and most of the people were in their 30s. Since none of us were inebriated or even alive when these songs were released we couldn't enjoy it in the same manner as the other concert goers, but we stuck around to hear Manic Monday and Eternal Flame. We had hoped to hear Walk Like an Egyptian but worried that it wouldn't be played until the encore and I certainly had no desire to stay for that long. We finally left after a particularly drunk woman shouted out a request to have a song dedicated to her. The singer obliged and the woman shouted out "yeaaaah!! Girls night out!" The singer laughed and said, "well for all of us on stage it's moms night out!" I no longer follow the House of Blues on Twitter.

I need a bike

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Wed, 20 May 2009 16:35:00 +0000

I finally gave in and decided to buy a bike. This decision is something I had been struggling with for a while. When I first moved into this apartment in September I wanted to ship one of my bikes from home up here. Shipping a bike isn’t cheap though, and I had just blown the majority of my post-Europe savings on cheap Swedish furniture with names like ‘krëfshael,’ which then took several days to assemble. Maybe the bed would have been put together correctly the first time if Dan and I hadn’t been drinking Wild Turkey, but it was a really mind-numbing process and we wanted to make it more exciting.

I thought about buying a bike when I got back to Boston after Christmas but my bank account was at an all time low. Once I started getting regular paychecks from my part-time job again I looked into getting a bike. I didn’t find any great deals and the prospect of riding in the snow and ice wasn’t very appealing. After my California trip I made up my mind; I was getting a fucking bike. I contacted a few people on craigslist before finally finding a bike at a price I wanted. After agreeing on the price I replied back asking when and where I could meet him. He promptly stopped responding. Disheartened, I once again gave up on the bike idea.

Until yesterday. It was in the mid-60s and sunny and I was pouring more money into the T to get to work. It made no sense. I wanted to be outside in the nice weather and I wanted to not give the MBTA any more of my money. I had also just lost gym access since Jeremy’s ID finally expired. Even though I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d stay in Boston, I decided that I had to have a bike. It would save me $10-15 per week and it would be my final ace in the long-running feud with the T. Never again would I have to deal with money being stolen by the ticket machines, long waits for trains and gates closing on my hand. I would finally win.

I started searching craigslist and the third ad I clicked on was for a guy selling over 20 bikes. I contacted him and Chuck told me that he used to buy bikes, fix them up and then re-sell them as a hobby. He had just injured his arm and decided to retire and was selling off his inventory. I could get a recently repaired road bike for $60! He was in a small town south of Framingham, but no problem, I had a Zip Car membership. I called Chuck after work and said I could be there in an hour.

I’m still not sure if my decision to drag Dan along with me was the best or worst thing I could have done. Google said it was a 45 minute drive and I figured he’d make good company and could act as a navigator. Both Google Maps and Chuck had advised to use country roads instead of I-90. Mapquest disagreed, but who was I to argue? Sure, Google Maps might have steered me wrong a few times in the past. There was that time I tried to go to South Padre Island and ended up in Mexico. And that time I tried to go to a concert in Austin and Google advised me to take a highway that didn’t exist on the opposite side of the city. But Chuck seemed like a good guy and obviously he knew the best way to get to his own house.

We made it to Wellesley before we took the first wrong turn. That one was my fault, but it was quickly realized and we doubled back and got on the right road. Dan wasn’t making it easy for me though. I like to know what the next several directions are so I can try and figure the route out in my head. He would only read them one at a time. If I insisted on reading further directions he’d begin to make things up.

“Ok, what do I do after I turn onto Route 16?”
“Don’t worry about that yet, just turn right onto 16.”
“Yeah, but what’s the next direction after that?”
“Hm. After that we take a left on Westland.”
“And then?”
“Then a right onto Hemenway.”
“Westland and then Hemenway. The streets right by our apartment.”
“Yes.”
“I hate you.”

This led to a decent amount of confusion and several more wrong turns. We were driving through a forest, and while there were quite a few houses out there we didn’t encounter any towns. Dan called this “the suburbs.” I called it “the fucking middle of nowhere.” Still, I was excited to finally be getting a road bike and at an awesome price. I kept thinking about how awesome Craigslist is. Second try at buying a bike and I found a great deal. Sure, there was that BU student who was murdering girls he met on Craigslist a few weeks back, but they caught him and all was well. I was already thinking about going for a ride in the morning and then riding to work in the afternoon.

We made it to Chuck’s house in about 70 minutes, just as it was getting dark. Dan and I walked up and rang the doorbell. Chuck had warned me that he doesn’t always hear it and to call his phone if he didn’t answer. The doorbell was pretty loud but nobody came to the door so I tried his phone. We could hear the phone ringing inside, even louder than the doorbell. It rang and rang and then went to his answering machine. I heard his muffled voice on the machine through the door and on my phone. I tried knocking loudly on the door but there was still no answer.

Dan and I made jokes about how Chuck had lured us out here to kill us while we waited. We noticed another door off to the side and knocked on that door. I called several more times. After more than 20 minutes of waiting, calling and knocking we finally gave up. Fuck Chuck.

The drive back was even more confusing. The previous wrong turns, coupled with the darkness and Dan’s fake directions got me completely turned around. I had absolutely no idea where the hell we were but we somehow made our way back to Wellesley, and from there it was essentially a straight shot back to Huntington Avenue. The drive back went quicker but I still had to call and extend the Zip Car reservation. I returned to Boston bike-less, angry and hungry. Chuck has yet to respond to my email inquiring as to his absence last night. That guy owes me $30 and a bike.

California

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Wed, 06 May 2009 16:30:00 +0000

I've always wished that California was my home. My parents lived in Pasadena before I was born and my dad even got a job offer in Hawaii but somehow they finally ended up in Texas. I grew up imagining life in southern California or on the beaches in Hawaii. Meanwhile I was climbing trees and trying not to fall onto cactus in the Texas hill country. I think it's fair to say that I got gypped. In second grade my teacher put a huge map of the United States on the wall and we all got to put a dot where we were born. I wanted so very badly to put a dot in California and tell the other kids that I spent the first 6 years of my life in paradise. I imagined the other kids admiring me for having lived a life of excitement on the beach and everyone would ask me all about California. I would tell them tales of the Pacific, of Disneyland and Universal, of orange trees and sun and perfect weather. It wouldn't change my miserable existence in central Texas but I would be a star among the Texans. Or so my second grade mind imagined. I doubt the other kids would have given a damn but to me it made all the difference.

In third grade I switched schools and decided to hell with it, I was a new person here, my dot hadn't yet been placed on any map, I could be anyone I wanted. So I became Daniel From California. My lie didn't bring me the happiness I had imagined. Nobody cared that I wasn't from Texas and it didn't alter the distance between me and the nearest beach. When I began to make friends at the school I felt bad for lying to them. I slowly began to do away with my false identity. "California?" I'd say with a slight frown on my face when it was brought up. "No, I have family there and I visit a lot, but I was born in Texas." I dropped back down to the masses and blended in once again.

It took me a long time to realize that it wasn't the weather or the beaches that made California so special to me. The family that I had there and the connections to my dad's history were the reasons why I loved it. My dad's parents in Claremont were always in my life even though they were so far away. Weekly phone calls on Sunday evenings kept us close. And they spoiled me whenever I visited, as grandparents do. California was playing checkers with my grandmother in the dining room. California was taking months' worth of soda and beer cans to be recycled with my grandfather and getting $5 for them. California was playing "roof ball" with my dad. California was seeing my sister for the first time. California was story after story of my dad's youth.

I had only been back once since my dad died, and that was exactly two months afterwards when my grandmother had died. The house had been full of family for the funeral. The two days rushed by without pause for thought and then we were off to Palo Alto, to mourn, rest and recover through Thanksgiving. This was my first time back since then. I slept in my dad's old room, walked past his high school, rode the bike he shipped out to California when my grandmother first became sick. The first three days of this felt odd, as if I was trying to become him or merge into his shadow. I slept in his room because the alternative was an uncomfortable fold-out couch. I walked past his high school because it was around the corner from my grandfather's house. I rode his bike because it was there and I hadn't been on a bike since early January. I missed him more than usual.

The week was spent idly as I finished one book and started another. My grandfather and I watched baseball, basketball and hockey games together. We shared dinners and beers, entire bottles of wine and glasses of tawny, stories and memories. I'd go for a bike ride by the mountains in the early afternoon, even on the days when the temperature came close to 100. I don't know if I was running from the house or relishing in its past. No matter what, I loved every minute of it. We went out twice for Mexican food and each time I wrote a review of the restaurant in my head, giving and subtracting points for the menu, salsa, food and guacamole while I sipped on Pacifico and sat mostly silent with my grandfather. We visited his friend Dr. Seinfeld, the father of my dad's best friend in high school and college. I talked about Boston and Belgium and Niger and Geneva. My friend Ryan from Texas came and skated alongside me as I biked, and we went out for pizza, went out again two nights later for Italian with my grandfather and some family friends.

And when it finally came time for me to leave I said goodbye to my grandfather and to the house, and to my dad. I went back to Boston, where nothing is ever real.

Plumbing woes

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Tue, 05 May 2009 16:04:00 +0000

Yesterday the maintenance guy came by the apartment because a leak in our bathroom was flooding the basement again. He suspected the sink and told us to stop using it for a few days. I expected some half-assed fix from him but after leaving our sink running for 10 minutes it was soon realized that the problem was something else. Our landlord joined the maintenance guy in tearing apart the bathroom to try and find the leak. Turns out it was the toilet, and the next time I walked into the bathroom the toilet was gone. All that remained was a hole in the floor where the toilet once stood and our 70+ year old landlord peering down into it and shouting. Eventually the leak was fixed and our toilet replaced, but the whole situation reminded me of a similar incident back in November. I wrote about it in an email to Kevin and in his reply he demanded that I start a blog to "amuse the masses." So, masses, here is the story that started it all.

Our building, like most in this part of Boston is pretty old. The landlord is a 70-something year old man named Mr. Pizzi who is very hard of hearing but generally really nice. He always says hi to us when we see him and was good about getting things fixed when we first moved in. The shower in our apartment has a window with frosted glass in the wall. When we moved in there were two shower curtains: the normal one preventing water from splashing out into the bathroom and one against the window/wall. I assumed the one against the wall was there so that we could open the window for ventilation and not have the city of Boston watch us shower. How wrong I was.

The shower rod holding the curtain against the wall fell down right before we left for Christmas break. The tension rod broke so we couldn't put it back up. No big deal, it wasn't a huge concern for us. Yesterday morning I took a shower and then went to my room to get dressed. Shortly after closing the door to my room I heard loud knocking on the apartment door. I ignored it because it was 10AM and I couldn't care less who was there. The door opened though and I heard Mr. Pizzi shout, "hello?! Is anyone here?!" I quickly threw on my robe and went out to see what was going on. "Jason! Did you just shower?!" I was standing there in my robe with my hair sopping wet. I think it was pretty clear that I had just showered. Also, I don't know if you know this, but my name isn't Jason. Nobody in my apartment is named Jason. Of the four of us, two are named Daniel. If you say "Dan" or "Daniel" you have a 50% chance of getting the person's name right. He usually just calls all of us Dan which works well enough. "Hi Mr. Pizzi. Yes, I just showered.." I replied. "The damn basement is filled with water! The water just goes straight down there!" he said. We had problems with our shower not draining before thanksgiving so I figured it was a pipe problem or something. I told him that it had drained fine so I didn't know what was going on. "I'll tell you what it is, it's these damn tiles! All the tiles in here are loose and the water gets into the walls and goes straight down there! This is the second time today I've mopped it up. I'll put up a shower curtain tomorrow for ya but stop showering! I'm sick of mopping down there." Obviously the solution here is to put up a shower curtain against the wall rather than retile the bathroom. If I had known that a shower curtain was necessary for the structural integrity of the building then I wouldn't have showered. Ok, that might be a lie. I'm not skipping out on my morning showers. I actually just took one, albeit a very quick one so that I wouldn't flood the damn basement and bring on the wrath of Mr. Pizzi. Shhhh.

The joys of air travel, part II

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 21:36:00 +0000

I'm back in Boston after spending a very relaxing week in southern California and once again I have a story about an annoying person on a flight. I flew Virgin America for the first time because they were cheap and they had non-stop flights from Boston to LAX. The flight out of Boston was supposed to leave at 7AM but we hadn't pulled back from the gate at 7:10. The pilot got on the intercom and told us that a computer glitch had delayed us. He said maintenance was on the aircraft fixing it and that it would just be another 15 or 20 minutes until we could leave. I thought it was nice of them to inform us of what was causing the delay and figured that everyone else would appreciate the update as well. I didn't take into account that some people would freak the fuck out at hearing "computer glitch."

The girl in front of me had already been complaining about the delay before the announcement. I could hear her complaining almost immediately after we boarded. "Weren't we, like, supposed to leave already?" she asked. The person in the seat next to her either did not respond or didn't shout out the way she did. "This airline is, like, alllllllways late. Every time they are, like, soooo late!" I was quite relieved to be sitting next to a quiet Asian couple who were more interested with the in-seat TVs than they were with the delay. The girl in front continued to, like, complain while drawing out certain words for added emphasis. I was already picturing a typical blond SoCal girl with tons of makeup and tried to imagine using her body as a battering ram to get the door open in an emergency. And then the pilot made the announcement.

"Oh my gawwwd! A computer glitch?! This plane is totally not safe!" Fuck, seriously? She's going to freak out over this? "Excuse me! Hey!" she shouted at a passing flight attendant. The flight attendant turned and came back to her row. "What's wrong with the plane?! I do nooooot want to fly on this plane if there's a computer glitch!" The flight attendant assured her that it would be fixed momentarily and that the plane was perfectly safe. "Are you sure? Isn't the computer, like, really important?" Dumb Socal Girl asked. "Yes ma'am. There are multiple computers on the aircraft and it's just a small problem with one of them." "Well which computer is it?" Dumb Socal Girl demanded. "I'm not sure ma'am. I can assure you that we would not take off if there was a problem though," the flight attendant replied. "Is it the altimeter?" "I'm sorry ma'am, I really don't know. We won't leave until it's fixed though."

I was surprised she even knew what an altimeter was. The woman had already told her that she didn't know which computer wasn't working but obviously shouting out random aircraft terms will help her figure it out. Dumb Socal Girl's panic didn't end here, however. She had to call her boyfriend to warn him that she might not make it to LA because there was a computer glitch that could crash the plane and this might be the last time they ever spoke to one another. I pulled out my book and tried to pretend I couldn't hear her.

I did not encounter any crazy or annoying people on the flight back to Boston. I was sitting next to a 3 year old girl and worried that she would scream and cry for most of the flight. Luckily the crying was limited to a 10 minute period about an hour into the flight. She spent the rest of the time watching TV. Thank you so much for those TVs Virgin America.

last night's dinner: Trying to make something from matzos

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:43:00 +0000

I’ve already made it quite clear that I dislike Passover this year. I didn’t expect it to affect me other than the lack of work but I forgot that my grandfather keeps kosher for Passover. I had planned on cooking while I was out here but I hadn’t thought ahead about the whole kosher thing. If you haven’t ever tried matzoh you really should just for the experience. The particular brand of matzos that my grandfather bought is “Yehuda Matzos” which, as the package proclaims, was the number 1 rated matzo in 2002 according to the San Francisco Chronicle. Apparently the Chronicle declared that Yehuda Matzos are “crunchy, with a good snap.” Notice that this description does not include anything about taste because matzo does not have a taste.

I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to make that was kosher and not terrible. The only kind of dish I’ve eaten with matzos in it was matzos brie which is basically fried matzos mixed with scrambled eggs. It wasn’t bad but I also wouldn’t say that it was good. Luckily I found a few recipes that sounded pretty decent. I settled on a spinach and matzoh pie recipe on epicurious.

Ingredients
* 1 medium onion, finely chopped
* 3 tablespoons olive oil
* 2 (10-ounce) packages frozen chopped spinach, thawed
* 1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons chopped dill, divided
* 1 (16-ounce) container cottage cheese
* 2 cups whole milk
* 3 large eggs
* 1/4 teaspoon grated nutmeg
* 6 ounces feta, crumbled (1 1/2 cups), divided
* 6 matzos (about 6 inches square)

Preparation
* Preheat oven to 400°F with rack in middle.
* Cook onion in oil in a large heavy skillet over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden, 12 to 15 minutes.
* Meanwhile, put spinach in a sieve and press out as much liquid as possible. Add spinach to onion and cook, stirring occasionally, 5 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in 1/3 cup dill, 3/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper.
* Purée cottage cheese in a blender with milk, eggs, nutmeg, and 1/2 teaspoon each of salt and pepper until smooth. * Reserve 2 cups in a bowl and stir remainder into spinach with 1 cup feta.
* Stack matzos in a deep dish and pour reserved cottage-cheese mixture over them. Let stand 15 minutes to soften.
* Arrange 2 soaked matzos side by side in a generously oiled 13- by 9- by 2-inch (3-quart shallow) baking dish. Pour in half of spinach filling. Cover with 2 more matzos, then pour in remaining filling. Put remaining 2 matzos on top and pour any remaining cottage-cheese mixture over them. Sprinkle with remaining 1/2 cup feta.
* Bake, uncovered, until golden and set, 30 to 35 minutes. Cool 10 minutes, then serve sprinkled with remaining 2 tablespoons dill.

I halved the recipe since it was just two of us and this is supposed to make 8 servings. I also used fresh spinach instead of frozen, left out the dill and topped it with sliced tomatoes. Instead of soaking the matzos I just briefly washed them in cold water. It was really good and if I ever had some matzoh around the house I would definitely make it again. I usually take a picture of any of the meals I write about here but I hadn’t eaten all day and forgot to take one before we started eating.

I've twittered 1000 times

noreply@blogger.com (daniel) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 14:22:00 +0000

I'm sure I'm not the first to say this but that sounds dirty. To celebrate my 1000th “tweet” I wanted to do something special. Failing to find anything special at all I’ve decided to write all the things I have wanted to post on Twitter since Monday night when I hit 999 tweets and thus began avoiding Twitter. This will also serve to annoy anyone who dislikes Twitter (and I do believe there are a few of you).

NU up 5-0 going into the bottom of the 9th!
Right behind home plate at Fenway Park. I’ll never get these seats again http://bit.ly/2OaTB
5-2. As Ricky just said, “it’s not a Huskies game unless we blow it right at the end.”
5-3. Do we have another pitcher? Anyone at all? I’d volunteer myself but I promised Patrick I wouldn’t set foot on the field tonight.
And that’s the game. Huskies win the baseball Beanpot 5-3
Apple, I dislike you quite a bit for waiting until 20 minutes before closing to call and making me run to Boylston Street.
Dan and Patrick are convinced that they’re going to get me drunk tonight. Not happening.
Patrick’s Mobile Bar & Grill makes some mean kamakazis.
Red Sox are down 6-1, they’re off to a rough start this season.
Ok, one more kamakazi. But that’s it.
12:30AM. Kicked everyone out so I can go to sleep. I succeeded in not getting drunk.
1:07AM. Why can’t I sleep?! I have to be up in less than 4 hours. Maybe I should have drank more.
4:50AM Fuck it's early. Not enough sleep.
I just spaced out in the shower and wasn’t sure how much time had passed.
Everything is finally packed and I’m right on schedule. I’m sure I forgot something important though.
Forgot my laptop charger. God dammit, might be a few minutes late getting to the Zip Car.
Is the Prius supposed to be blue? I thought the website showed that it was silver.
@kevin_doyle and @kkobzeff are awesome for coming with me to the airport this early and driving the Zip Car back. Thanks so much guys!
The Virgin America counter is playing rock music and has neon purple lights. Wtf?
Almost left my keys at security.
When I get to LA I have to take a bus to the metro, metro to some station, metro link to Claremont. I think that’s the right order.
I’m trying hard not to laugh at this plane. Techno music, glossy white plastic, neon lights. Am I at a rave?
Oren described their planes as “an 80s coke dream.” Pretty accurate. Now go vote for his video!
There’s a guy on this flight with pigtails, a Willy Wonka top hat, blazer and red cowboy boots.
$12.95 for wifi? No thanks, I plan to sleep for most of the flight. Guess I’ll post this 1000th tweet blog when I get to my grandfather’s house.
I always drink tomato juice without ice on flights. I should have had them give me the whole can.
The guy next to me keeps adjusting his sleeping girlfriend’s head. Creepy.
Hope he didn’t just see me type that.
Why does Virgin charge $8 for a movie that’s still in theaters and $8 for a movie that’s been out on DVD for two months?
The LA Metro is... interesting.
Finished The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. Didn’t like the epilogue type ending but other than that it was fantastic.
This girl on the train keeps staring at me. I don’t know if she’s checking me out or if I have something on my face.
In Claremont! Amazing weather. No wireless internet. Will post this tomorrow.

For those that don’t follow me on Twitter I wouldn’t have actually posted all of these. I’m not that obsessed with it. And if you suffered through this and hate me a little bit more then you can blame @mckennalowry for convincing me to get a Twitter account and @kevin_doyle for getting me to start using it after a long hiatus, during which I frequently talked about how stupid and worthless it was.