Fighting for Tacos and Podcasts

I wish I could get really excited about worthwhile causes, like the environment, health care reform, and climate change. I think about myself becoming activist and wearing shirts with witty, incisive slogans and getting together for big activist potluck dinners where we plot how we're going to stick it to the other side, perhaps by sit-ins or exhausing letter writing campaigns. That all sounds worthwhile and engaging, except for the fact that I'm just not that interested in all of that stuff.

Instead, I save all of my excitement for slightly less important interests, like Texas Rangers baseball, NBC's Thursday night lineup (deal with this: Parks and Recreation is the best thing on TV right now), and breakfast tacos. I've long since come to terms with this. Not only is it less stressful to care deeply about these things, but no one is going to mace me for liking breakfast tacos. (If someone does mace me for that, then that is one enemy that I WILL FIGHT.)

You can also add podcasts to the list of topics that get me inordinately worked up. They're great. Anytime you find yourself bored in the car, just fire up a podcast and you're instantly immersed in a fascinating conversation.

One podcast that I've been loving lately is the Moth. It's just one person telling a story each week, and I just love the crap out of the stories they tell. I heard one story earlier this week that everybody should check out, because it's interesting, fun, and surprising. It's Jewish Blood, Irish Heart by Brian Finkelstein. You can listen here, but first prepare yourself to be delighted.

Buona Sera

If you were to break into my Netflix account and peek at the queue, you'd probably assume that I'm about to start a North Austin crime family. Here's what we're currently rocking at our house: The Godfather II (2 disc special edition, because that's how we roll) and then Season 2 of the Sopranos. That tells you 2 things about me: I love gnocchi and I'm not afraid to bust some knee caps.

Well, not exactly. I mean, I do love gnocchi but I'm not a violent individual. It's been probably 20 years since my last fight, and I think I'm actually flattering both of us by calling it a fight. It was really more like 45 seconds of flailing by both of us before we both collapsed from asthma attacks.

After watching so much in this genre lately though, I start to feel a little bit like one of the characters. I kind of want to swagger around town, paying for canoli with a $100 bill and then spend the rest of the afternoon eating sandwiches with my big, fat friends. Also, I want to issue ominous warnings. For example, just imagine you're at the grocery store and the lady in front of you snags the last cart. You step in front of her, shake your head slowly from side to side, and whisper, "You don't have the muscle for this in my neighborhood." Then you walk off with the cart. Wouldn't that be the greatest moment in your week?

Of course, mafiosos have a lot of other things to deal with besides these small perks, like assassinations and incarceration. These issues really outweigh the little fun parts that I mentioned above, which is why I'm going to turn down any and all offers to join a family, even if they want to make me consigliere. I'm taking a firm no-mafia stance, I don't care how controversial it is.

And yet, from watching the Sopranos and the Godfather and all of this stuff, there is something I want to do. I want to be an old Italian man, preferably one like you'd find in a movie. I like the way they dress, I like the way they talk, and I like how they strut their stuff around the neighborhood. Not being Italian, I am going to settle for just hanging out with some old Italian men. What's the easiest way to do that? Craigslist, I imagine?

Cry For Me, Argentina

Yesterday, we got back from a week-long trip to Argentina. Yes, the food, wine, people, and all of the sights were great. Going to Argentina and having a fabulous time is like having Randy Quaid over for dinner and getting the police called on you; it's just going to happen. So, rather than do a day-by-day kind of account, I'm instead going to talk about some of the surprises we encountered while we were in country.

Argentinians operate on a slightly different schedule. It's not really a country that's suited for early risers. The first day we got there, we went to this really nice restaurant there on the bay and attempted to secure a table for dinner. It was about 7:30 PM at the time, and the place was buzzing with people. When we went up to the host and asked for a table though, he told us the restaurant was closed until dinner started. I asked, "Who are all of those people eating?" He said, "They're still finishing lunch."

When you adjust to the schedule and find yourself eating dinner at midnight, you'll see the tables around you full of families. And they're not families eating late because they're running from the law or because they just had to bail Mom out of jail, it's just how they roll.

It's hard to overestimate the importance of beef in Argentina. I made a lot of jokes before we went on how I'd be surviving the next week solely on rib eyes and malbec, just like Marlon Brando. That was actually an incredibly prescient observation. Pretty much every meal is beef, with a side of a beef, a cup of au jus as your beverage, and beef cake for dessert. If you need a toothpick, they give you a cow tendon.

At one point, we got this glowing restaurant recommendation in Mendoza. She told us the restaurant, the waiter to ask for, and the exact thing to order. With that level of detail, you get pretty excited as to what's coming. We proceeded to find the restaurant and the waiter, and we ordered as we told. About fifteen minutes later, the waiter comes out with a big grin and a huge plate. What was on the plate? What was this incredibly awesome meal that we were in store for? It was a 4 pound hunk of incredibly rare steak that we were all to share. No vegetables, no sides, just meat. (And yes, it was a hell of a steak.) When in Argentina, switch to carnivore mode.

They're still figuring out the tourist thing. One day, we took this epic tour of the Andes. The tour itself was just amazing; it's hard to describe how majestic those mountains were. About halfway through the tour, we stopped at this little village up in Andes for lunch. It didn't take us long to discover that something was wrong with our waiter. I had to ask for my ice cream dessert (absurdly great ice cream across the whole country) roughly 157 times. Rather than ask for the 158th time, I went up to the manager and explained my frustration. The manager gave me a remarkably honest explanation: the waiter was just really, really drunk.

The manager called the waiter over so we could all talk together, and he asked the waiter a couple of questions. "Are you drunk?" No response. "Did this guy ever get his ice cream?" No response. "Fine, go back to work." I love it that, at this little tourist trap cafe, it's not totally unreasonable to get a smashed waiter, as long as he's timely with the ice cream.

I could go on and on about the surprises, but the whole point here is that the place is different. I don't really see the point in travelling if it's just like home. I, for one, welcome the late night dinners with infants, the daily 2 pound allotment of sirloin, and the gloriously drunk waiters. Mucho gusto, Argentina!

Does this thing work?

Moved over to new server. Does anything work? *crossing fingers*

Gettin' Wooly With It

Back in mid-December of last year, I had a slight miscommunication with the lady at Pro Cuts. She misinterpreted my command of "Just do whatever, you know, hair cut type things" as "Go crazy! Shave it all off! It'll be a Kojak Christmas!" It was not a good look for me. It emphasized my chubbosity; it made me look surly; people kept asking me when I had joined the Merchant Marines.

After that experience, I just decided that, to hell with it, I'm growing my hair out. Why let the lady at Pro Cuts make me look absurd when my hair can look absurd on its own? Actually, I'm making this a little too dramatic. I don't think I truly made a decision here; it was just a perfect storm of laziness, cheapness, and my own intrigue with my natural bushy-headedness.

I slipped at one point in the spring and got a little trim, but since then, I've been getting wooly with it. My hair has always grown quickly, much like Sasquatch's, and so I've got some serious volume now. What sort of length are we talking about here? Well, I think if we're talking about hair length, there's one major question: could I pull off a white trash ponytail nubbin? Yes, I could if I wanted to, which I totally do.

People have actually complimented me on this quite a bit, which is pretty much the only thing stopping me from cutting it all off when I look in the mirror and wonder who that homely woman is staring back at me. There are many more drawbacks to long hair besides just that. They include:

1) Pain. Do not ever make the mistake of driving a convertible without a cap on your longish hair, or else you risk getting hair whipped into a coma. And what about the combing? Good heavens! I wish I could just black out for 90 seconds every morning when I get out of the shower and have to comb my hair into shape.

2) Wetness. After I get out of the shower, my hair is now wet for roughly the rest of the day. I'm worried I look like a guy who'd try to sell you speakers in the parking lot of a 7/11. (And don't mention blow dryers, I don't like all of that hot air in my face when I exit a shower.)

3) Long hair lifestyle. I think it's just a matter of time before other long-haired dudes try to induct me into their secret society, which probably revolves around the band Rush and the lesser works of JRR Tolkien. (I'm currently reading the Silmarillion, so I'm halfway there!)

The hair stays for now, but it's been warned.

Also, I am going to move the codypowell.com internet apparatus to a new mainframe this week. If this site goes down for a day or two, please don't panic and give up on life. If it's down more than a week, then that's probably a reasonable reaction.

Shoelaces, Socks, and Pockets

"Shoelaces, you suck; get out." I said that recently, not to somebody named Shoelaces, but to actual shoelaces. For twenty-something years, I'd been tying shoelaces, then watching them go untied as I walked around during the day, then tripping over them, then doubleknotting them, then tearing off my fingernails trying to untie them at the end of the day.

That's a lot of drama, considering that shoelaces don't serve much of a purpose, so just like the freewheelin' shotcaller I am, I cast them out of my life. Since then, unless I'm suited up for doing something active (yardwork, sports, fleeing from zombies), I've stuck to pull-on shoes without shoelaces. Let me tell you something: I thought I could live without shoelaces, but I had no idea what living truly WAS until I tried it without shoelaces! Now, the shoes are on, the shoes are off, maybe the shoes are halfway on - who cares? It's between me and my feet.

I hadn't really thought that much before about trying to hack my wardrobe like that. I put clothes on, I took clothes off, and I got mustard stains on those clothes, but I wasn't really thinking critically about the situation. But, since I've figured out that laces suck, my mind has opened to other possibility.

I also said goodbye to tubesocks. Yes, they're functional. Yes, I possess them in great quantities, so it's no big deal when a pair gets a hole or is attacked by Octopussy. For the love of Pete though, what about the matching process? I've spent hours of my life trying to match tubesocks together. "Okay, this one has a gray heel, so I just need another gray heel. Here's a gray heel... oh wait, that's a gray toe. A-ha! I have located an actual gray heel! Aww damn it, it has a red line on the toe. ARRRRRGHGHGHG *I die of old age while matching socks, having never finished my rock opera about the postal service.*"

While I don't have time for matching socks, I also can't just mismatch socks together and run out of the house. I think I'd be slightly uncomfortable with that. Without order, there's chaos, even in the sock drawer.

And on top of this sock-matching sitaution, I receive gifts of interesting socks every year. These distinctive, dressy socks just sit in my closet, adding pizazz to no one's feet. Due to their jazziness, they're very easy to match and then there's the added benefit that, being interesting socks, they're slightly fun to wear. Around the same time that I ditched the laces, I also ditched the tubes.

There's one more change I've been mulling over, and it's a lot more complex. Like most schlubby dudes, I carry enough in my pants pockets to defend myself from a small army. I've got keys, wallet, change, receipts, sometimes a pen or memory card, and two phones. I pretty much need those baggy pirate pants to walk around comfortable with all of that crap crammed in there, and that's not a socially acceptable solution (yet).

I've come up with two possibilities here. I could get a bag of some sort, or I could wear a multi-pocketed jacket (think sportscoat, not parka). There are benefits to both. If I'm carrying a bag, people may think I'm a courier, so I could probably get some free stuff under the guise of "making a delivery". If I wear a jacket, I'd probably be confused for a college professor, at which point I could lie my way into delivering some lectures on my true passion, the cinema of sub-saharan Africa.

Either bag or jacket is pretty dramatic, and I'd probably end up leaving either one in a booth at McDonald's. Maybe a pair of suspenders I could hook my stuff onto? I don't know; there's a lot to consider.

Dweezil?

Let's all take a moment to consider the Internet. Before the Internet, you spent time with loved ones and friends, probably enhancing your life in the process. With the Internet, you throw all of that out the window so you can read what some dork thought about last night's Top Chef on Twitter (spoiler: LAAAAAAAAAME!!!! PLEASE RT!!!!!! #kanyewasframed).

Of course, that's not all there is on the Internet. There's also a plethora of strange and exciting websites (such as this one, minus the exciting part) where people talk about their lives and some of the interesting things they've figured out, like being able to control their dreams. That act is called lucid dreaming, and I am really intrigued with it. Laura thinks the reason I'm intrigued is because it'd allow me to fly around the world in my underwear. I maintain this is incorrect; in my dreams, I'd much rather be a wolfman who terrorizes the inhabitants of a sleepy town in Manitoba. I actually don't know why I'm so interested in being able to direct my dreams, except that it's a large block of time where I'm not really doing that much. I might as well spice it up.

One of the first steps to lucid dreaming is being able to vividly recall your dreams, and so I've started writing down my dreams as soon as I wake up. Most mornings, this works pretty well. Other mornings, like today when I all I wrote was "Larry + Darrell = Dweezil + Larry" (seriously... here's proof), it leads to great confusion. Still, I continue to document them because I am devoted to seeing this crazy experiment through to the end.

The next step, after writing up your dreams, is to analyze what you've written and try to find common elements. The idea is that, once you pick up on these subtle hints that tell you that you're dreaming, you can then spot them in a dream. Once you know you're dreaming, you can start to experiment with things, like trying fly around the world in your underwear or becoming a wolfman and terrorizing the inhabitants of a sleepy town in Manitoba.

As I write these dreams up, I'm watching for these common elements and for a while there, I thought I found something. In one of the first dreams I wrote about, I moved into a retirement home where Chevy Chase was my next door neighbor. When I woke up the next morning, I was a little giddy. Maybe Chevy Chase was one of those signs that I was dreaming, and he'd start popping up all over the place in my dreams! Not only is Chevy Chase pretty memorable as a signal, but maybe it also meant I'd be getting some dreamtime Vacation/Fletch-era Chevy comedy. I am definitely cool with that, although I'd be considerably less excited about Cops and Robbersons-era Chevy.

Unfortunately, in the several days since I made my Chevy Chase breakthrough, I've yet to have another Chevy sighting or really discover any commonality amongst these dreams. The only thing I've got going right now, and it's a huuuuge stretch, is that I seem to occasionally have people with odd first names (Chevy, Dweezil) as supporting players in my dreams. If I encounter Yahoo Serious tonight while asleep, the trend is confirmed. Then, I must seriously question why I'm dreaming about Yahoo Serious and Dweezil Zappa.