• Woman, 85, Beats 'Devil' Out of Rabid Cat - I mean, seriously, the mental image of an old lady beating a cat against a telephone pole by its tale has had me in a persistent state of giggle all day today.
• There are oatmeal raisin cookies in our kitchen, presumably left over from a meeting.  Because oatmeal raisin cookies are my favoritestest of the cookie varieties, I have consumed roughly a baker's dozen.  I now feel sick.
• Huge job stuff going on right now - suffice it to say it's a real possibility that I might not have a job in two weeks.  Fun.  Anyone want to go to Belize?
• M'Dawg Haute Dogs: still not open.
• I think my favorite Super Bowl commercial was where the slap replaced the bump.  I was laughing pretty hard.  I think I was also finishing my second bucket of beer.  
• I saw a homeless man last night sleeping in a doorway - he looked really cold and I knew I had to do something.  So I peed on him.  Hey, that's 98 degrees of golden warmth.
• Just joshing kids.  For those who don't know of  it, the DC Hypothermia Hotline is 1-800-535-7252.

I've always thought it was a really stupid question when people asked me about my career goals.  What, I graduated from law school, passed the bar, and got a good job at K Street firm - what more do you want out of me?   The work that I'm doing right now is pretty much the same work that I'll be doing 30 years from now.  My field doesn't change all that much.  I might be at a firm or at a corporation, but either way it's essentially the same.  So I've never really had any "goals."

But today I was walking around the office and I realized what my career goal is: I want an office with a couch.  I work pretty long hours some days, and I can't tell you how many times I've just wanted to grab a quick 20 minute nap on a comfy couch.  I don't care how big the office is as long as I can fit a couch in it.  Sounds simple, I know, but in law firms, office luxuries like that are usually commensurate with experience or importance.  So, I guess that's what I'm striving for.  Some day.  Some day....

I am a self-professed nerd.  I watch Star Trek.  I grew up listening to Rush.  I've read every book that Tolkien wrote.  Though I'm not an active collector anymore, I do have a coin collection.  I can program in Java.  I own a soldering iron and relish the chance to use it.  Actually, as I write this I'm surprised I've ever gotten laid.  But definitely one my secret nerdy passions is doing my taxes.

Every year I count down the days until I get my W-2's, 1098, and 1099.  The 1098 for my mortgage interest usually comes first.  Then my W-2.  The 1099 for my savings account is always posted on-line, so I never have to wait for it.  Then, the first Saturday after I have everything collected I sit down, log into Turbotax on-line, import my W-2 from ADP, and plug away.  It usually takes me a half hour to get everything entered and checked.  Then I sit there bask in the glow of my refund. 

My refunds were never very substantial when I rented, but with mortgage interest and property tax to deduct, it's like winning the lottery.  I can't believe I'm at the point in my life where I get excited about my mortgage interest deduction.  Something went horribly wrong and I accidentally grew up.  It wasn't supposed to happen this way - I thought I would spend a few years partying, get a girl pregnant, do some jail time, and then realize the error of my ways.  I wasn't supposed to be sitting here thinking about refinancing at the age 0f 29.  Gah.

Anyway, if you're wondering what I'm going to do with my refund, don't get too excited.  It's all going to pay off my credit cards.  I wouldn't expect to have credit card debt, but when you live my lavish lifestyle of late parking tickets, wedding airfare and gifts, and new tires, it starts to build up.

People who like Kaiser Chiefs, Ted Leo, TV on the Radio, or the Tragically Hip (?!?) should probably go here and scroll down.

Seeing that the Goo Goo Dolls have sold out two nights at 930, I'm going to go weep for humanity now.

Saturday was the straw that broke the camel's back for me - I'm sick and tired of these stupid futile protests.  On the one hand, you've got a bunch of people "speaking their minds" in sound bytes and achieving about as much as a Boy Scout Jamboree.  On the other hand, the city's resources are stretched, money is spent to pay police overtime, and invariably The Bar will end up packed to the brim with drunken midwesterners who act like "stop the war" really means "toga party."  Of course we all remember the inauguration two years ago, when Adams Morgan was filled with that delightful combo of tuxedoed republicans, hippies, and anarchist tweens.  That was great, really.  Well Saturday night was even better.  After throwing a guy out for trying to steal a rug, watching a guy raise his fist and nearly hit his girlfriend before pinballing it through the bar to the bathroom, and people generally treating the staff like they were piles of dog shit, I was convinced the terrorists had created a weapon of mass douchery and exploded it within our fair city. 

Look, I'm against the war as much as the next sane person, and I wholeheartedly believe in the right to free speech and free association...  But come on, there are plenty of other cities in this country.  I hear Miami has great protesting weather.  And the Space Needle is way cooler than the Washington Monument - why not take your next protest to Seattle?  And who could forget the protest capital of the world, Sheboygan, Wisconsin.  They also have lots of cheese.  So please, protesters, the next time you want the Congress to pass one of those really cool, really effective non-binding resolutions, consider taking it somewhere else.

Addendum:

Vomit.

• Friday was one of those nights where you stay out all night drinking with your friends and by the time you sober up the next afternoon you're in Greensboro, NC.  Hey, these things happen.  Have some bbq and head home.
• Saturday was one of those nights where you get home from an unplanned road trip with barely 2 hours of sleep, stay out drinking with your friends, and end up on the sidewalk of Columbia at 7am in the rain making out with a girl that, 12 hours ago, was probably the last person you thought you'd be making out with.
• Sunday was one of those days where you decide you need to drink less and sleep more.
  

Sorry for the lack of posting.  I'm a bad, naughty blogger.  But I'm also a blogger who is swamped at work and has zero social life right now, so there's that.

In other news, I'm growing suspicious of the claims that M'Dawg Haute Dogs is opening any time soon.  The counter right now is a bunch of exposed 2x4's.  Though this craig's list ad claims they're opening this month, from the looks of things inside, I doubt that.  We'll see.

As I stood outside last night enjoying a cigarette, I watched as two girls in sleeveless tops and no jacket stumble down the sidewalk in front of Left Bank.  They stopped as one peered into the window of Left Bank and I noticed that, but for each other, these two girls would be on the ground.  Literally, they were holding onto each other remain standing.  This was apparent when one of the girls tried to walk away, leaving the other in what I like to call the drunken waltz.  That's when, in an effort to maintain balance, you step back and over to keep from falling down, and then lunge forward, arms flailing.  This can go on for several iterations before a knee finally gives out and you hit the ground.  Eventually, they latched onto each other again and continued stumbling down the street, with one of them cursing and whining "it's soooooo cold!" 

A.  It's fucking January.  I was in a down coat and I was still cold.  Put. on. a. fucking. jacket.  It's not just these girls, either.  Now that I'm standing outside to smoke, I see girls walking up and down the street dressed like it's July.  Seriously, I can't even comprehend what these people are thinking when they leave the house. 

B. Who gets falling down drunk on a thursday night?  Who gets falling down drunk period?  I can't remember the last time that I was so drunk that I couldn't walk in a straight line, and I drink a lot.  Nevermind the fact that it was 1am in Adams Morgan and probably not the safest place for two girls losing the fight against gravity.

The single greatest benefit of living alone is the freedom to belt out Monty Python songs in the shower without fear of ridicule or embarrassment.

"Lovely spam, wonderful spam..."

I need a break, so here's my latest thought vomit.

I was thinking the other day about how it's hot to see girls wear your clothes.  For example, I have this ratty old corduroy jacket that I wear all the time.  I mean, all the time.  I've worn it for years - I'm not even sure how old it is.  It's probably not the most attractive thing in the world on its own (or on me), but if a girl wears it, it's totally hot.  There's just something about a girl wearing something that's unmistakably mine.  So I was thinking what else of mine would look hot on a girl:

dress shirt - this one is obvious.  How many morning after scenes in movies involve the hot girl traipsing around wearing only the dude's dress shirt.

ball cap - definitely, although I'd be a little unnerved if it actually fit her head, as I think mine may be rather large.

boxers - not so much.  I'm guessing her underwear will be much hotter than mine.

college or fraternity shirt - definitely hot, but you better give that back.  I've spent a decade breaking those babies in.

shoes - uh, no.

jeans - definitely no.

tie - only if I've used it to tie her up.  I mean that in a hot sex kind of way, not in the crazy psychopath kind of way.

rain coat - really depends on what's on underneath.  Hopefully nothing.

I guess if you want to psychoanalyze it, you might say that this stuff is attractive because it's mine and I want her to be like me.  Which would make me a raving narcissist and completely in love with myself.  Hmmm.  Well, as Nada Surf sings, to find someone you love, you have to be someone you love.

Anyway, back to work.

Good news folks - Monopoli will be playing at DC9 March 8th, 15th, 22nd, and 29th.  Those are all thursdays, if you're wondering.  Now you have no excuse to miss the band that I consider to be the most talented band in DC. 

My fellow Americans,

First, just to be clear, I want to categorically deny the allegations about me and the two Colombian prostitutes, donkey, gallon of VCR cleaner, rectal thermometer, burned down warehouse, and the severed head of John Basedow.  Most of that is completely false.  Also, I want to publicly apologize for going to that nursing home and replacing all of the blood pressure medication with peyote.  I'm sorry.  And I can understand why sacrificing a live bald eagle to my pagan gods may be considered unamerican, if not unclean.  Especially in the copy room.  My bad.  Oh, and I was the guy that farted in the elevator.  It was me.  Speaking of rectal wind, I'm the guy responsible for Fergie's music career.  In light of this, and out of a deep respect for the title, I've decided to forfeit my title as Time Magazine's person of the the year.  I'm truly sorry if I let you down.

• I've had several false starts on posts today, so you're just getting bullet point gumbo.
• After much apprehension and some discussion with a friend, I'm seriously considering delaying my move by another year.  I do dearly love this city, and leaving for good will definitely be hard.  Although there is a prospect on the horizon that I couldn't pass up if I got it, so who knows.  A life in limbo isn't much of a life.
• Oya is doing restaurant month.
• Rube of Monopoli and Damien Taylor of Sounds of Kaleidoscope are playing at the Cat tomorrow.  That will be a good show.  Note to self: pick up some Nicorette. 
• This is absolutely ridiculous.  Somebody better get fired.  $1.5 million down the drain.

If I had one piece of advice to give to a new blogger or someone thinking about starting a blog, it would be this: DO NOT USE BLOGGER.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Blogger is by far the worst blog host, ever.  It was tortuous just trying to read some ya'll's blogs today.  I was going to grant a few of you the gift of my acerbic witticisms, but Blogger kept eating my comments and then shutting down for more maintenance.  Those servers need more maintenance than a 72 Pinto.  Hey, fellas, maybe you want to upgrade the old Tandy.  Or sometimes Blogger would simply tell me that your blog doesn't exist anymore.  Like it vanished into the blogosphere.  I hope Blogger contracts an electronic STD and dies in a gutter smacked out on electronic heroin.

Ahem.