Tuesday, July 20, 2010
G-Town Got It Going On
I closed on the new house in Georgetown at 1pm today. However, at 8am I met with my drywall contractor to walk him through the house so he could generate a quote for me. While I was walking him around I noticed he wasn't taking measurements or writing anything down. He was just hopping from foot to foot like he was walking on fire, and his eyes were darting around the room. My drywaller is this older hippie guy, so my first reaction was this fucking guy dropped acid before coming by and didn't even have the courtesy to share (not that I would have taken him up on it, but it's a courtesy, you know). I was saying "And this is going to be one bedroom, and this a bathroom" with my arms outstretched, sketching lines in the air to illustrate walls. Finally, he said "Hey you got a WORKING bathroom in here?" I said "Of course, it's upstairs, help yourself" thinking, he's got to take a piss. Then he said "Think I drank too much milk this morning" and ran upstairs like he was on fire. I though, Jesus man, I'm not sure this is cool! He stank up the place and I didn't even own it yet!
Friday, July 16, 2010
Tenant
I have a house in Georgetown under contract and will close on it this coming Tuesday. The seller gave me a set of keys so I have been showing it to prospective tenants all week in the hopes of getting it rented for August 1st. There has been a steady stream of beautiful girls through the door this week. It seems statistically impossible that there are so many hotties looking for housing in one area.
I had seven showings last Monday night. The first time I show a place I'm like a carnival showman. I point out "cute" details in the house (chicks LOVE cute!), I crack jokes, say how great the place will be for entertaining, walk them through the huge yard, the whole bit. By appointment number four my sales pitch is reduced to "So, this is it, take a look around, I'll be in the living room." It's not that I mind showing the place, it's that I can't stand the questions: How big is this closet? What is the rent, again? What year was this house built? Will these shrubs be trimmed, they attract squirrels. Will that smell go away before we move in? I like renting to dudes, they check to make sure the fridge is big enough to hold four cases of beer then they hand you the check. Chicks are the worst. In case you're wondering, the answers to the questions were: Big enough. It was in the ad. What does it matter. No. And probably not, I think it's coming from you.
The one bright spot of an otherwise aggravating day on Monday was this cute brunette who came through the house. I spoke to her roommate last Sunday who said she would like to come by and check out the house. On Monday she had a scheduling conflict so she sent the brunette instead. I'll call her Tenant.
Tenant: She's about 5'5", early-to-mid twenties, dark wavy hair and dark brown eyes. Tenant came by after work and had on a skirt and some sort of tank top-shirt. Her arms were ripped, she clearly spent some time in the gym, but she wasn't sinewy or overly muscular. Her body was great. The best thing, though, was that she just had a great personality. She was chipper, seemed smart, laughed a lot but without being ditsy.
I thought that Tenant was interested in the house and didn't want to screw it up by asking her out. It's been a few days now, and I think I have a group of girls who are taking it, so I may try to get hold of Tenant. I don't have her number, but I do have her roommate's. I would have to call the roommate and somehow ask her if tenant is single, and if so, if I could get her number. I've done some zany things to get a girls number before, but this certainly ranks high on the "This guy is a stalker" scale.
What the fuck do I have to lose, though? Dignity? Please, I sold out of that years ago.
I had seven showings last Monday night. The first time I show a place I'm like a carnival showman. I point out "cute" details in the house (chicks LOVE cute!), I crack jokes, say how great the place will be for entertaining, walk them through the huge yard, the whole bit. By appointment number four my sales pitch is reduced to "So, this is it, take a look around, I'll be in the living room." It's not that I mind showing the place, it's that I can't stand the questions: How big is this closet? What is the rent, again? What year was this house built? Will these shrubs be trimmed, they attract squirrels. Will that smell go away before we move in? I like renting to dudes, they check to make sure the fridge is big enough to hold four cases of beer then they hand you the check. Chicks are the worst. In case you're wondering, the answers to the questions were: Big enough. It was in the ad. What does it matter. No. And probably not, I think it's coming from you.
The one bright spot of an otherwise aggravating day on Monday was this cute brunette who came through the house. I spoke to her roommate last Sunday who said she would like to come by and check out the house. On Monday she had a scheduling conflict so she sent the brunette instead. I'll call her Tenant.
Tenant: She's about 5'5", early-to-mid twenties, dark wavy hair and dark brown eyes. Tenant came by after work and had on a skirt and some sort of tank top-shirt. Her arms were ripped, she clearly spent some time in the gym, but she wasn't sinewy or overly muscular. Her body was great. The best thing, though, was that she just had a great personality. She was chipper, seemed smart, laughed a lot but without being ditsy.
I thought that Tenant was interested in the house and didn't want to screw it up by asking her out. It's been a few days now, and I think I have a group of girls who are taking it, so I may try to get hold of Tenant. I don't have her number, but I do have her roommate's. I would have to call the roommate and somehow ask her if tenant is single, and if so, if I could get her number. I've done some zany things to get a girls number before, but this certainly ranks high on the "This guy is a stalker" scale.
What the fuck do I have to lose, though? Dignity? Please, I sold out of that years ago.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Update
A reader recently pointed out that I did not explain what happened to a few girls so I thought a little recap was in order.
Beads:
The link above will take you to the post where I broke up with Beads. It's pretty self-explanitory. This was a clean break, we never spoke after this call. There were a lot of reasons for the breakup, but perhaps the biggest was that my sister promised to set me up with Stella if I dropped Beads. Even though things with Stella didn't work out I still think it was the right thing to do.
Blue:
If you click on the link above you can see how I fucked things up with Blue. Again, self-explanitory. I apologized to her, but I think it's safe to say that she won't be visiting anytime soon, which sucks because she is a very cool girl. I felt really badly for bashing her role model, even if he was a twit.
Model:
The situation with the Model is a little more complicated. She was going to come visit for a few days this week but her plans changed somewhat at the last minute. She was going to drive down to DC Sunday night then we were going to take the bike out for a few days into southern Virginia and do some camping. Model is moving out to California at the end of the month and she said that she had a lot to do before driving across the country and was afraid of leaving town for three of fours days on vacation. She wants to come through DC before turning west on her trip but I don't know if that will materialize.
Here's the thing with the Model, it's really easy to fall for her but I don't know if I ever would have been able to let my guard down. She's a free spirit and I doubt that she stays in one place or relationship for very long. I think it's best to think of her as a fling and nothing more. I have business in California on occassion, so maybe I'll pop in on her once in a while.
Tiny:
Tiny is a tough subject. One night she asked what my thoughts were on marriage and children and let's just say that we had a difference of opinion. I mulled over her questions and comments for a few nights and decided that I needed to cut things off with her. I enjoy hanging out with Tiny, but I didn't think it was right to stay with her because we had very different end-goals in life. I called Tiny one night to break up with her and, long story short, she said she was fine with a casual relationship. I don't know if she's dating other people, or if I'm just a FWB, or what, but there has been a lot less tension between us and things are good. There is no talk of marriage, or babies, or anything serious. We just hang out and there is no pressure. I doubt this is sustainable, but if she's happy with it I am as well.
That's all the news that's fit to print.
Beads:
The link above will take you to the post where I broke up with Beads. It's pretty self-explanitory. This was a clean break, we never spoke after this call. There were a lot of reasons for the breakup, but perhaps the biggest was that my sister promised to set me up with Stella if I dropped Beads. Even though things with Stella didn't work out I still think it was the right thing to do.
Blue:
If you click on the link above you can see how I fucked things up with Blue. Again, self-explanitory. I apologized to her, but I think it's safe to say that she won't be visiting anytime soon, which sucks because she is a very cool girl. I felt really badly for bashing her role model, even if he was a twit.
Model:
The situation with the Model is a little more complicated. She was going to come visit for a few days this week but her plans changed somewhat at the last minute. She was going to drive down to DC Sunday night then we were going to take the bike out for a few days into southern Virginia and do some camping. Model is moving out to California at the end of the month and she said that she had a lot to do before driving across the country and was afraid of leaving town for three of fours days on vacation. She wants to come through DC before turning west on her trip but I don't know if that will materialize.
Here's the thing with the Model, it's really easy to fall for her but I don't know if I ever would have been able to let my guard down. She's a free spirit and I doubt that she stays in one place or relationship for very long. I think it's best to think of her as a fling and nothing more. I have business in California on occassion, so maybe I'll pop in on her once in a while.
Tiny:
Tiny is a tough subject. One night she asked what my thoughts were on marriage and children and let's just say that we had a difference of opinion. I mulled over her questions and comments for a few nights and decided that I needed to cut things off with her. I enjoy hanging out with Tiny, but I didn't think it was right to stay with her because we had very different end-goals in life. I called Tiny one night to break up with her and, long story short, she said she was fine with a casual relationship. I don't know if she's dating other people, or if I'm just a FWB, or what, but there has been a lot less tension between us and things are good. There is no talk of marriage, or babies, or anything serious. We just hang out and there is no pressure. I doubt this is sustainable, but if she's happy with it I am as well.
That's all the news that's fit to print.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Annual Bike Ride
This weekend was my annual motorcyle ride with my buddies from PA. This year, due to a series of follies and uncooperative weather systems we logged a total of 35 miles.
The original plan was that my buddies, DEA, the Golden Jew, and Nine Fingers, would ride to DC Thursday night. Friday morning we would ride to Smith Mountain Lake, camp at the lake, then buzz up the Blue Ride Parkway and Skyline Drive towards Front Royal. We would camp there Saturday night then Sunday morning they would haul ass back to Philly and I would head back to DC. The best laid plans of mice and men...
Thursday morning DEA called and said that a case he was working on was coming to a head and he wouldn't be able to get out of work until late Friday night. The new plan was that Friday afernoon I would ride up to Philly then we would ride two hours up to Golden Jew's lake front cabin in central PA on Saturday and spend the night.
Friday at noon I packed a bag, strapped it to the back of the Harley and hit the road. It was hot out when I left, maybe 98 degrees, and humid as hell. Due to the heat I opted to take the shortest available route, all interstates, so that I was fresh for Saturday. I flew up the B-W Parkway to I-95 and settled into an 85mph groove, which is a comfortable cruising speed for that bike.
While I was in the left lane of I-95 approaching the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel I spotted what looked like a three inch square, six foot long section of cardboard sliding on the pavement towards me from the far right lane like a javeline. I had in earplugs to muffle the dull rumble of the engine and was singing some James Brown song loudly to myself. While singing I did a series of quick mental geometry and physics calculations and determined that object was on a perfect course to slide directly under my front tire. I took inventory of my surroundings: Jersey barrier to my left, pick up truck two car lengths behind me, gas tanker truck at my four o'clock two lanes to my right, and sedan slightly behind me in the lane directly to my right. Not too many places I could go. Afraid of slamming on the brakes and getting run down by the pickup I decided it was best to run over the cardboard. I kept my course and speed and braced for the bump. When the cardboard was fifty feet away I realized it was moving too fast to be cardboard, though, and my brain flipped through a mental Rolodex of possible materials it could be. I decided the cardboard was really a wood 2x4. I reassessed my possible actions and decided it was less dangerous to go over it than make some maveric manuever and risk dumping the bike. Nanoseconds later I heard a metallic "Clink-ching-ching-ching-clink-ching-clink" noise and by brain reassesed. "That's not wood, that's metal" I looked more closely and saw it was a three-inch round, six foot long, metal pipe. I said "Can't go over that" out loud to myself and slammed on the brakes.
In comically slow motion the pipe slid in front of my front tire, across my path, and slammed into the Jerser barrier to my left. The pipe hit the barrier a little ahead of me, bounced into the air and ricocheted off. At first I thought "Hmmm, where is that going to go?" A few more calculations and I said "That's going into my left ear...GOTTA GO, MAN!" and nailed the accelerator. I didn't look back, but the pipe probably careened about a foot behind me. I think I heard the truck to my rear hit the brakes but didn't look back to see the impact.
A minute later the adrenaline saturated my system and I nearly had a heart attack.
After the tunnel I relaxed and my heart rate went back to normal. I don't have many close calls like that, but when I do I take them in stride, they are just part of the "sport" of riding.
Traffic was heavy at this point and I slowed down to about 50mph. There was an older couple on a big Harley cruiser next to me for about 15 miles. They were a hard looking couple wearing only tank tops, jeans and skid lids (thin helmets with no protective qualities, worn only to skirt state helmet laws), a stark contrast to my leather jacket, jeans, boots, gloves, and full-face helmet. As we crossed a bridge I noticed the woman tap the guy's shoulder then point to the sky a few miles ahead. A thin ribbon of black clouds were forming to the Northeast of us and I said a silent prayer to no god in particular that the storm would hold off until I passed to the clear blue skies further North.
I wasn't so lucky. A few minutes later I felt the first sting of a fat rain drop hit my cheek through my open face shield. Then another, and another, until finally it was a flull blown deluge. I dropped my shield and raced ahead to make an overpass about a mile ahead, but when I got there I realized the shoulder was very narrow and it would be too dangerous to stop for shelter. I pressed on another 2 miles to the next exit and took refuge at a Pilot gas station under the pump canopy. When I stopped I was soaked from head to toe. Water had poured down my back, dripped down my legs filling my boots, and my leather jacket had sucked up a few gallons of water and easily weighed 25 pounds. I considered changing into my one spare pair of jeans but realized I had a long, wet day of riding ahead of me and it would be nice to have a dry pair of pants to change into whe I arrived at DEA's house. Plus, I wasn't wearing underwear and didn't want to strip naked in the truck stop parking lot. Nor did I want to change in the restrooms, which were sure to be a petri-dish of communucable diseases.
The next three hours on the highway I dried out and got resoaked four times. The bursts of rain were all short but torrential, and followed by intense and very hot sun. Each time I dried out I thought I was clear only to have another ominous cloud move in and open up above me. It was the most demoralizing ride of my life. I felt like I was on a conveyor belt in a car wash.
When I finally got to DEA's house I poured myself a huge Scotch on the rocks, took a warm shower, changed into my slightly soggy "dry" pair of jeans and plopped down onto his couch. DEA looked my me and said something to the affect of "I'd ask you how your ride was but I can see you're not ready to talk about it." We ate some dinner, had a couple of beers then hit the hay.
At 6am Saturday morning I woke to the sound of heavy rain pummeling the sky light of my room. I poked my fingers through the shades of the window next to the bed hoping to see signs that the rain was just a shower. However, the sky was black in all directions and I knew there would be no riding that day.
After a hearty breakfast DEA and I packed up a small arsenal of pistols and machine guns and headed to his range to blast holes in some paper. The rest of the afternoon was spent watching Chevy Chase flicks and drinking beer. We ate a quick dinner then half heartedly headed to a bar downtown so that we could say we went out at some point over the weekend.
DEA took me to this cool bar, but apperently it was "Douche Bag" night and anyone in a Tap Out t-shirt drank for free. We found a seat at a table and were planning where we would go next when some ass-clown at the table behind us, for no apparent reason, turned around and threw DEA into a rear choke hold. DEA's eyes went wide and I giggled in anticipation. DEA had a gun on his hip, an ankle rig around his boot, and a series of knives scattered elsehwere on his person. If he didn't crush this poor fools eye socket with a goverment-taught move I was certain the butt of a pistol would be depoyed to the bridge of his nose. Much to my disappointment DEA slowly turned into the guy with his left elbow and gave him a deliberate thump to the neck and said "What the fuck are you doing?" The kid, realizing he was about to be placed into a very uncomfortable position, let go and said, "Uh, sorry, I thought you just knocked my hat off my head." DEA, obviously surpressing every fast-twitch muscle reaction in his body, didn't say a word and sat back in his seat. I was now laughing uncontrollably and trying not to piss my pants. DEA said "When were you going to jump in on that?" but I was trying to catch my breath and couldn't muster an answer. We left the bar and went home before anymore nonsense could befall us.
Sunday morning it was finally nice enough to get out on the roads a little. DEA, Golden Jew and I took some twisty back roads to a place called The Classic outside Philly for breakfast. The ride was about 15 miles each way and constituted the bulk of our group riding this weekend. After breakfast I packed up my stuff and headed back to DC.
The original plan was that my buddies, DEA, the Golden Jew, and Nine Fingers, would ride to DC Thursday night. Friday morning we would ride to Smith Mountain Lake, camp at the lake, then buzz up the Blue Ride Parkway and Skyline Drive towards Front Royal. We would camp there Saturday night then Sunday morning they would haul ass back to Philly and I would head back to DC. The best laid plans of mice and men...
Thursday morning DEA called and said that a case he was working on was coming to a head and he wouldn't be able to get out of work until late Friday night. The new plan was that Friday afernoon I would ride up to Philly then we would ride two hours up to Golden Jew's lake front cabin in central PA on Saturday and spend the night.
Friday at noon I packed a bag, strapped it to the back of the Harley and hit the road. It was hot out when I left, maybe 98 degrees, and humid as hell. Due to the heat I opted to take the shortest available route, all interstates, so that I was fresh for Saturday. I flew up the B-W Parkway to I-95 and settled into an 85mph groove, which is a comfortable cruising speed for that bike.
While I was in the left lane of I-95 approaching the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel I spotted what looked like a three inch square, six foot long section of cardboard sliding on the pavement towards me from the far right lane like a javeline. I had in earplugs to muffle the dull rumble of the engine and was singing some James Brown song loudly to myself. While singing I did a series of quick mental geometry and physics calculations and determined that object was on a perfect course to slide directly under my front tire. I took inventory of my surroundings: Jersey barrier to my left, pick up truck two car lengths behind me, gas tanker truck at my four o'clock two lanes to my right, and sedan slightly behind me in the lane directly to my right. Not too many places I could go. Afraid of slamming on the brakes and getting run down by the pickup I decided it was best to run over the cardboard. I kept my course and speed and braced for the bump. When the cardboard was fifty feet away I realized it was moving too fast to be cardboard, though, and my brain flipped through a mental Rolodex of possible materials it could be. I decided the cardboard was really a wood 2x4. I reassessed my possible actions and decided it was less dangerous to go over it than make some maveric manuever and risk dumping the bike. Nanoseconds later I heard a metallic "Clink-ching-ching-ching-clink-ching-clink" noise and by brain reassesed. "That's not wood, that's metal" I looked more closely and saw it was a three-inch round, six foot long, metal pipe. I said "Can't go over that" out loud to myself and slammed on the brakes.
In comically slow motion the pipe slid in front of my front tire, across my path, and slammed into the Jerser barrier to my left. The pipe hit the barrier a little ahead of me, bounced into the air and ricocheted off. At first I thought "Hmmm, where is that going to go?" A few more calculations and I said "That's going into my left ear...GOTTA GO, MAN!" and nailed the accelerator. I didn't look back, but the pipe probably careened about a foot behind me. I think I heard the truck to my rear hit the brakes but didn't look back to see the impact.
A minute later the adrenaline saturated my system and I nearly had a heart attack.
After the tunnel I relaxed and my heart rate went back to normal. I don't have many close calls like that, but when I do I take them in stride, they are just part of the "sport" of riding.
Traffic was heavy at this point and I slowed down to about 50mph. There was an older couple on a big Harley cruiser next to me for about 15 miles. They were a hard looking couple wearing only tank tops, jeans and skid lids (thin helmets with no protective qualities, worn only to skirt state helmet laws), a stark contrast to my leather jacket, jeans, boots, gloves, and full-face helmet. As we crossed a bridge I noticed the woman tap the guy's shoulder then point to the sky a few miles ahead. A thin ribbon of black clouds were forming to the Northeast of us and I said a silent prayer to no god in particular that the storm would hold off until I passed to the clear blue skies further North.
I wasn't so lucky. A few minutes later I felt the first sting of a fat rain drop hit my cheek through my open face shield. Then another, and another, until finally it was a flull blown deluge. I dropped my shield and raced ahead to make an overpass about a mile ahead, but when I got there I realized the shoulder was very narrow and it would be too dangerous to stop for shelter. I pressed on another 2 miles to the next exit and took refuge at a Pilot gas station under the pump canopy. When I stopped I was soaked from head to toe. Water had poured down my back, dripped down my legs filling my boots, and my leather jacket had sucked up a few gallons of water and easily weighed 25 pounds. I considered changing into my one spare pair of jeans but realized I had a long, wet day of riding ahead of me and it would be nice to have a dry pair of pants to change into whe I arrived at DEA's house. Plus, I wasn't wearing underwear and didn't want to strip naked in the truck stop parking lot. Nor did I want to change in the restrooms, which were sure to be a petri-dish of communucable diseases.
The next three hours on the highway I dried out and got resoaked four times. The bursts of rain were all short but torrential, and followed by intense and very hot sun. Each time I dried out I thought I was clear only to have another ominous cloud move in and open up above me. It was the most demoralizing ride of my life. I felt like I was on a conveyor belt in a car wash.
When I finally got to DEA's house I poured myself a huge Scotch on the rocks, took a warm shower, changed into my slightly soggy "dry" pair of jeans and plopped down onto his couch. DEA looked my me and said something to the affect of "I'd ask you how your ride was but I can see you're not ready to talk about it." We ate some dinner, had a couple of beers then hit the hay.
At 6am Saturday morning I woke to the sound of heavy rain pummeling the sky light of my room. I poked my fingers through the shades of the window next to the bed hoping to see signs that the rain was just a shower. However, the sky was black in all directions and I knew there would be no riding that day.
After a hearty breakfast DEA and I packed up a small arsenal of pistols and machine guns and headed to his range to blast holes in some paper. The rest of the afternoon was spent watching Chevy Chase flicks and drinking beer. We ate a quick dinner then half heartedly headed to a bar downtown so that we could say we went out at some point over the weekend.
DEA took me to this cool bar, but apperently it was "Douche Bag" night and anyone in a Tap Out t-shirt drank for free. We found a seat at a table and were planning where we would go next when some ass-clown at the table behind us, for no apparent reason, turned around and threw DEA into a rear choke hold. DEA's eyes went wide and I giggled in anticipation. DEA had a gun on his hip, an ankle rig around his boot, and a series of knives scattered elsehwere on his person. If he didn't crush this poor fools eye socket with a goverment-taught move I was certain the butt of a pistol would be depoyed to the bridge of his nose. Much to my disappointment DEA slowly turned into the guy with his left elbow and gave him a deliberate thump to the neck and said "What the fuck are you doing?" The kid, realizing he was about to be placed into a very uncomfortable position, let go and said, "Uh, sorry, I thought you just knocked my hat off my head." DEA, obviously surpressing every fast-twitch muscle reaction in his body, didn't say a word and sat back in his seat. I was now laughing uncontrollably and trying not to piss my pants. DEA said "When were you going to jump in on that?" but I was trying to catch my breath and couldn't muster an answer. We left the bar and went home before anymore nonsense could befall us.
Sunday morning it was finally nice enough to get out on the roads a little. DEA, Golden Jew and I took some twisty back roads to a place called The Classic outside Philly for breakfast. The ride was about 15 miles each way and constituted the bulk of our group riding this weekend. After breakfast I packed up my stuff and headed back to DC.
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