“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.”
That quote is from one of the many writing books that clutter my shelves: “The Writing Life” by Anne Dillard.
It should be etched above every monument and public school entrance.
Advice from writers is usually a variant on “cut the bullshit and establish a positive routine.”
I only made one formal resolution this year:
Since my last promotion, I have been in the office well before 7 a.m. almost every morning.
Jack chose his “friends” primarily based on looks, so we’d inevitably end up in a large group of guys who were as bored with themselves as they were with each other.
One day we ended up at a large table at Lush with about 10 of his “friends.” The “workout routine conversation” was exhausted the night before and we weren’t allowed to talk about school or work because half of the table was under-employed.
So the group was dead silent as everyone browsed the Grindr profiles of the guys next to them.
It was sad, and awkward.
I excused myself to the restroom, where I ran into my friend Jill.
Jill: “You’re at quite the A-list table today. They are all so pretty!”
Me: “Being on the A-list is pretty fucking miserable then.”
Things in my second year look dramatically different – I have a boyfriend, a new dog, and a promotion at work – the Lowertown life is great.
I also discovered that there is an express bus that is actually quicker than driving to the office, so I rarely use my gas guzzler anymore.
I couldn’t have fathomed bus commuting to work even one year ago.
The faux-car-less life is amazing.
It is going to be even better during winter because 1) driving in the suburbs with snow is terrifying, and 2) the office campus is so huge that the walk to the front of the building can take 15 minutes, which is brutal in -20 degrees.
Plus, the bus pass is only $85 for 31 days. (Way cheaper than gas.)
I’m also able to buy new passes at the office, which is insanely convenient. I’m smitten.
Transportation aside, I love living on Mears Park, the Farmers’ Market, the restaurant options, the Cathedral, and all of the gorgeous architecture:
A shot of downtown St. Paul overlooking the ghetto Walgreens and Bruegger’s Bagels. It’s a beautiful area but usually crawling with creeps.
The Green Line station in front of the Union Depot in downtown St. Paul. It is in front of the Bedlam Theater and the CoCo Coworking Space.
The Fitzgerald Theater in downtown St. Paul. It’s run by Minnesota Public Radio and hosts shows like A Prairie Home Companion.
Thankfully, I’m far more active in St. Paul during the winter than I used to live in Minneapolis, even without having to rely on a car.
Last time I was in Miami, it was February and miserably cold in Minnesota. I realized that I spent minimal time outside because being outside felt extremely weird.
The Galtier Towers and Mears Park in downtown St. Paul during winter.
It’s also open until 2 a.m., which is highly convenient for wintertime bar hopping if you don’t piss off the cops.
We are in downtown St. Paul for at least another year, and then may try something else. But for now it’s a great life choice.
It’s exhausting. He wouldn’t be so reluctant to go outside if I still put him in a kennel – then shitting in the closet wouldn’t be an option.
Gunter is a Chihuahua Dachshund mix that is extremely lazy.
Gunter is a Chihuahua Dachshund mix that is extremely lazy.
Gunter is a Chihuahua Dachshund mix that is extremely lazy.
Gunter is a Chihuahua Dachshund mix that is extremely lazy.
Boaters on the Mississippi River outside of downtown St. Paul.
A close up of boaters on the Mississippi River outside of downtown St. Paul.
I’d own a boat if I wasn’t so price sensitive and grossed out by non-chlorinated fresh water.
So I wouldn’t own a boat.
I used to think “those dog owners” were obnoxious, but clothing is actually a necessity for some dogs.
Günter starts shivering anytime it gets under 65 degrees, so the sweaters help.
Gunter is a two year old Chiweenie (half chihuahua, half dachshund).
This particular sweater is from Walmart.
I got it for $4 on sale.
Gunter is a two year old Chiweenie (half chihuahua, half dachshund).
While certain boutiques in St. Paul charge exorbitant prices, most major retailers like Target and Walmart have decent dog clothes for under $15.
I’m also not one of “those dog owners” who splurges on dog clothing. Who does that?
Gunter is a two year old Chiweenie (half chihuahua, half dachshund).
Hugo went from an awkward puppy that excitedly pees on our neighbors’ legs to an awkward young dog that eats our socks. This is progress.
Hugo, a Labrador and Greyhound (?) mix.
This is particularly challenging because many people go out of their way to greet Hugo, and almost all of them think the jumping thing is adorable.
Hugo, a Labrador and Greyhound (?) mix.
To complicate matters, I typically juggle my dog leashes with a coffee cup or cellphone in one hand, which isn’t ideal for control. What usually happens is that end up spilling coffee all over myself while attempting to keep Hugo off of an overexcited Lowertown tourist.
Hugo, a Labrador and Greyhound (?) mix.
The adoption papers from the Animal Humane Society listed Hugo as a Labrador mix, but didn’t really specify what the mix was.
Initially, everyone assumed that the brindle color must be a pitbull indication, but we suspect that Hugo is actually a Lab and Greyhound mix.
He’s developing an increasingly narrow frame and looks very similar to the brindle greyhounds living on our floor. So that could be it, right?
Hugo, a Labrador and Greyhound (?) mix.
We’ll likely have a better idea of what Hugo is after he’s fully grown. For now, we’ll leave the paternity speculation to Maury.
Summertime in Lowertown means that I have a standing weekend date with the St. Paul Farmers’ Market.
The optimal time to get there is between 9 and 10:30 a.m.
Before 9 a.m. most of the vendors don’t have their produce or price tags out yet. That’s a problem because the farmers’ market brings out my inner bargain hunter.
I actually turn into a 46-year-old sweatpants-wearing couponer named Blanche… and I need my deals!
That’s why I hate shopping before the farmers put their price cards out: I want to compare prices and I’m worried they’ll jack up the kale from $2 to $3 just because they see an eager buyer.
After 11 a.m., the farmers’ market begins to resemble the Minnesota State Fair in the worst ways possible: The rows fill up with tourists, strollers, and kids who think navigating a crowd is a contact sport.
By 11:30 the marketplace is so packed that it resembles the opening scene of a horror movie about an airborne pathogen. The veggies also begin looking musty and bees start to gather around the flower venders.
No thank you, mam.
Vegetables from the St. Paul Farmers’ Market in Lowertown.
The farmers’ market is really cheap, which makes it easy to overbuy.
I typically end of juicing at the end of the week just to get rid of unused vegetables. It’s less about health than avoiding my boyfriend’s side-eye as he watches me toss a rotten head of cabbage.
I’m jogging near Eagan when I come across some fields being worked by elderly Asian farmers.
Asian Farmers in Eagan, Minnesota
The plots were small, and most of the farmers have manual tools. I feel like I ran to Guizhou, or that I’m coming down with some serious heat stroke.
Farmers in the exurbs of Saint Paul, Minnesota
It takes a second for me to realize that these must be the venders from the farmers’ market!
Although I go to the market every weekend, I’ve never thought about where the food is actually grown.
I was fascinated and amused – I go to the farmers’ market because it’s right next to my house, not out of some strong desire to buy local. I’m sure the food is a lot healthier than the imported alternatives though.
I’m washing the dishes after dinner when I hear a WAMP-WAMP-WAMP coming from Mears Park.
Mitchell: “There’s a helicopter outside. Oh, there’s another one – and it has a bunch of guys with guns hanging out of it! What the hell?”
We rush to the window and see several helicopters circling low over the park. Apartment windows around the park fly open as people take pictures.
We exchange uncomfortable looks with our neighbors. Maybe there’s a manhunt going on? Terrorist attack?
Eventually, we have to take the dogs outside despite Mears Park feeling like Little Baghdad. We run into another dog walker in Mears Park and she tells us that the helicopters are part of urban warfare games.
Neighbor: “Yeah, I had to call the cops to ask if we were under attack, and they said that it was some urban warfare drill. They didn’t say how long it would take or what the hell they plan on using helicopters for. This isn’t Ferguson…”
On Twitter, a there’s a flood of St. Paul and Minneapolis downtowners bitching about the helicopters while tagging local news anchors (who also seem to be unaware of the drills.) The local news stations didn’t even announce the Defense Department training exercises until after they began.
The helicopters continue circling our park until after dark. We watch as the unlit helicopters swoop really close to the Galtier balconies. A few times it looks like the helicopters would land in alleyways.
Flying helicopters over residential neighborhoods is sketchy enough – flying war choppers next to people’s balconies without notice is completely unacceptable.
My neighborhood isn’t a war game arena, and the police (or feds, whatever) should make us feel safe, and not be terrifying us with unannounced military exercises. The training is expected to continue for a few days, so hopefully it’s something that we can get used to.
By afternoon, the pictures come – first of plane parts, then bodies.
Next, links to graphic Russian news streams, airing passports of children and AIDS researchers.
The news stream is also dotted with memorial posts to some actress I’ve never heard of.
Then come the flares of Israelis entering Gaza, and a White House lockdown due a suspicious package.
My favorite German tabloids quickly switch from soccer coverage to assigning blame. More gory pictures follow.
German Tabloid blaming the Russians for the MH17 crash.
It’s also a huge waste of time. I should have ignored the news and just gone to a horror movie during lunch – it would have accomplished the same thing.
Tim Ferris describes going on a “news diet” in one of his books. Ferris boosts his productivity and stays focused by skimming daily headlines instead of getting lost in stories.
The rationale for this news diet is that “news” – especially international news – is just a form of entertainment for most of us.
In this sense “entertainment” is akin to watching a horror film, documentary, or particularly lurid reality show.
Americans typically pay attention to international stories when there’s an element of tragedy or sensationalism. It’s a form of morbid entertainment.
Sure, it is more socially acceptable to be preoccupied with a foreign tragedy than the legal problems of a Bravo Housewife, but these events are equally irrelevant to the lives of most Americans.
I followed play-by-play coverage of the Crimea invasion from my computer screen. I also read endless coverage about suicide bombings in distant lands, drug cartel murders, substandard labor conditions, tax fraud, poor Emmy dresses, and celebrity meltdowns.
No article, picture, graphic live stream, or amount of “informed outrage” on my part is going to change the course of these events or have a meaningful impact on my life.
It’s a form of work day distraction.
It’s entertainment.
I’m acutely aware that I’m “goofing off” when I’m on TMZ or Buzzfeed during the day. Maybe it’s time for me to start considering trolling Reuters, BBC and Politico as the same type of behavior.
One of the great things about Twitter is that you can watch news stories break in real time. Simply create a “list column” of reporters in Tweetdeck and you’ll see a steady stream of retweeted photos and links.
Twitter is how I watched the Boston Marathon attacks unfold.
The problem is that vast majority of these Twitter reporters aren’t on-scene. Breaking events are an echo-chamber of unverified sources, theft, rumor, and doctored images.
Sifting through the crap is a highly entertaining exercise, but I don’t really gain any more information than I receive during the 5 p.m. MPR News recap on the way home from work. It’s just an educated way of goofing off, and probably something I should stop.
In college, the middle aged aunt of a classmate told me that she was an undercover 23-year-old.
She said:
“There’s never a magical day when you wake up and say, ‘Now I am adult.‘ Sure, you learn more things and have more experiences. Your body also ages and stops doing what you want it to. But I suspect most people stop growing emotionally around their mid-twenties, if they are lucky. I’m 23, actually.”
I haven’t celebrated Official Adult Day, but I certainly don’t feel like a 23-year-old.
Last summer I was busy traveling and upgrading apartments. This summer I’m raising puppies, starting a business, and doubling down on my career. Those are enough adult-like activities for now.
Here are five things I’ve learned so far:
If you want a job, be overqualified. If you want a promotion, outperform your coworkers. If you want a date, be charming (or at least have a job.)
Or, as Frank Chimero puts it: “Clearly labeling other people’s petty grievances as bullshit is a fast track to well-being and fewer complaints of your own.”
We all know that guy with the flashy car, expensive condo, impossible body, and amazing parties.
Everyone thinks he’s a jerk.
Also, the shirtless Instagrams/Snapchats are ridiculous, regardless of how great your abs are.
I can go months without seeing my best friends, but we are still closer than the bar acquaintances I run into every week.
In law school, there were three paths to good grades:
The people who did #3 had the best results with the least amount of stress.
Figuring out what actually matters to your boss also helps in the corporate world. (Doubling the target numbers is a great way to get promoted.)
I might enter middle management, get a LLM or MBA, move for a new company, or do a combination thereof.
Having options is nice, and maybe that’s what an adult is all about.
Shepard Road completely flooded near my apartment. Raspberry Island was close to disappearing too.
Wabasha and Robert Street bridges were covered with photographers and onlookers.
The pictures livened up my dull Instagram account, but downtown St. Paul is situated on a bluff, so the only things that actually got flooded by were a bunch of parks, surface lots, and the street by the river.
I had the horrible experience of being stuck in one of the storms during a dog walk – Gunter and I were halfway across the High Bridge when we saw a huge wall of rain rush down the river valley. We ran to a wooded area for cover, but eventually got so soaked that we had to start walking home.
I haven’t been soaked to my underbritches since leaving Miami, and I don’t miss that gross feeling at all.
The majority of these people seem to wander over from the homeless shelter across town or from the bus stops on Minnesota Street.
That’s why call them tourists.
We have just arrived in at the park when one of our neighbors approaches us. She’s a short blond woman who owns a dachshund.
Like most of our neighbors, we recognize her dog, but have no clue what her name is.
Neighbor: “Sorry if this is weird, but can I borrow one of your phones to call the police? I forgot mine.”
Me: “Uh…sure…what…what’s going on?”
Neighbor: “There’s this guy over there passed out in the middle of the sidewalk. I talked to him and he’s completely out of it. He’s drunk.”
I walk to the center of the park and see a middle aged white guy sleeping on a backpack near the Galtier Tower.
His drunk mumbling instantly brought me back to my RA days, herding passed out freshmen.
Our passed out friend hears the sirens and springs to life. He’s already propped up on the railing of the fountain when the fire truck swings around the corner.
About six paramedics jump out of the firetruck. We point them toward the drunkard.
The paramedics briefly talk to the drunk guy and then stroll back to the truck while rolling their eyes. This guy is obviously not worth their time.
A St. Paul Police squad car pulls onto the sidewalk as the paramedics leave. A police officer briefly chats up the drunk guy and eventually tells him to move along.
By this time about a dozen of our neighbors are huddled around us with their dogs, intently watching the cop car.
I was surprised that the cop initially let this guy go in the first place, given how drunk he was. Two weeks ago we saw 6 or 7 cops swarm a black guy who was drinking beer in the park.
The now-awake guy walks toward the Bulldog Restaurant on the other side of the park. He reaches the corner of the park just as the fire truck rounds the corner.
The drunk guy starts screaming at the fire truck. We all watch as the cop jumps in his car, speeds 50 feet across the park, hops out, and slaps handcuffs on the drunk guy who he should have arrested in the first place.
We begin telling the drunkard arrest story to one of our neighbors when we notice a cop car on 5th Street.
The squad car screeches to a halt near the bus stop across from the park.
Two cops get of the squad car and a black guy immediately starts running down the street. The cops chase after the guy as he screams “PLEASE! PLEASE! DON’T SHOOT ME!”
The cops get the guy on the ground but he keeps screaming. Backup squad cars materialize and soon we have about six cops on the street.
Predictably, the lights and commotion attracts a bunch of our dog walking neighbors.
They gather around us just in time to watch the cops pull a gun off the guy and place it in an evidence bag before throwing him in the back of a squad car.
St. Paul police officers arresting someone in Mears Park.
Shortly after the last squad car left, another Mears Park regular walks up to us. He lives by the nearby Wacouta Commons Park and owns a bug-eyed Chihuahua.
Me: “You missed the show.”
Wacouta Guy: “Oh?”
Me: “Yep. Someone was just arrested at the bus stop. He had a gun.”
Wacouta Guy: “Ugh. I came to this park to get away from that kind of show. I just called the cops before the dog walk — a guy was getting beat up by a group in front of my condo.”
Great.
Stay classy, St. Paul.
The place is an assault to the senses – howling dogs, employees trying to manage the hoard of would-be adopters, and the overpowering stench of dog piss.
It was in this chaos that we found Hugo, our new dog.
No one believes us.
The conversations usually go something like this:
Neighbor: “Oh what a beautiful puppy, what type is he?”
Me: “A lab and retriever mix.”
Neighbor: “Looks like a pit bull to me.”
Me: “The pound didn’t tell us about any pit bull mix. Other dogs have brindle colors too…”
Neighbor: “Well your secret is safe with me.”
Me: “What secret? THERE IS NO SECRET. I HAVE NOTHING TO HIDE. DAMN IT.”
Günter was initially territorial and bitchy to Hugo. He’d constantly growl and snap at Hugo, especially around toys.
Then Hugo realized that he was bigger than Günter….and that he could mug him for toys.
Tangentially – my building management company recently reduced their list of banned dog breeds. We now have a 200-bound mastiff in the building, and bullmastiffs are allowed too! (About a year too late however.)
Hugo would pounce on Günter, causing a fight. We’d scream. The dogs would scatter, and then start up a few minutes later.
Then we hit a turning point where they actually started playing with eachother.
Luckily my building strictly relies on adoption paperwork, so the pit bull rumors weren’t a factor in adopting him.
Mitchell with Günter, our Chiweenie.
I think they wore each other out.
Hugo is only three months old, so that means he’s not potty trained yet. He pees everywhere.
He pees on the carpet. He pees in the toy box.
He pees in the kitchen. He pees when you let him out of the kennel.
He even (tries) to pee in the lobby.
It’s exhausting.
One day we were on the way to Mears Park when a couple asked to pet Hugo. So of course Hugo leaps up and pisses all over the guys leg.
We were mortified (and slightly amused.)
He’s working on it.
Kind of.
Jakey is a local celebrity, best known for his standup comedy. Through his blog, Jakey has basically become Minneapolis’s gay Carrie Bradshaw. (Seriously – the posts are hilarious.)
I remember feeling amused and a bit jealous while reading Jakey’s blog.
Geoff and I agreed that there was no way that we could write about dating, work, and bar creatures without major repercussions.
As a comedian with a retail job, it seemed like Jakey was free to write about the ridiculous experiences that most of us go through but can’t speak publicly about.
I used to believe that the best bloggers were in special situations that made it “safe” to write. (Remember when Heather Armstrong got fired?)
I realized today that this notion is crap.
This blog is worth maintaining solely for the digital scrapbooking factor.
I love, (and am sometimes horrified by) my ability to read what I wrote 10 years ago.
That’s amazing, but only possible by sticking to it.
I’m also jumping on Frank Chimero’s “Homesteading” bandwagon. Frank noted that the web has become a completely siloed place where we abandon our blogs in favor of places like Instagram or Tumblr. (Many of my old blogs were akin to Instagram posts.)
Although I’ll still post to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc. I’m going to step up my blogging game.
Blogs are still the best way to generate thoughtful in-depth content, and blogs like this will likely outlive the social network of the moment.
So hi.
I’m back.
I took the red-eye to Miami and joined the mass of friends and relatives.
This blog is about to have its nine year anniversary, so I figured I should dust it off and say hello.
I started blogging as a middle school student on Diaryland and Livejournal. I moved to WordPress sometime during college and never looked back.
I wrote longer posts during my freshman year that eventually tapered off into picture posts with vague captions. My junior and senior year were all about applying to grad school, then law school.
My blog really took off during law school and received a couple thousand hits a day. As with many law school blogs, things slowed down significantly after I started working in the real world.
Part of the silence around here is laziness. There’s also some paranoia from the lack of anonymity that my social networks afford.
Maybe I’m just too old to gush about my date-of-the-moment or lack thereof online.
That seemed okay during college, but it feels a little sad now that everyone’s getting married…
I left the keys with my neighbors and I’m officially a St. Paul boy now.
As a kid, I was really into John Grisham. I wanted to be the power-lawyers in his books – working long hours in big cities.
The law degree happened (at a decent school), and so did the long hours (albeit in advertising.) And so did the yuppie lifestyle…
It’s nice to be here, but I decided tonight that this is just another step (rather than an end-point.)
My friend Tyler came over and we rehashed my crazy apartments and exes. We both decided that I’ve come a long way, but I still got some work left to do.
What I didn’t expect is that this ambition thing comes with a permanent sense of unrest. I can barely enjoy achieving goals because I’m already working on the next big thing.
Minneapolis was fun, but I’m too busy in St. Paul to reminiscence properly. These are my first world problems.
After making it Iowa City and Chicago Gay Pride, I decided to surprise my mother in Miami. I haven’t been back to Miami in two years and she was not expecting me to just arrive at her doorstep at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
Miami is as pretty and crazy as I remember it. Breast implants, crazy cars, body builders and drag queens…
And palms. Lots of palms.
Working from my South Beach hotel was amazing and I’ve determined that working vacations need to be a part of my life.
I was exhausted and my liver hurt, so I spent the rest of the summer enjoying Minneapolis. I made a point of going to the lakes and parks about three times a week and it was amazing. Minnesota isn’t half bad during the summer.
At the beginning of August I began the epic move to Lowertown St. Paul.
It reminded me of that line from White Noise – “The more things I threw away, the more I found.” – I was just horrified by how much crap I own and ended up throwing a ton of it out.
Oh and yes, Ikea furniture is still horrible to put together. I had to have two friends help me with that bar stool. These are my first world problems.
I am so happy that I made the move to downtown St. Paul. This city is cute, historic, and I’m having a lot of fun.
I made some hard choices to make it possible, but the incredible opportunities I had to travel and network make me sure that I made the right decision.
I’m excited for fall and my new adventures in St. Paul.
Oh, and sleeping. I miss that.