Saturday, October 1, 2005

Don't Bring a Knife to a Gunfight

I'd heard the rumors.

"Watch yourself around the Columbia Heights Metro late at night." It had become a standard admonition among DC's new gentry, the pioneers too broke to live the downtown dream closer to areas suitable for The Gap and Ann Taylor. These were the folks hoping the successful turnarounds of the Logan Circle and U Street neighborhoods augured well for their new homes, in "transitional" zones called Mount Pleasant and Petworth, atop the lowlands to the south.

"It can be dangerous," they'd occasionally add, looking at me but also past me, as if I were purposefully blocking a street crime now in progress.

I considered myself immune to such thoughts - I'd moved to Washington nine years earlier, before the flood of homebuyers bouyed by the tech and then defense spending booms, and later insanely low interest rates, drove real estate prices through the roof. Back then, my neighbors were working class Latinos, hardscrabble non-profit types, and holdovers from DC's long gone era of prosperity. The streets of Adams Morgan were dirty, the bars dingy; out-of-towners, from heartland America and inside the Beltway, sniffed at the prospect of walking its sidewalks.

"What a shithole," they'd say. "Is it safe there?"

Of course it's safe, I thought. My housemates and I shared a crumbling a row house and strolled around town, at all hours, with an abandon familiar to Opie Taylor and the Mayberry crowd. Sure, we ran into some kooks now and then, but they were the eccentric kind, known for aggressive panhandling and not much else. And as they disappeared, replaced by upscale coffee shops and users of ubiquitous MP3 equipment, I thought wistfully of the early days, when I was an Urban Trendsetter.

Now the newcomers, those on the Northwest frontier, were complaining of their dangerous neighbors, sounding an awful lot like the suburbanites I disdained years before. Columbia Heights, dangerous? No more than the Adams Morgan of not-so-long ago. I knew that kind of danger; Columbia Heights is nothin'.

That's what I figured when I bought my condo at 16th and Columbia Rd., a 5 minute walk from the Columbia Heights Metro. I'd only used that stop on my morning commute, but my travels last Friday brought me to the steps of the subway platform at 2 AM. I walked a friend there on my way home, then headed toward my apartment building after parting ways.

Enroute, I approached two men lurking in the shadows, conversing in low tones before parting ways. I passed the first man and was fast approaching the second, walking in the same direction as me. He was a small man, with the wacky hair of a comedian counting on general craziness to compensate for a lack of good material. Within moments, we were walking abreast, and then...

"Hey man, what's goin' on?" he said, angling toward my left side. I bolted into the street, less fearful of the oncoming car than my new little friend. I struggled to summon some appropriate small talk, but he thankfully relieved me of the responsbility when the oncoming car veered away from us.

"I don't want to hurt you. Give me your wallet." He sounded like my accountant.

I checked him out as if assessing the attributes of a seventeen-year-old cheerleader, substituting my tits and ass scan with a quick search for guns and knives. I could only discern his fists, so, looking him dead in the eyes, I replied in the manner of a seventeen-year-old cheerleader: "Whatever." I wanted to give him a second chance to brandish his weapon. I could always give him my wallet later.

With this my foe abruptly changed tactics: "Can you give me a dollar?"

My database of incredulous put-downs provided numerous suitable responses, but in the end I chose the simplicity of Nancy Reagan's anti-drug campaign: "No." With this we were approaching the floodlights of 16th Street, so my friend, sensitive to bright lamps, receded back into the shadows, offering an olive branch before disappearing for good...

"No offense, ok?"

Referring back to my database, I shouted back: "Enjoy it while you can!"

My scream provided a satisfying release, but it didn't dispel my new suspicion that maybe, just maybe, this Columbia Heights place, beyond being a little dangerous, is nothing quite like the Mayberry I knew when I first moved to Washington.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Cuddly Yankees Tame Inflation, Sox

Those plucky Yankees have done it again! Cursed with a payroll that once dwarfed the national debt, these vagabonds, survivors of both the 1997 All-Star game and 2005 waiver wire, have overcome their rivals and now stand atop the American League East. Their improbable run, which has dampened the championship hopes of the mighty Orioles and Devil Rays, also threatens the reign of everyone's second-favorite lost cause (after Bill Clinton, natch), the Boston Red Sox. And while their lead of one game is not insurmountable, the Yankees, in their familiar underdog role, have captured the hearts of baseball fans throughout New York City, and even parts of New Jersey, prompting an unprecedented outpouring of support for the team, some say as far south as turnpike exit 7. Even George Steinbrenner, the always sensible owner of the team, is totally excited, unequivocally guaranteeing the safety of manager Joe Torre's job through October 2nd.

Alas, Red Sox Nation, unmoved by the Yankees' triumphant tale of perseverance and sacrifice, has vowed to derail New York's title hopes and deprive the country of the feel-good story it so badly needs. And thus, the stage is set: three games, the final weekend of the season. A morality play in which the forces of wholesome American goodness, the Pinstripers themselves, will face off against the rag-tag cavemen and ex-cons representing Boston. Although the result is by no means certain - there's no controlling the influence of self-serving Republican tricksters - Providence clearly favors the clean-cut Yankees over the dastardly Sox.

My prediction: Yanks take series, 2-1, win AL East.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

And Then, I Saw Coke

Hi. I'm 31 years old. I have a steady job and own my apartment. Oh, and by the way, Labor Day was huge for me this year - I finally got to see cocaine! Sure, that's two weeks ago now, but it's taken me awhile to internalize the experience.

I was in NYC to watch the US Open and, it turns out, the friends I was staying with are major fans of the stuff. It must have been 4 o'clock or so when we returned to the apartment after a night of, let's face it, binge drinking, when my buddy "Brett" pulls out this tiny baggie full of you know what. I was not nearly as wasted as everyone else, so I'm trying to play it cool, not exactly looking away from the Evil but not transfixed either. Anyway, I pretended to watch TV as Brett carefully made some lines with his subway fare card; I remember thinking what a shame it was that pretty soon he'd be snorting the stuff, and after all that hard work too.

Anyway, a couple people go up to the kitchen counter and take a big whiff, then retire to their seats. I figure they're gearing up for yet another round of heavy drinking, and perhaps will be hitting the streets again very soon. Cocaine!!! I tiptoed up to the counter, hoping to avoid notice and an invitation to snort (I'm incredibly weak under peer pressure, as my poor record of refusing pot attests), and prepared for the awesome sight of long, thick lines of coke. Well, let me just tell you, those lines were the puniest little things I've ever seen. I can not be redundant enough in describing how miniscule they were. I seriously doubt a rodent would get high off lines that size. Anyway, the best part was, everyone went straight to sleep immediately afterwards. Isn't cocaine supposed to pick you up for further misadventures? I totally didn't get it, but at least I refused the coke when I was asked to try...

Monday, June 6, 2005

French Method Actors Complicate Prospects for Real Tort Reform

The presiding judge, or rather the actor portraying him, appeared heartbroken by the verdict. Duty, and the mandates of Luc Besson's script, required that he dispatch the lovely and dangerous Nikita (of La Femme Nikita fame) to state prison for a period no less than 30 years. His hunched shoulders and downcast expression, coupled with the reluctant monotone that accompanied his reading of the sentence, betrayed a sympathy foreign to the courtrooms of American cinema.

"What a shame," he seemed to be thinking as he shuffled down from his bench; "Free men would kill for an ass like that. Our pool of potential mistresses took a severe blow on this day."

It was a portrayal most Americans, in my view, would find patently offensive, as centuries of general bellicosity have conditioned us to gleefully embrace the incarceration of almost anyone at any time. Trust me, nothing's more arousing than the sight of an aging barrister, seated purposefully erect atop an impossibly high perch, passing severe judgment on a hapless thug destined, without variation, for Sodomy State Prison.

I'm always impressed with how they sternly squeeze the maximum sentence through their tightly pursed lips; they're just so enraged and disgusted, yet so satisfied with their handiwork. "The likes of you will NEVER torment this hamlet ever again!" they say. With this I half expect them to pull a fresh toothpick from their robes and, perhaps after a shot of cognac or a benediction, get on with liberating all the bloody chunks of convict stew lodged between their teeth. Alas, our vicars of jurisprudence always defer this upkeep to their chambers, thus ensuring their sturdy and self-righteous jaws remain clenched while on screen.

In any case, this trans-Atlantic contrast in judicial styles naturally begs the question: which approach, cinematically speaking, is superior? The French method provides a helpful cue to the audience, revealing, in a cloying fashion not uncommon among former world powers, that while Nikita may appear to be a raving lunatic bitch, she's also human and worthy of respect. The downside, however, is the notion the audience actually needs this prompt - by the time Nikita's judge is sniffling his way through her sentence, it's painfully clear that Nikita is our protagonist. I mean, all of her buddies are dead; who the hell else are we gonna root for?

As such, the dominance of the American archtype is confirmed. Instead of inferring sympathies from the subtle expression of a character's motives and feelings, which could be easily missed by any ticketholder expected to work more than 35 hours a week, we Yanks rely on blatant means for achieving the same goal, and with greater effect.

How? Well, our preference for the heavy-handed portrayal of any court's presiding official serves two useful purposes. First, it foments our irrationally negative perception of government and the law; and, second, it frees us to thoroughly enjoy the visual spectacle of film, especially as it relates to Ron Jeremy's first Tenet of Movie-Making - the hero's the one with the biggest tits.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Daily, Once a Week... Who's Counting?

Just don't toss me in there with the burgeoning class of world-weary American husbands, whose failure to perform their matrimonial duty - say, more than once a week, according to Gladys and Inez at Pan American Laundry - has condemned us both to a Republican majority AND Desperate Housewives. Think about it - why else would an otherwise sensible woman vote DeLay?

Guys, get with the program; love your women... Biblically! Even The Hammer would approve.

Of course, ol' Tom is probably fuming over the Senate compromise preserving the minority's right to filibuster judicial nominations, a deal which, sadly, ended that chamber's struggle to debate no meaningful legislation before Memorial Day. Alas, no one tells John McCain what to do, not the VietCong and certainly not Bill Frist. Well, okay, maybe George Bush (43 vintage), but that's only because he can help with the '08 presidential race. Maybe. Otherwise, McCain's one independent motherfucker.

So let's toast the "extraordinary circumstances" under which the Democrats may someday filibuster without fear of Republican retribution. My money's on next week. That's when they'll discover that John Bolton (our UN ambassador-designate), among his numerous unappealing personal traits, has yellow-cake uranium concealed in the wirey spindles of his mustache! Oh, the conflict! Somehow, I suspect we haven't heard the last of the so-called nucuelar option.

But still, kudos go to the maverick moderates, whose compromise language evinced some really new thinking on the notion of "last resort" in American legislative circles. Now the Democrats will have little recourse when, under normal circumstances, they wish simply to be dicks. For that, conservatives everywhere should be very pleased indeed.

Coming soon... Original ideas!

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

IT Manager: Self-Importance Justifies 'Honey Monkey Heads'

WASHINGTON, May 23 - Douglas Helfgot, an unheralded dreamer known mainly to the stalwarts of Toledo Lounge and Fox and Hounds, today announced plans for a blog devoted to his day-to-day existence. The serial will be known as 'Honey Monkey Heads' and cater to people who've been to China but in reality know absolutely nothing about the place.

"It's empirical: my bowel movements are of great interest to defecators worldwide. This, among the other peculiarities of my digestive tract - and any additional tracts as yet unknown - will engross a broad range of first-year medical students, as well as sentient tapeworms," said Helfgot, by day an IT professional with Cable Titan, Inc.

He stressed that his musings, while focused on the scatological during today's sparsely attended press conference, will not be restricted to this realm. "No output from my body's numerous orifices will go undiscussed - that is my weblog guarantee!" Helfgot's lawyer, Edison Overstreet, quickly undercut this claim, noting that nothing blog-worthy normally emanates from the medulla oblongata. Nonetheless, the comment still earned a rousing response from the group of apathetic teens bused in for the event from Ronald Wilson Reagan Washington National High School of the District of Columbia, courtesy of Principal Rick Long's innovative detention release program, "No Sex Before Six P.M."

Beyond the often unseemly by-products of natural biological processes, Helfgot promised insightful commentary on the overlooked aspects of "our socioeconomic and poli-tainment milieu" and expressed special hope for "stimulating" posts involving ad-hominem attacks and schadenfreude.

"Let's face it; there's nothing more amusing than a forceful kick to the genitals, as long as the genitals are not your own." At this, Mikey Benson, a hulking twenty-one-year-old sophomore at National High, extinguished like his fifth cigarette and declared, in a surprising if inexact display of linguistic dexterity, "Non-sequitur!" before lighting up yet again and texting his "bitch." No one - definitely not this reporter - bothered to inform him of the Rhode Island Avenue Inn's no-smoking regulation, nor to correct him when he later referred to the ceiling tiles as "non-sequitur pieces of shit."

Honey Monkey Heads goes "live" Tuesday, May 24, and will be updated daily, "Monday through Friday, barring holidays, unplanned benders, laziness, planned benders, and the rites normally embraced by disgruntled IT managers."