For about nine years straight, my time was measured in semesters. Life was so much easier and simpler then. Upon attempting to recall an event in my life between the years 1999 and 2008 all I needed to do was turn to my mind's eye and place myself in either spring semester, fall semester, or in either fall/summer between/after freshman/sophomore/junior/senior/last year of college/highschool. For example, "remember the one time you studied abroad?" Yes, spring semester of junior year of college. "Remember when we used to sneak into the outdoor pool in the middle of the night and jump off the high dive?" Yes, spring of/summer after sophomore year of college. "Remember when Tennessee had a respectable football program?" No. That one doesn't fit into my semesterly mental time catalog.
Now time is so fluid in the "real job/post education" world that one cannot help but feel days/months/years are slipping by. Slow down there, time. You know I am not good at making decisions, so the faster you go by the greater the repercussions. At least slip me an epiphany or something once in a while.
I've been writing this weblog for over six months now. If I had not been writing this blog for over six months now I would not be able to tell you what I have been doing for the last six months ("Jeff, what have you been doing since I last saw you before the second weekend in February in the year 2011?" "Oh, friend, I am so glad you asked. I have been keeping just that type of information at this website: jeffleavesthehouse.blogspot.com. Check it out. Unless my friendship with you depends on me being an interesting, social, accomplished human being. Then, either don't look at the website, or know that a friend of mine that you don't know writes it regardless if he uses my picture in the profile."). Time, will you please slow down? The seasons here in DC are so abrupt it is difficult recall when you left one and entered the next. Por ejemplo, average temperature in July in DC: 700 degrees; August: 83. That type of abrupt change is not healthy. Maybe that is why we had a fucking earthquake in Virginia yesterday. At least with life on the semester schedule we had finals week to let us know that times were a'changin.
Disclaimer: this was a pretty uneventful weekend so the previous three paragraphs are direct products of feeling the need to write more than twenty words here. But don't fret, dear reader, I will be traveling to distant cities the next three weekends so, hopefully, there will be plenty to write about in this here blog about Jeff leaving the house.
OK, I think I have digressed enough to call this post a success. Do you agree? Doesn't matter actually.
Speaking of tourist activities in DC, let's continue that conversation with the topic of Jumbo Slice from Adams Morgan. Jumbo Slice is exactly as it sounds: it is a jumbo slice [of pizza]. Most people--myself included--will tell you you can't visit this staple of a DC tourist attraction (it was on TV) while sober. So this one is not child friendly. After a relaxing night of moderate binge drinking on Friday, I decided I must leave the house and go to this tourist attraction.
Have you ever been to Adams Morgan on any random weekend night? Have you been to Mardi Gras? Well the former is oddly similar to the latter, minus the beads but similar in having reputations for being blues music-heavy locales. I've been to both. After arriving in Adams Morgan Friday around midnight I felt as if I were missing out on some great festival given the number of reveling young people and equal number of cops. You know I don't like feeling like I am missing out so, while sitting on the curb eating my toddler-sized piece of cheese pizza, it was as if I had wasted my entire night hanging out in my house while this grand celebration was going on just a mile away. Then I realized, as I have every time I have gone out in Adams Morgan since fall semester of senior year of college, that it really is just a hullabaloo that is not really an enviable place to be on any weekend unless, at the age of 26, it is your desire to find a bar where you will be by far the oldest person in the house.
But the Jumbo Slice? Even though I was in one of those inebriated states where all I wanted to do was run home, I know that pizza could be enjoyed sober. Boom. Now it's a family establishment for kids of all ages. No its not. Parents, do your job. Keep your kids out of Adams Morgan during Jumbo Slice's operating hours.
What did I do Saturday, you ask? So I am going to be applying to law schools soon. One of the parts of the application is the personal statement where you have to write things about yourself that will convince others you are an upstanding, responsible, accomplished, decent person capable of big things that is deserving of paying them to teach you about law and such. Or, as I see it, the exact opposite of this weblog. When most of the things you write about are entirely self-deprecating in nature, it is hard to switch gears. Do you think I could convince an admissions officer that I am deserving of going to their school by saying things like "I am uber convicted about a lot, including the mundane and unimportant, but borderline completely mediocre on all things related to ability. Oh but people do say I have a peculiar sense of humor. Please let me in."?
So I didn't get too far on my personal statement Saturday when I sat down to work on it.
Speaking of being a mature, responsible adult, a friend had wanted to visit a few bars that we had not been to before near U St. entitling the adventure a 'hipster bar crawl'.
Let's talk about misnomers. There is (was?) a bar in Knoxville called a yacht club that was actually an arcade bar and was very much a hipster bar. The American Ice Company (not actually an ice company) and Dickson Wine Bar are not hipster bars. In my opinion, PBR must be sold and it must cost under $3.50 for it to be considered a hipster bar. Six dollars for a beer (DC Brau) that is brewed less than five miles away pretty much disqualifies you as a hipster bar.
So after a couple drinks at the above bars it's time to dance. Well, for me, it was time for a hot dog. So while the others move on to a dancing bar, I stop for a hot dog for obvious reasons (satiating hunger). When I finally get to the dancing bar the line is like 30 minutes long. For me this is the epitome of a terrible situation: waiting in line to go stand awkwardly along a dance floor drinking an overpriced macro beer. Somehow my friends get in quick while I was eating the hot dog and convince the bouncer to let me in, but not until after a little deliberation by the bouncers and blatant apathy (oxymoron?) on my part. One of my friends suggests I should give some money to the one bouncer that swung the decision in my 'favor'. There is no fucking way I am bribing someone to let me into the demise of my good mood, and I let the bouncer know this much (see, law school people, I told you I am very convicted).
So I didn't get into that bar. And after a shot of tequila at the bar next door that was about it for being out of the house on the weekend.
But there will be so much leaving of the house in the upcoming weekends, if you are still reading.
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