into a small Arlington house built in the late 20s/early 30s. Its a great move for many reasons, not the least of which are the facts that its way more space, has a yard and is in a fun neighborhood. Its a three bedroom, which means that my sister is living with us, the awesomeness of which is unquantifiable.
The weird thing though is that living in this new space is going to require a shift in the day to day rhythm of my life. Before now I have lived my adult life in 4 different apartments that were all more or less made up of two spaces: a space where I slept, dressed and stored things, and a space where I cooked, ate and socialized (or watched TV).
The new house, being of older construction, is made up of a lot of small rooms. This has lead to a compartmentalizing of the spaces. I now sleep, dress, cook, eat and socialize in completely different spaces. This morning I moved from one room to another in a progression: I woke up, walked into the bathroom to shower and shave, walked out the opposite door into my dressing room, walked out the other door in that room into the kitchen, took my food into the dining room and then made it out the front door in the direction of work. While before I just milled about in one of two multi-purpose spaces with no way of really measuring the morning's progress, I can now spot-judge my readiness by which room of my house I am currently occupying.
I haven't yet decided if I like that.

According to Stereogum, the number two google search in the aftermath of the Superbowl halftime show was Tom Petty's age. The answer is 57. But if you are like me, the question that immediately emerged was: "Holy shit! Who was the 5th Traveling Wilburry?" Now, for Pat Hall and I, a quick rattling-off of the Wilburys is a traditional late night sobriety test. Since it was nothing like late night, and I was reasonably sober, this sudden gap in my recollection was obviously troubling. So I called Patty , who must have sensed the panic in my voice when I blurted out, in lieu of a hello, "Holy shit! I can't remember the 5th Traveling Wilburry!"
Quoth Mr. Hall: "Jeff Lynne."
Here is what I love about Patty: Technically, either Bob Dylan or Tom Petty himself should be considered the 5th WIlbury, but he knew instinctively that I would be considering them in terms of their general fame, and since, unlike me, he avoids the pedantic, he skipped right to the marrow.
So then I was just left with the distressing notion that of all the Traveling Ws to forget I had spaced on Mr. ELO. Its always a shock to be faced with the immensity of ones own lameness laid bare. I mean, couldn't it have been Bob Dylan of George Harrison? They always struck me as the more unlikely of the bunch.
So, as penance, and in an attempt to begin the long slow process of rebuilding my shattered self-image, the 4th floor of the Washington Post, at least the portion of it defined by my headphones, will be rocking out to the sounds of the Orchestra of Electric Light for the rest of the day.

"I don't like do it, I don't like shave, hair cut," Ovechkin said. "Too boring."

I guess thats just one more thing we have in common, after our shared birthday and comparable skill on the left wing.

If you are missing a six inch long, dark brown extension with a tasteful auburn highlight, its sitting in the middle of the intersection of K and 15th.

So it seems like most people I know actually enjoy going to their barber/salon/stylist. Not so much me. I don't know why. It pushes some personal barrier issue buttons with me that I can't explain. This more than anything is why I tend to let my hair grow really long between cuts. I try to limit myself to 3, maybe 4 haircuts a year. I would just let it go, but being blessed by thin, straight, boring locks and a prominent forehead, that is not such a great idea.
So this weekend I bought a decent pair of clippers, and I have decided that I am going to train Dre to cut hair. Specifically mine.

Unless... Do any of you people I call friends have secret grooming skills?. I have discovered in the past that my other-people-touching-my-hair-issue extends only to strangers. So if I know you and you think you can make my hair shorter and hipper without sending me to work with a mohawhk (not that that would necessarily be a problem, my work enviro is pretty lax) I will totally pay you the 20 dollars I would be forking over to some stranger.

Or (and preferably) I can bake you some sugar cookies and go crazy decorating them. I have been doing a lot of decorative baking recently. Too much really. I can still taste the royal icing I mixed on Friday.

I have copies the Energy drink story for guest stars Ana, Chris, Chris and Cyndi. For those of you not in the story, you can pick up a copy on Sunday the 21st. I imagine it will be online, but the printed edition is going to look so much better. Me section reproduces terribly on the intarnets.

Next up: a story about local hip-hop venues in DC.