Thursday, January 29, 2009

My Next Career - Young Professional with Active Lifestyle

I walked out the front door of my apartment building a few days ago, saw two mountain bikes hitched to the bike rack and, in a moment of intense clarity, knew instantly what my next career should be. I am going to be a career Young Professional with Active Lifestyle.



The management company that operates the building I live in, The Palatine, is doing everything humanly / legally possible to fill its remaining units. The building is brand-new and was originally supposed to be condos. Construction was unfortunately completed about two hours before the worst residential real estate crash since possibly the Great Depression. It became painfully obvious to the management company that, despite the stainless steel appliances and multi-zone recessed lighting, there were not three young professionals in the world that were going to buy these units, so it rejiggered its business plan and is now trying to rent the units. It's a tough gig. They have to present a hip, upbeat image to potential renters when the whole world knows that its business has utterly shit the bed. Like trying to convince a girl at a bar that you're a real cool operator when your large intestine has been ripped out of your abdomen and a hyena is gnawing off your leg.

The Palatine has tried all kinds of tricks. They have ads all over the Metro, hip off-duty skateboarders doing tricks with Palatine signs at intersections (see video above), and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies in the rental office. Some hired Google guru has worked out a good algorithm that makes the Palatine website come up anytime you search for anything having to do with human beings, shelter, or the eastern seaboard. It wasn't until I had lived in the building for a few weeks that I noticed the best detail yet - the two bikes parked out front. When you look closely, it becomes clear that the bikes are props. They are pristinely new - obviously never having come into contact with a single molecule of dirt or mud - one has a flat tire, and both still have the legal warning stickers ("use of a bike could result in serious injury or death") prominently displayed on the frame. They're also cheap Wal-Mart-looking things, bikes that no self respecting overpaid weekend warrior would be caught dead on. But if you're just passing by on your way to a free cookie welcome tour, your subconscious is supposed to make a note-to-self that the residents of this handsome building are obviously hip and athletic, the hot, young work-hard-play-hard Michelob Ultra ad couples who rollerblade together at lunch, go clubbing at night and then do who knows what after.

So then I thought, wait, I'm a young professional with an active lifestyle! Or at least sort of. Maybe my next career should be spreading the gospel, telling all of the young professionals in the metro DC area just how active a lifestyle the good residents of the Palatine live. I could move some real estate! Let me back up and clear up a few details. I'm not that young - 35. Not ancient, but getting up there in the world of young professionals. But I look younger, especially since having shaved my beard, so I could probably pull off the role for at least a few more years. And, of course, to sell anything at all, but especially to market the active lifestyle image, you have to be tall, beautiful and fit. If I had been born in 1700, I probably would have been considered tall. 5' 6" specifically. These days, that's more of an average height; some might say "short." Looks-wise, I'd consider myself middle of the road, somewhere in-between Brad Pitt and the Elephant Man, probably just slightly on the Elephant Man side. I don't stop traffic based on either extreme. Same general level with respect to personal fitness. I wouldn't make it far through the abs of steel audition, but people don't usually point at me and laugh. So that's what I've got to work with. I'm maybe not the dream embodiment of the active lifestyle salesman, but I think I could make it work.

The job description itself would be simple: find wannabe Young Professionals with an Active Lifestyle in their natural habitat and convince them to rent an apartment at the Palatine. Now I know where these people go. The epicenter, ground zero, perfect storm of yuppiedom is right down the street. There is one single point that is equidistant from a fake Irish pub, a Williams Sonoma, a Whole Foods, a Starbucks and a Cheesecake Factory. That's where I would set up camp. I'd walk around nonchalantly, sipping a smoothie or a sports drink and remark, "well hey there, I'm guessing by the nicely defined contours of your pectoral muscles that you're a guy who lives an active lifestyle." Or "wow, look at that nice arctic parka you're wearing. You must into some pretty extreme nordic ice climbing." And then when, inevitably, the conversation got around to "where do you live?" and "what do you do?" I could say that I lived at the Palatine where, in-between heleskiing trips and whitewater rafting, and after a good workout at the on-premises 24 hour spa-style fitness center, I like to uncork a nice bottle of white from my stainless steel restaurant grade fridge, chop some vegetables on my marble counter and serve up a nice little feast for my friends in the building. And then, shazam - "you've never been by the Palatine? Oh man, you've gotta swing by. Wouldn't believe the active lifestyles the young professionals in the building all live" - my poor mark wouldn't stand a chance.

"But wait," you may say "I've seen young professionals and they are just as soft and lazy and zit-ridden as the rest of us." And you'd be right. But, young professionals are also just as self-delusional as the rest of us. Just because a person hasn't ever "actually" completed an ironman or hiked the Appalachian trail doesn't mean he wasn't just about to do so, just as soon as he had a little extra free time. And if your next door neighbor tells you all about his extreme 200 mile weekend trail ride and you can then tell your coworkers, truthfully, that you were just talking to your neighbor about banging down a mountain, that's really just about as good as doing it yourself. Living a vicarious active lifestyle is just one small step away from living an actual active lifestyle, and is certainly enough to entice a person into moving into an active lifestyle-style building.

So, the job description sounds pretty good. And I think the economics would work too. I don't know exactly what the Palatine business model looks like, but I have to assume it doesn't include 60 percent of its units sitting empty. If I could bring in a few Young Professionals with Active Lifestyles per week, checkbook in hand, ready immediately to start enjoying some active luxury-style living, that must be worth something. Six figures? I think so. I would, of course, need to continue to be relaxed, fit and knowledgeable of all current subjects, so my daily work schedule would be something like, wake up late, read paper, surf Internet, work out, do something out of a Mountain Dew ad, regale young professionals with tales of adventure and multi-zone recessed lighting, bar hop, repeat. I need to get my application in fast. My biological clock is ticking, and dirty old men hanging around young professional hot spots have abysmal records of hawking apartments.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

An Idiot Without A Box – 20 Days of TV-Free Living


I am going to attempt a feat that has never been accomplished in all of history: writing about getting rid of my TV without being condescending or self-righteous. I don’t know if I’ll succeed but, if I don’t, know that I at least tried.

Why Did You Do This? What Is Wrong With You?

First, just about every day, there is some study or another talking about how much TV Americans watch and how TV is to blame for just about every negative modern trend. Kids watch an average of 22 hours of TV a day. Watching TV makes you obese, brain dead, poor, causes acne. Stuff like that. But the study that really caught my attention was one that found that people’s state of mind after watching two hours of TV was comparable to mild depression. That sounded about right to me. Not major depression, like where you start thinking about the futility of all mankind and wonder why you should even bother waking up tomorrow morning. Just moderate, blah-like withdrawal. Second, TV can be an unbelievable time-suck, and I am highly susceptible. Once you get settled down onto the couch and start staring at the tube, it’s hard to extricate yourself. Half hours glide by, and all the things you know you should be doing – taxes, calling your mother, bathing – just sort of fade from your consciousness. Next thing you know, it’s 2AM and you’re watching a an Eric Estrada timeshare infomercial for the third time.

So, OK, mild depression, wasting of full days. Nothing so horrible about that. But, the final factor, the one that really pushed me over the edge, is the rampant abuse of the laugh track. When you start paying attention to the laugh track, it goes from noticeable to ridiculous to downright insulting. The jokes that get a computer-generated guffaw have gotten dumber, and the intensity of the fake laughs has risen. Schlubby overweight sitcom man says to impossibly disproportionately hot wife “oh, sure your mother is invited, as long as she eats down in the basement” and the laugh track people break down, gasping for air, popping blood vessels like that is absolutely the most hilarious joke that has ever been made. If a real person ever laughed so hard at a joke that stupid, you would have the right, maybe even almost an obligation, to kick his ass.

The TV-Free Setup

All of these thoughts came around the time I was preparing to move to DC. The cheap and lazy sides of me (which carry a lot of weight in my decision making process) liked the idea of not having a monthly cable bill and having one less bulky item to drag out to the moving van. So that was it; the TV would stay in Boston.

I still have a few TV sources though. My Netflix subscription is still running (I can watch DVDs on my computer), the gym in my building has TVs on the treadmills and I live within a few blocks of half a dozen bars that, of course, have TVs covering every inch of wall space. So I can still watch stuff by either ordering shows in advance, running or drinking. The Netflix / DVD setup has worked well for following series I actually like to follow – currently The Wire. When an episode is over, it’s over, so I can’t just space out indefinitely. If I want to watch another episode, I have to at least make the effort of dragging my finger across the touch pad on my laptop – quite a bit more energy than is required to keep watching shows on TV. The treadmill setup is good for some things. I can tell people “well, I guess I’ll hit the gym” without specifying that I’m really going to run a few 16 minute miles so that I can watch That 70’s Show. Even I have enough personal pride not to stand on a motionless treadmill watching TV. So, down in the gym, I can only watch TV for as long as I’m actually moving. If I wanted to watch a football game on the treadmill, I’d have to run for three and a half hours, which is almost a full marathon, and that’s just not what Sunday afternoon football is supposed to be about. So the bar setup is best for sports. There are, of course, a few issues to worry about if you do all your TV watching at a bar. First of all, the no-cable savings I was so excited about gets eviscerated pretty quickly at a bar. My general feeling is that you have to order about one drink every half hour to maintain your good standing with a bartender. That adds up quickly, both financially and blood alcohol level-ly. If the point of not having a TV in your house is to become saintly and wholesome, I’m not sure that turning yourself into a raging alcoholic in exchange is the way to go.

Report From The Trenches – Day Twenty

So far so good, I think. After nearly three weeks of mostly TV-free living, I am pleased to report that I am still functioning, socially and emotionally. My apartment is a little more subdued than before – soothing NPR voices taking the place of hysterical furniture ads – and I’ve been reading slightly more. I haven’t discovered a cure for cancer or written the great American novel yet. It turns out there are plenty of other ways to zone out and be lazy, even without a TV. There’s a Far Side cartoon titled “in the days before TV” that shows a family sitting on the couch staring at the wall. I’ve done a little bit of that.

Surprisingly, the thing I miss most so far is commercials. Who’s winning the canned soup war? What crazy things are the duck and the caveman doing to sell insurance? If I order a set of knives right now, what other amazing item will be thrown in for free? Somehow, being pandered to by the hucksters makes me feel in touch. Without anyone trying to separate me from a dollar, how can I be sure I’m still a relevant human being?

My human interactions haven’t changed much but, at some level, I think that is just because I still have a long TV backlog to draw on. After the weather, TV is probably the most important component of white noise conversation. After I’ve fallen a full season behind in Lost and American Idol, what am I going to talk to people about in the hall at work? There’s always The Simpsons. That’s timeless, and I’ve got enough of a foundation there to last me for years. But it seems inevitable that, at some point, I’m going to have to admit that I don’t have a TV. And who knows what will happen once that’s out in the open. Will people shy away from me? Will they talk to me at all? Whisper about me behind my back? I imagine it will be like being a leper – people will try to be polite but won’t be able to help recoiling in terror.

Three weeks without a TV has been alright. I sure don’t miss the laugh track, but we’ll have to see how long this idiot can remain separated from his box.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Beantown vs. The Capital – Smackdown 2009



Boston and Washington DC are both pretty first-world kinds of places. Boston has Harvard. DC has the President. So moving from one to the other shouldn’t be too shocking. Still, there are some differences. Here are my thoughts on the transition from Beantown to the nation’s capital. But first, a few caveats. I’ve lived in Boston for nine years, specifically, in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood. And I’ve lived in the DC area – the Clarendon neighborhood in Arlington, Virginia, for twelve days. So, while my understanding of the Boston vibe runs pretty deep, my understanding of DC is just based on having met about nine of the DC area’s five million people (which includes my building’s night doorman, who, so far, has been unconscious every time I’ve seen him) and commuting between the Courthouse stop on the Metro and K Street.

These observations are just meant to be descriptive, not judgments about which city is better. Well, sort of. Actually, no, not at all. Might as well just make it a competition. The cities will compete in five categories. The winner will receive the official endorsement of the DanJanifesto, which can be noted in future Chamber of Commerce publications. We’ll start off with a blank slate. BOS: 0 points; DC: 0 points.

Category 1 – Light Rail Transportation

The T in Boston is filthy and loud. You can’t ever understand a single word that is spoken over the PA system. Some of the platforms have cracks with weeds growing out of them. The DC Metro is quiet and smooth. The stations have big, warmly lit arches evocative of a 1970’s space travel dream. Digital signs on the platform tell you how many minutes it will be until the next train arrives. Announcements are made my a sexy, soothing female voice – don’t know who she is, but she makes you feel like, if you had a fever, she’d show up next to your bed and feed you chicken soup. And, get this, the trains are carpeted. The overall effect is womb-like tranquility. So, one point DC, right? Wrong. All of the loveliness of the Metro is outweighed by the fact that food and drinks are prohibited on the train. You can get a ticket for getting on board with a morning snack, a bottle of water, a coffee. So, every morning, two million people are somehow supposed to get themselves to work without caffeine. This triumph of form over function is so outrageous, I don’t know what to say. Other than, one point BOS. BOS: 1; DC: 0.

Category 2 – Alcohol and Tobacco Acquisition

Until recently, you could only buy alcohol in Boston the third Friday of every month between 2:00 and 3:00 PM. Boston’s infamous blue laws have been scaled back, but they’re still around. Care for a libation at 11:00 AM on a Sunday? Better hop in the car and drive to New Hampshire. In DC (Virginia, actually - remember, I’m just talking about my own new neighborhood), you can buy alcohol 24/7. And, guess where you can buy beer and wine. Are you ready for this? CVS! That’s right. You pop into the drugstore to pick up a newspaper and maybe a greeting card and, on your way to the checkout line, you can also grab a 30-pack of Bud Light. Can you imagine? Wake up at 3 AM thinking a beer would be nice only to realize you’re out? Not an issue. Go across the street to CVS and in under five minutes, you’re back on the couch popping open a nice cold one. And you can still smoke in bars in Virginia. I don’t smoke, but I think that bans on smoking in bars reek of Fascism. People in The District, I think, dismiss this as just another ass-backward rural Virginia kind of thing (I’ve already come to understand that, living in Virginia, I am part of the DC equivalent of what Manhattanites refer to condescendingly as the “bridge and tunnel crowd”) , but I think it’s the way it should be. And sooo… one point DC. BOS: 1; DC: 1.

Category 3 – Pedestrian Street-Crossing Etiquette

Boston is famous for its horrible drivers (“Massholes”). But the dirty little secret is that Boston pedestrians are even worse. The basic rule is that a pedestrian has the inalienable right to just walk right out into any street – eight-lane highways with 85 mile an hour traffic included – and vehicles must screech to a halt and let them cross. Children in Boston are never even taught to look both ways. Pedestrian walk / do-not-walk lights are an outright waste of taxpayer dollars. Since the year 1400, when the first absent-minded professor landed on Beacon Street, pedestrians in Boston have ruled. Pedestrians in DC, do not, DO NOT, in any circumstance, cross the street unless the light so authorizes them, even if no vehicle is visible for as far as the eye can see. Crossing lights show the seconds remaining until the light will change, so pedestrians know exactly how much longer they will have to stand on the curb. I just do not get it. I have to assume that DC pedestrians know something I don’t. Maybe J-walking is viewed by the secret service as an attempt on the president’s life, and you can get shot dead by a sniper if you step out into the street against the light. I’m not sure how to allocate points in this category. Boston pedestrians are insane; DC pedestrians are pussies. Let’s give a point to each city. BOS: 2; DC: 2.

Category 4 – My Neighbors

My neighbors in Boston are great in every respect. They’re hip, fun, funny, sexy, smart, just all-around terrific. When a Boston neighbor and I pass one another on the street, we give each other a subtle nod that says “hey man, isn’t it groovy that we both live here on the same planet, on this very same street? we should get together sometime to hang out and just shoot the shit, or maybe start a band.” When I nod to my new neighbors in DC they look at me like I’m carrying a bloody chainsaw and have fresh chunks of baby meat hanging out of my mouth. They avert their eyes and pick up their pace, as if to say “there is no way in hell you are going to beat me out of this internship I so fundamentally deserve. I was editor of law review, you know.” The people in my Boston neighborhood on their way to the T look like they’re going out to hang posters about their new self-published music review rags. My neighbors in DC on their way to the Metro look like they’re going to a big group job interview, and are worried that it’s obvious how padded their resumes are. One point Boston. BOS: 3; DC: 2.

Category 5 - Coffee

And, finally, coffee. In Boston, there is a Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner. When giving directions, people say things like “so you wanna go down Centre St. past three Dunkin’ Donuts, and take a right; then go left at the fifth Dunkin’ Donuts; our place is just after the second Dunkin’ Donuts on the left.” In DC, Starbucks are everywhere. There are some Starbucks with another Starbucks in the back. The state bird is Starbucks. In the current economic environment more than ever, a $4.00 cup of coffee is just not where it’s at. And so the final point goes to Boston.

Results

Final score: BOS 4; DC 2. My impressions could certainly evolve over time, and I will update the score accordingly. But, for the moment, the cold hard numbers indicate that Boston is better than DC by a margin of 4 to 2, or 100%.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Automotive Review – U-Haul EZ-Loader 17 Foot Moving Van



Background

Those who doubt whether the big three American carmakers are going to make it through this tumultuous economic period may be overlooking one of the U.S. auto industry’s most important core competencies – the moving van. Foreign cars may have taken over the consumer market and are even becoming more prominent as taxis and delivery vehicles, but when was the last time you saw a Nissan moving van? With this in mind, I decided to experience firsthand what a 17 foot U-Haul EZ-Loader, built on a Ford F-350 platform, had to offer. And let me tell you, I was not disappointed.

Review

I picked up my EZ-L-17 in the worst area of Roxbury, one of the worst neighborhoods in Boston, next to a building that my wife recognized from jury duty as an active crack den. Used U-Hauls are often put up for sale and might run in the vicinity of three grand for a well worn but nicely repainted model. More common is to rent the truck. The approval process is minimal. I told the guy at the counter that I was legally blind, wasted and had been having visual hallucinations all morning. He asked if I had a credit card and a valid driver’s license. I said yes, and we were on our way. I opted for a three-day, one-way rental which, with a dolly, half a dozen packing blankets and extra liability insurance (ALWAYS get extra liability insurance; I’ll explain later) came to $465.50. The model I chose, a 1997 with 438,000 miles on it, came equipped with windshield wipers and heat. The i-X-SLC-Vanden Plas model also includes an AM radio, but that was a little upscale for my budget. In order to get the full experience, I filled the ample cargo space with all of my possessions and moved from Boston to Washington, DC.

The EZ-L-17 handled like most large trucks. The only real clue that I was moving at all was the almost unbearable noise coming from the engine and the leaky windows. The six gazillion horsepower engine moved the truck from zero to sixty in 237.3 seconds. The turning radius was just under a quarter mile and the truck could brake to a complete stop in around 180 yards. The oversteer was terrifying. I filled the tank with low, low, low grade Sunoco unleaded and got an average of 6 miles per gallon on the highway.

The interior styling of the cab was modeled on the “impenetrable” school of design, exuding a sort of masochistic “abuse me” kind of aura. I couldn’t tell whether the interior was made out of rubber or some kind of incredibly thick yet flexible plastic, but there is nothing – no bodily fluid, no carelessly flung power tool, no voluminous amount of tobacco juice – that could have harmed the interior of this truck. Putting aside the issue of whether I would get charged an additional $35 cleaning maintenance courtesy fee, I felt like I could have my way with this truck. The bench seat could comfortably accommodate three average-sized (i.e. grossly obese) Americans and the single beverage holder could hold one, six-hundred ounce Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. There was no glove compartment, but the trough attached to the middle of the dashboard seemed designed to handle about two cubic yards of I-have-no-idea what.

There’s not much to say about the exterior of the EZ-L-17. U-Haul trucks are huge, boxy and orange. Some of the newer models have decals covering the sides of the truck highlighting interesting tidbits about some state, but that’s ridiculously lame and, I’m sure, will be discontinued soon. The “Grandma’s Attic” compartment – a bit of additional storage space that creeps over the top of the cab – virtually begs to be ripped off by a low-hanging tree branch or tunnel. This feature may have been included in the design for the very purpose of instilling in the driver a sense of danger and excitement.

But to focus on the performance and styling of the EZ-L-17 is to overlook the most essential element of a U-Haul truck – the attitude it exudes. Those who try to convey a message of aggressiveness with “No Fear” bumper stickers, badass-looking wheel rims or Hummers are entirely misguided. Driving a U-Haul announces to the world, infinitely more powerfully than any other vehicle or accessory ever could, “YOU JUST ABSOLUTELY DO NOT WANT TO FUCK WITH ME.” It is universally known that a person driving a U-Haul 1) has probably never been behind the wheel of a truck before and has no idea where the end of his hood leaves off , where your freshly-polished bumper begins or what lane he is in, 2) does not give one molecular iota of a shit if the truck gets dinged, scratched, side-swiped, banged up or totaled and 3) got so hosed by the salesman with unnecessary insurance that there is a little part of him that actually affirmatively wants to destroy the truck, just to get his money’s worth.

Bottom Line

If you’re into comfort, acceleration and FM radios, you should probably keep shopping around. But if your idea of a dream drive is to careen recklessly down the road and have every car in your path zip fearfully out of your way, an EZ-L-17 is the vehicle for you. Plus, with all of your worldly possessions in the back, you’ll always feel at home.

Specs:

Model: 1997 Ford F-350 U-Haul 17 foot EZ-Loader with 438,000 miles.
Price: Buy for $3,006, plus tax, title, registration, delivery and dealer prep. Rent one-way, Boston to DC, for $465
Engine: V-12 all-American monstrosity. No turbo, no fuel injection, just huge.
Highlights: All the trunk you could ever want. Dual rear wheels. S&M upholstery.
Zero to 60: Yes.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Vanity - A License Plate Memoir


Please follow the link below to my debut documentary - Vanity, a memoir. It's a true story about the decade-long process of getting the perfect vanity plates.


http://home.comcast.net/~djanis/Vanity2.mov