The One With All The Candy

Maybe there are some people in the world who practice moderation when it comes to chocolate.  Maybe those people should die in a fire, because I am not one of them.  I have walked into Coldstone Creamery and ordered a large chocolate cake batter ice cream filled with triple Oreos, chocolate chips, and hot fudge, and that’s still not enough chocolate for me.

To me, chocolate is comfort.  It’s happiness and warmth and sunny days.  Chocolate is the best part of dinner, the reason to wake up from a nap, the way to relax after an amazing round of bedroom gymnastics.  It can be cold or hot, solid or fluid, large or small, and it doesn’t matter.

I don’t think it’s possible to be angry while eating chocolate.  Just taking a bite out of it will make you smile and make your heart chuckle.  If we just airlifted crates of Hershey bars into war zones, the wars would be over in a matter of minutes as everyone just remembered what life is really about . . . porn.  I mean, chocolate.

This post is part of the FRIENDS photo-a-day challenge. Join me on it – I’ll be supplementing my photos with prose as well.

Our wedding invitations, sent out in early 2001, were very formal, with the exception of a website address at the very bottom.  It was a concession that I insisted on, even though wedding websites were not yet the norm.

I wrote all the HTML by hand in Notepad and then uploaded it to my server.  It had links to online registries, photos of the engagement, frequently asked questions that demonstrated my particularly absurd sense of humor, and descriptions for each of us.

Most of Amy’s family had not met me, and most of my family had never met her.  We decided to have brief introductions that could act as mini-biographies, except, being geeks of the highest caliber, we couldn’t leave it at that.  Instead, we each opted to write the other’s biography in the voice of our favorite authors.  I wrote Amy’s description as if it were out of a Sherlock Holmes story, and she wrote mine as if it came from the mind of Anne Rice.  And now I’m sharing them here, written back in the optimistic year of 2001 . . . well, you know, before that whole terrorist attack thing happened the month before we got married:

The Amy Conundrum, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she encompasses the quintessential factors known to man, or in such a case, to woman: motivation, discipline, beauty and grace. And thus, when I look at the three massive volumes which contain our work for the past several years, I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves and at the same time conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. Out of all of these cases, on the whole I am of the opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as that which I have titled the Amy Conundrum.

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As the hansom rolled to a stop, I nudged Holmes awake, as he had been sleeping very soundly. “Eh?” he asked, “Ah, we have arrived home. Quickly, Watson, to a warm fire and an even warmer brandy!” We absconded from the hansom and as it rolled away, I realized that this was not, in fact, 22B Baker Street. In fact, peering through the pouring rain, I could not discern our location at all, and I was a fellow well acquainted with the dark corners and alleyways of dear old London.

“Holmes, we . . ” I began, but Holmes cut me off with a motion as he bounded up the steps of the closest apartment to us. He knocked on the door, waited for a moment, then with a flourish, opened the door wide and entered. I quickly followed, glad to have a respite, however brief, from the downpour.

There was no resident around and no servant to announce us. “Whoever do you think lives here?” I pondered aloud “And, speaking of here, where are we?”

Holmes looked at me and took a deep breath. Upon his exhalation, I was well aware that I was once again to be a witness to one of the most spectacular occurrences in the world – the infallible deductive ability of Sherlock Holmes. “This apartment is inhabited by a young lady in her mid 20s who wears glasses, is blonde, and stands at about 5’10″, originally from Nashville, Tennessee, then spending time in Denver, Colorado, where she received a Bachelor of Science degree and a Master’s degree in Accounting from University of Denver. She then moved to Saint Louis, Missouri, where she is pursuing a juris doctorate from Washington University School of Law. She is a CPA, and she plans to move to Los Angeles, California, in the spring, to work for the international firm of Deloitte and Touche, LLP. She owns three ferrets. Two are sables and one is an albino. And this apartment is not in London, but in Saint Louis, where she currently resides. Oh, and her name is Amy Youngblood.”

“My God, man,” I exclaimed, “However did you know that?”

With a pitying glance, Holmes said, “My dear Watson, if you could only substitute a greater attention to detail for your amazement and persistence, you would discover that it merely an obvious recitation of the clues around us. For example, from this one picture on the wall, we can determine several facts. First, the height that the picture is hanged against the wall tells us an approximation of her height. Second, there is a long blonde hair stuck in the corner of the frame, which, combined with the faint scent of perfume that is evident in the air, tells us this is a blonde woman. Finally, the photo itself, with a picture of a tall, blonde woman in her 20s wearing glasses receiving two diplomas from a University of Denver graduation fills in some of the blanks.”

“Well, yes, I see that now,” I said, “but how did you know what her studies were in and that she is a Certified Public Accountant?”

“Ah, well that was obvious as one glances at the bookcase against the wall. The number of accounting and tax related textbooks tells us that she would have received at least an initial degree in Accounting, and the CPA study book tells us that she has a Master’s, since it is a requirement to obtain the CPA.”

“But, Holmes,” I protested, “Maybe she studied for the CPA but gave up and never received either a Master’s or her CPA.”

Holmes countered, “I would agree if I were blind. However, a man gifted with sight can tell that this apartment does not belong to a quitter. Its cleanliness and arrangement tells a story of a determined and motivated woman. She would not have given up; therefore, she has a Master’s and a CPA.”

Begrudgingly, I said “Well, I can see these deductions. How did you know that she was born in Nashville, Tennessee and she is currently in Saint Louis attending law school?”

“As you know, Watson,” Holmes said bemusedly, “I can name thirty-four thousand decorating styles that all relate to certain areas of the world. The style of decorating in this apartment is very diverse, but its underlying style is an older style from the Southeast United States, and with my expertise, it is a small feat to pinpoint that is from Nashville, Tennessee. There are also styles from Oklahoma and Denver, Colorado, along with a slight Chinese influence.” He sat with a flourish, removed his sodden hat, and lit his pipe. After a few puffs, he turned and continued. “There is a letter on the table to your right. It is from the American Bar Association and is addressed to our resident here, Amy Youngblood, in Saint Louis, Missouri. Obviously, she is a law student, and since she went to the best college for accounting, it is apparent that she would not waste her time with any of the unmentionably poor law schools in this area, other than the exceptional Washington University.” He arched an eyebrow in my direction and said, “And before you protest further, Watson, I knew that she had three ferrets due to the small hairs evident on the carpet. It is obvious that the brown hairs are different lengths and thicknesses and therefore belong to two different animals. Similarly, the white hair belongs to yet a third animal. From my extensive knowledge of animal hairs and their origins, I knew they were ferrets, from the polecat family.”

“And your knowledge of her future plans?” I inquired.

“It was a simple step to infer that if she would choose the best law school in the vicinity, she would similarly join up with the superior accounting firm and move to the highest point of activity for achievement.”

“Once again, Holmes, you have awed me; however, upon your explanation, it seems as plain as the glasses on my face.” I stated. “Do you know how it is that we managed to come to Saint Louis, Missouri in the United States in the 21st century when our original location was in London a hundred years earlier?”

“Of course,” said Holmes with a smirk, “It is elementary, my dear . . . “

The Morbidity of Curiosity about Adam, by Anne Rice

I am the Avitable. Do you know me? I am that comic face in the crowd that makes others laugh, that cosmic smirk that draws attention to the idiosyncrasies, idiocy, absurdity of school, law, and life. I am that dashing, well-groomed six foot tall man with the brown hair, the beard, the penetrating eyes. Others are drawn to me, yet they know not why. Perhaps it is because I speak Japanese or clothe myself as a law student so they can never discover the real me.

But, of course, there is no real me. There is no Adam Heath Avitable from Ormond Beach, Florida. There is no son of Robyn and Jimmy Avitable, no graduate of Washington and Lee University in Virginia, no Washington University law student. No, there are none of these things – only me, a shadow of humans, a webmaster. My identity, if one could call it that, must, of necessity, remain elusive. Who, they may ask, dared to tell jokes in class and respond to professors’ inquiries with sharp wit and a twinkle in his eye? Who, many contemplate, would tempt the fickle hand of fate by completing exams in half the allotted time, leaving the rest of the students to their exercise in futility? Who, everyone demands to know. Alas, I can only answer with a smile.

For inscrutability is life itself, allowing me to skillfully weave my web, enticing those who dare to enter, auction, at their own peril. I may freely prowl the internet in search of my prey, some sad and loathsome creature unable to master the power of html, some hungry beast yearning for those things which only I can give, in exchange for their soul, or ten dollars. Ah, this is my domain, and I can truly be the lurking embodiment of that which envelops the lonely core of my existence, as the French say, the entre preneur.

Whatever may have come after that doesn’t matter. At that point, we were young, happy, and, most importantly, completely unashamed of our absolute nerdiness.

The first sign that I might be addicted to technology was when I assessed everything that I was packing for my three-night trip to San Francisco.  Why did I think that I would need a laptop, corded mouse, two separate portable iPhone battery packs, digital camera, Kindle, Kindle Fire, Android, bluetooth, Looxcie bluetooth camcorder, plus the iPhone used to take the photo, all in four days? The second sign that I was addicted is that I took that photo, posted it on Instagram, tweeted it, sent it to Facebook, and now I’m blogging about it.

I checked into the Delta counter at ass-crack o’clock on Friday morning.  My suitcase, for only four days, was packed with way too many clothes, since I tend to pack back-ups and emergency clothes for any number of imagined scenarios. (What if I tear six shirts in a row in a Hulk-like rage? I’ll have four more shirts to wear!)  Pro tip, too – when you fly First Class, your suitcase can weigh up to 75 pounds without penalty, which is a good thing, since mine was almost 60. 

My flight was uneventful and relatively luxurious.  There’s something about free drinks, well-prepared hot meals, hot towels, and friendly flight attendants that makes flying much easier.  My row-mate was on his way to Hawaii for three months to work, and we talked for much of the flight about video games and computers.  I found out, though, that it doesn’t matter what class you fly, the bathrooms are still tiny.  Here I am, sing with me, fat . . . guy . . . in a . . . . little . . . airplane bathroom:

I landed in Oakland, which was an endearingly small airport.  My suitcase was the first one off the conveyor-belt-luggage-delivery-thingie, which is in fact the official name of it, and once again, I was fucked by TSA.  This is the second time that they have removed my TSA-approved lock, stolen the lock, and gone through my suitcase without putting any notification in my suitcase whatsoever.  The last time, they stole all of my 5-hour energy shots that I had packed. This time, I think they only took one. I would never blow up a plane, but I’d like to give every TSA agent a swirly.  That’s the type of terrorism I can get behind.

I hopped into a cab, off to San Francisco.  I soon realized, though, that something else was missing:

Rice-a-Roni-less, I arrived at the Four Seasons San Francisco without incident and was blessed to experience the type of customer service and treatment that one expects from a ridiculously overpriced hotel.  My room was stocked with $10 bottles of water, $8 candy bars, $24.99 on-demand 90-minute long pornography, and a small old manservant named Woodhouse that I was allowed to verbally abuse and torture at my whim.  I’m kidding, of course, but after finally watching Archer on my flight over, I had fantasies of that for days. I did, however, have a fantastic view of the city:

On Saturday, after staying in bed as long as humanly possible, I got up and did what any person would do if he or she was staying in a new city for a limited period of time:

What better way to experience a city than to sit in the dark for two hours watching Liam Neeson and an embeardened Dermot Mulroney run away from Alaskan wolves?  If there is, I’d like to hear it.  After a quick snack at one of Tom Colicchio’s restaurants, Wichcraft, we headed to Max’s Opera Cafe in Palo Alto for the San Franvitable blogger meetup!

I drank manly drinks that included lots of fruit juices and Malibu rum while talking and hanging out with some of the most frumious and frabjous people that I know.  There was an old friend from high school, Shane Karshan, the beautiful, unicorn-adorned, luscious bottomed Julia, savvy and sarcastic twinkle-eyed Maura, fun-loving oenophile Dre, invisible ninja and ass-kicker Sarah (who managed to avoid being photographed, but I seamlessly Photoshopped her into one of the photos.  You’ll never even be able to tell.), and, of course, the sexy, sharp-witted queen of bluntness Jenny Grace (accompanied by her adorable son).

Maura and Dre

Jenny Grace

Julia and Shane and Sarah

The food was very good but the service was terrible, and for maybe the first time in my life, I didn’t add a gratuity to the mandated 18% that was added on for our table of 10.  I usually tip 30-40%, even with mediocre service, so that’s a sign of exactly how shitty our two servers were.  Even with the service, it was really nice to get together with bloggers in a closer-knit setting that isn’t as crowded as BlogHer but not quite as intimate as an orgy.

After dinner, my friend Jess and I were invited by Dre and her boyfriend to go out to a bar. Since Dre knows me, she made sure that it would be a place that I’d be comfortable.  I don’t really like huge crowds, I like to be somewhere that I can have a conversation, and I abhor douchebaggery.

That last text should have been my first indication that Dre is a dirty, dirty, dirty liar.  There’s a line?  That I’d have to skip ahead of in order to gain egress?  Ugh, ugh, triple ugh.

We pulled up to the Madrone Art Bar, which touts itself as “a full-on art experience”.  Translated into plain English, that means “douche-fest extraordinaire”.  The line was 30-40 people long, but we got pulled into the back entrance where we paid the bouncer double the cover charge to skip the line and . . . do what, exactly?  Stand elbow to ass with 200 drunk people with absolutely no personal space or ability to move or even breathe while looking at non-art art on the walls? Fuuuun.

Jess and Dre at the obnoxious, superficial, crowded Madrone Art Bar

Needless to say, the night ended soon after, though we made a pit stop at a wine bar and had some wine, which is about as unpalatable to my tastes as vegetables are. By the time it was 4 AM EST, I was exhausted and fell asleep almost as soon as I hit the bed.

The next day, after being as lazy as possible and trying to see how many things can be done from the bed without getting up, a road trip was in the cards.  I don’t have much interest in touristy adventures, but there was something about walking amongst the redwoods that sounded appealing.  So, off to Muir Woods we went!

The weather was absolutely stunning, crisp and clear without being too cold, and I didn’t even mind the fact that I was exercising by walking through the park.  I think one of the main reasons that I didn’t mind was that I decided to channel the spirit of an amateur photographer who thinks he’s hot shit even though he’s just as cliched, trite and hackneyed as every other weekend photographer out there.  Here’s the evidence:

Plus, of course, the obligatory, raised camera one-handed self-portrait:

Driving back into the city, I realized that it was late afternoon on Sunday, and the reason that there was so little traffic probably had something to do with some stupid football game on TV:

The game was unavoidable, though – even after finding a little Cuban restaurant, Cha Cha Cha’s, the televisions were blaring with the play-by-plays of felons chasing each other around on a field over a ball and sheep living vicariously through the exploits of these overpaid morons.  We focused on the sangria and tapas instead.

The next morning, after checking out of the hotel, I was given the chance to experience something that I had never yet experienced:  a zombie.  Yes, the undead.  I mean, that’s all I can assume that this cab driver was, because the only alternative was that he stole his clothes from a dead hobo who shit his pants and was eating limburger cheese while farting from his mouth.

He didn’t ask for brains, though, so maybe he was only freshly undead.  Or French.  I threw dollar bills at him and rolled out of the cab before he could even come to a complete stop at the Oakland airport.

I boarded my flight at 1:00 PM PST, looking fresh and happy and smiley, but by the time I landed at almost midnight EST, even with interesting conversation with my row-mate who is a foodie and a restaurant developer, even with more Archer (godDAMN I love that show!), and even with every First Class amenity available, I was ready to get home.

And now I’m home, and everything is the way I left it, which is frustrating, because I really hoped that magical fairies would sneak into the house and do all the dishes and go grocery shopping and do my laundry and bake cookies while I was gone.  And then I hoped that they would do all that stuff while I sat here and wrote an entire treatise on my trip instead of doing any chores, but . . . . well, fuck.  It hasn’t happened yet.  I CAN WAIT, MAGICAL FAIRIES!

(Oh, and finally, here’s my photo for the FRIENDS photo-a-day challenge, although without any of the text that I’ve been writing for each post, because, seriously?  I just wrote a fucking book here.):

The One With Joey's Bag

February 3: The One With The Flashback

My great-grandfather was always old.  Even when I would ride my bike to his condo, and he would drive us to the mall so I could play at the arcade, he was wrinkled and gray.  Born in the beginning of the 20th century, he was surprisingly nonplussed about the technological revolution that he’d witnessed throughout his life.  He had a VCR and loved to watch “those darkies” boxing over and over again. I cried when my mother called to tell me that he died, a year shy of making it into the 21st century.  Had he survived, I can picture his gnarled finger swiping an iPad or buying more “darkie boxing” videos from Amazon.com

February 4: The One With The Tiny T-Shirt

Law school was an interesting experience for me and one that I would recommend to the right types of people. It’s no exaggeration to say that while a student, you learn to think in a way different from most people. Your world becomes all about semantics and wordplay, about perspective and viewpoints and realizing that nothing is black and white. And once you’ve had your eyes opened to that worldview, it’s almost impossible to go back.

February 5: The One With The Football

The only trophy I ever got for football was “Participant”, which is only slightly better than the “Best Sportsmanship” trophy I got for baseball.  I played flag football for our local league before starting high school.  I was big and strong but had the athletic skill of a double amputee.  I played center and with the exception of receiving the occasional button-hook pass, rarely moved down field.  All of the players’ shirts were smalls and mediums, for some reason, so the coach gave me a “Coach” shirt to wear instead.  Every player from every team just called me Coach and deferred to me, like I was actually someone they should listen to.  Maybe that’s when I knew that I liked to be in charge.

February 6: The One With The Triplets

Anyone who sees my bedroom and the myriad Batman statues (THEY’RE NOT CALLED ACTION FIGURES, DAMMIT) will assume that Batman is my favorite hero.  He’s in the top five, but the truth is that Superman will always be my favorite.  He’s the hero who’s always there to save the day.  He rescues everyone, he’s invulnerable, and he doesn’t show any weakness.  He’s above everyone else, but he’d never remind anyone that that’s the case.  To me, there is no better example of what a superhero is.  Also, this may explain the massive hero complex that I have.

February 7: The One With Chandler In A Box

Marisa Frost and I were best friends in college.  We loved Seinfeld, Friends, ER, The Simpsons, and everything else. Leaving her after graduation was a difficult task.  The Christmas following, as I was acclimating to the law school environment, I received this box in the mail.  She made two sock puppets – Adam, with real mooning action, and Marisa, with real glam hair.  I’ve kept that box and those puppets just like I received them and they’ve moved with me from Saint Louis to Los Angeles to Orlando, always existing as a reminder of why my friends are the most important people in my life.

This post is part of the FRIENDS photo-a-day challenge. Join me on it – I’ll be supplementing my photos with prose as well.

I’ve never seen the need for too many pairs of shoes.  All I have is one pair of dress shoes, one pair of sneakers, one pair of high-tops (are they still called that?), and one pair of sandals.  I walk around barefoot as much as possible and only don footwear when absolutely necessary. Now that I think about it, I walk around naked as much as possible and only don clothing when absolutely necessary.

I have terrible toenails, so I prefer to get them painted.  I do take care of my feet with regular pedicures and daily scrubbing and lotion, but my soles are leathery and tough.  The morning after a particularly raucous party during which glass was broken, I was walking through my house when I realized that I had been leaving little drops of blood in my path.  A quick look confirmed that at some point I had indeed stepped on a large piece of broken glass, which was still embedded in my foot, but I never felt a thing. Apparently, my sole is invulnerable to pain.

Wouldn’t it be great if my real soul was too?

This post is part of the FRIENDS photo-a-day challenge. Join me on it – I’ll be supplementing my photos with prose as well.

My dad, reading the paper, talking to me about the funny pages, holding his cup up to his lips, perpetually trying to sip while I asked him questions.   My principal, sneaking behind us in line, pouncing on those who were loud or unruly, with his angry yellow-spotted eyes and stale coffee breath.  Bringing Amy a venti orange mocha every morning before I picked her up for school, spilling on my lap as I tried to drive a manual without cup holders.  It’s always been surprising to me that as many memories as the scent of coffee evokes, I can’t stand the taste of it, and have to find other things to pour into my mug.

This post is part of the FRIENDS photo-a-day challenge. Join me on it – I’ll be supplementing my photos with prose as well.

(psst – here’s the original)

Today is the 29th birthday of a very special friend of mine, Casey.  She has become one of my closest friends against all odds.  I’m rude, crude, and usually nude, and she’s funny, sweet, and feisty.  I’m a lapsed Catholic, she’s a serious Mormon.  I revel in violence and profanity, she won’t watch R-rated movies.  Yet we’re friends who know each other’s secrets and who have seen the other’s ugly cry.  It’s these embarrassing moments that bind us.

In the past, I did a fake interview with her.  I wrote a letter to her soon-to-be-born baby.  I even explained how Mormonism works to the uneducated masses.  But I never really empathized with her until recently.

Once she got pregnant, we would talk constantly on Skype about how she was feeling, and the bloating and vomiting that would occur.  I found myself really hating how bad things were going and trying to imagine what it would be like if I was experiencing the same issues.

And, strangely, I did.  I began to have trouble keeping food down.  I got constant heartburn.  My emotions were a wreck, and I kept cleaning everything in the house as if I was getting ready for someone new.

As my conversations with Casey continued, my symptoms got worse and worse.  I began to gain weight and my chest became more sensitive to the touch.  I finally went to my family doctor, who was stymied.

He called in a consult from a battery of physicians and after going through nephrologists and internists and cardiologists, it was finally one young Ob/Gyn who figured it out.  ”He’s having a hysterical pregnancy.”

As soon as I was diagnosed, I noticed the symptoms lessening.  It was right around then that Casey posted a photo of her so pregnant that she’s about to burst.

I had two immediate thoughts.  The first was, “That is absolutely a beautiful pregnancy shot. It’s amazing how the body glows during pregnancy.”

The second thought was, “I should take my own pregnancy shot before my hysterical pregnancy goes away!”

Look at me – I’m glowing with my fake baby!

Happy birthday, Casey.  This new baby will be an amazing birthday gift, but I totally hope you get an iPad or a new car as well.  Love you.

Casey’s not the only one celebrating a birthday! Over the last year, I’ve gotten to know this hilarious blogger, and she is an absolute delight. She’s dark, twisted, sarcastic, and makes me laugh all the way down to the cockles of my cockles. Happy birthday, Brittany!!

Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate, and happy chocolate bunny day to those of you who don’t!