Bewildered Platypus

Sucking Wind

2007-07-16T13:29:00.000-04:00

I visited Cuzco, Peru to hike the Inca Trail, just as fledgling dot-coms everywhere were coughing up blood. My company dropped free lunch, massage benefits, and staff (including me) at nearly the rate it exhausted venture capital. For the first time since “profession” became the accepted shorthand for WHO I WAS – “He studied history? But he’s in computers!” – I was unemployed. Identity-less, I groped around for my second act, fortunate the stigma of joblessness, even among young climbers in Washington, DC, had faded with each astonishing increase in the number of good-looking, well-bred people consumed by the bust.

Pink slips were the new Purple Hearts, to be celebrated, not pitied, a cosmic click of life’s reset button.

I gladly embraced unemployment and the freedom – and possibilities – it provided. I studied the classifieds with the excitement of a college student perusing the course catalog. “Yeah, I think I’ll go after that editor job,” I’d say, as though I needed a Tuesday-Thursday class to work around my Ultimate Frisbee schedule, mindless that I, a long time manager of technology projects, hadn’t the experience normally required of editorial types. Or copywriters. Or hack political operatives. To me, what mattered was that I had the skills – no, the aptitude – for these positions. The actual skills could come later.

After all, years of pop-culture consumption had inverted my once-grounded worldview. My parents were big on humility and hard work, but before long the promise of tee-ball, calculators, and, much later, the morning-after pill had turned me against their shrewd wisdom. Life, it seemed, could be easy. And then there were the films affirming this or that triumph of the human spirit, set, as if by law, in some exotic locale chosen for its epiphany-yielding traits.
In particular, I remember Superman.

As a confused teen, he left Kansas for the North Pole to clear his head and inaugurate what became, in Metropolis, a self-styled Reign of Terror. There was just something, I guess, in all that ice and snow that freed him from his Red State ennui. Yet Superman was not alone. Countless others, on screen and off, in a sort of real and imagined circle of discovery, found meaning in Tibet and Nepal, Patagonia and South Africa, and, more chillingly, Florida. And although I didn’t consider it seriously – would I find my purpose in Peru? – I nonetheless hoped for a major breakthrough on the paved track of the Inca Trail.

The Trail, which extends hundreds of kilometers, for most hikers amounts to the 25 mile stretch between Piscacucho, three hours south of Cuzco, and Machu Picchu, the renowned spiritual center of the Inca Empire. The route promised ample opportunity for my Superman moment, as it passed over diverse terrain winding past several archeological sites far removed from the dim fluorescent glow of everyday life. I was certain the scenery, compounded by the insights of our guide, Carlos, would yield not only my personal watershed, but also an enthusiastic testimonial for the local tourist authority.

“This place will change your life, man!’ Derek, USA”

Carlos, it seemed, suffered from no existential strife. As the English-speaking leader of a desperate gang of porters and back-country cooks, he had definitely made it, and his smile, curled startlingly upward in the corners, proclaimed the shock of his good fortune. His crew –five or six men pulled from a pack of Quechuan day-laborers – was not as lucky, temp workers skilled in the hauling tents and foodstuffs if not word processing or reception. For them, the four-day journey wasn’t proof of their chosen status, but rather an opportunity to make twenty or so dollars, with tips, and dream of something better.

My fellow hikers were all stalwarts of the world’s privileged civilizations, featuring the usual blend of checklist-toting American slackers, upright Canadians, and a perpetually stupefied Dutch couple, who spoke only in exclamatory sentences. Among them was my friend Jesse, with whom I endured the indignities of high school, college, and, now, “1722,” the crumbling home we occupied Stateside with four slovenly and sloth-like trolls. We set out from the ranger station at mid-day and quickly crossed the short footbridge leading onto the path of salvation. I was ready for some signs, and adjusted my cap so the meddling sun, already blinding at 9000 feet, wouldn’t keep me from seeing them.

The first section of trail, winding along the south side of the Urubamba River, doesn’t require much in terms of technique; it’s mostly flat, with a pounded dirt surface, and can be traversed easily. As we quickly passed by the sandy dunes and scrub brush lining the route, I looked down at my steel soled hiking boots, tied tightly around the ankles in expectation of a Bataan-style death march, with boundless pity. Zoo animals were more likely to utilize their peculiar adaptations than my waterproof trail stompers. I loosened my boots and stepped in deep puddles whenever conditions allowed.

After about an hour the path started rising into the mountains, but at a manageable incline which buoyed the confidence of my companions, many of whom dreaded the looming threat of altitude sickness. The arid landscape of the first few kilometers gradually yielded to lush woodland terrain, and then our first glimpse of Inca ruins. We viewed the complex of small stone buildings and terraces from 500 feet above, on a plateau en route to Dead Woman’s Pass, the highest point on our journey. Not much was known about this particular site, as Carlos quickly made clear.

“In this place, maybe the Inca grow food, to feed the people of the Inca. Look at the ground; the Inca build little boxes – how you say… terraces? – for the farming in the mountains. Maybe the Inca make sacrifices to the god of Mother Earth, Pacha Mama, who lives on the mountain, giving thanks for the food… in this place.” Carlos was an unwitting master of symmetry, beginning and ending each of his soliloquies with “in this place.” His conclusion was always whispered, as if not to disturb Pacha Mama, and accompanied by a downcast expression. Arms extended outward, he emphasized the sanctity of the location by bobbing his hands up and down, in case we too didn’t know the English word for “here.”

We knew he was done when he flashed his toothy grin. It was as if to say “Maybe you want a refund? Please, no questions, it’s a long way to Machu Picchu.” With that we’d snap some photos and get moving again.

The Trail was loaded with rousing vistas, the type known well to office drones used to motivational posters and their empowering slogans. “Teamwork” or “Perseverance” they might say.

Pacha Mama was a snow-encrusted spire, almost invisible in the mid-day sun; she towered over the nearby mountains. What concept did she convey to the Inca as they trod by on the path to and from Cuzco? Did they stop as I did, desperate to remember? And what of the next batch of ruins, built on a precipice above the clouds? Did they watch the billowy tufts combine haphazardly with their neighbors, then separate again, like four-year-olds bumbling through a dance routine? I was certain of one thing; unlike those drones back home, they definitely weren’t thinking thoughts of “Determination.”

As our elevation increased, I focused on the metaphor leading us, over precisely laid stones, up to the high pass. It was getting harder to breathe as I neared the top, and the trail narrowed. I stopped several times to catch my breath, but not for too long. The air was getting thinner, and no amount of rest could prevent me from having to stop again after thirty or so paces. At one point, I imagined an ancient messenger, standing in my place, wondering if this was truly what Inti, the Inca sky god, had in mind for him at his birth. “Damn those lucky high priests and scribes!” he might have thought. Did he liken his route, to some temple in the distance, as the path of revival?

I knew that the analogy was imperfect; a winding trail leading gradually upward, toward some far off pinnacle, was not exactly how one experiences personal growth in America, not at the dawn of the 21st century anyway. In school they encourage you to pick a destination – what do you want to be when you grow up? – and then set you about getting there, eyes on the monolith in the distance. Trudging forward on the trail, I found this approach lacking. When I returned home, would I look for another technology job? Where does one find alternative monoliths?

Jesse and I made it to the pass together, and that afternoon settled into our camp on another mountain ridge, still above the clouds. Carlos was telling tales again, and the sun descended behind the peaks across from us, beyond the enshrouded valley. The temperature sank thirty degrees in about an hour, so Jesse and I – the others were huddled in their tents – started a fire and passed a bottle of bourbon between us, fighting the cold and waiting for the darkness.

“Maybe you see all the stars tonight,” Carlos said.

The wind picked up as twilight yielded to the night sky; the campfire and hooch were worthless against the wind, so I laid down flat on my back, and watched the stars come into focus. Back home, they reveal themselves one by one, slowly, struggling to be noticed through artificial lamplight and carcinogenic haze. But in the Andes, at 10,000 feet, the stars appeared in gangs, flashing furiously onto the scene, shoulder to shoulder, as if massing for armed struggle. No wonder the ancients saw warriors in the stars. Through it all a white ribbon appeared, lacing its way through the armies of light.

“Check it out – the Milky Way,” Jesse said.

Looking up I locked on to a tiny star, obscured by the larger, brighter bodies around it, and imagined hurtling its way in some future spacecraft. I wondered if this star could be seen from the streets of DC, or if it was perpetually hidden from my view by too little darkness. I thought onward at light speed. What if, in trying to get there, the gravity of a different star pulled me closer than expected? Would I embrace an orbit in that system, in lieu of my planned destination? Maybe there were no monoliths, and no plodding paths to them, only infinite points of light.

And Now I Present, "The Money Pit"

2007-02-25T01:29:00.000-05:00

In March 2005, I breathed the de-oxygenated air of an overly exuberant housing market and, with the thought I normally reserved for the purchase of gumballs, bought a two bedroom condo in Adams Morgan. Actually, it's a co-op, which means I own shares in a corporation rather than the actual physical space I occupy in the Plaza West.

Confused? Think of your mother picking out your outfit in the morning before you go to school - it's something like that, living here. You can improve your apartment, for example, but all plans must be blessed by the miserly members of the co-op board. They're nice folks, but for them the concept of building maintenance is not a shared but rather individual responsibility, better steered toward an unsophisticated newbie resident than the corporation.

I suppose it makes sense to skimp on the bills where you can, to reduce waste and keep costs manageable for the mixed income hordes packing the building. Yet, despite all this abstemiousness, costs continue to rise at breakneck speeds. Maybe it's the bumps in energy and tax expenses, but all suffer from our ever-increasing association fee - not to mention the rising ground rent, something neither myself nor my real estate agent felt obligated to research and understand prior to the offer I tendered in those insane times; DC's cash-hungry bureaucracy commands income from the gentrified regions in Northwest, and so value of our land inflates like an appendix very much on the outs.

Anyway, a bloated tax bill is usually a good sign - it means things are looking up in our little burg. And I guess you can't really complain about growing fees; inflation is an inescapable constant, right up there with death and that other thing I've been talking about over and over. But all this is to be expected - my problem has to do with the upkeep and renovation of the place.

Wha? Yeah, good question. When I bought this place, in those crazy times, it was quite the shithole. Nasty, matted and stretched carpet ruled the floorspace, and the washrooms resembled the crumbling baths of the Roman era, not the glimmering spas known to frequent visitors of this or that highfalutin showroom. For awhile I thought my limited knowledge of home improvement would deliver, in no time, a restored home at a bargain price. Over time, however, one thing became abundantly clear - there was no way I could, single-handedly, refresh all the water damage and neglect my box in the sky had endured over the years.

So I hired the job out. New bathrooms and window and door molding went up in short order, and, for mere many thousands, I was living the good life. Among the improvements was a repair to my kitchen ceiling, which showed signs of shearing, as if caused by the settling of my 100 year old building. The guys did a fantastic job, or so it seemed, and soon after the fix I'd forgotten all about the gash that once adorned my still outdated kitchen.

Fast forward a few months, say 7 months, and what you find is this: the gash has returned! Not only is it back, but along the exact same fault line it existed before! I bought this place with eyes wide open, convinced I could resurrect it from its neglected state at a reasonable price. I figured an apartment, however crumbled, could be easily revived with a little elbow grease and investment. It's not a house, right?

Well, the Return of the Shear - and all the other stuff, from the difficulty of replacing my interior doors (yes, doors) to the endless saga involving my expired HVAC units - has got me thinking... Maybe there are some things that can't be resurrected. Maybe some things are, and always will be shit. Perhaps this is a dramatic assessment, considering the improvements that have somehow stuck since I moved in, but I feel I'm living on borrowed time, that this place will betray me before I can unload it when the market picks up again.

It makes me wonder about all the other shear in my life - my fear of commitment, my inability to deal with uncertainty and even fear. As I plod through each day, am I merely obscuring my problems, or am I owning up and and addressing the actual causes of those problems? I think about the re-emergence of the cracks in my ceiling, and wonder if they are in some way symbolic of something more. Something personal.

I can't say for sure, but, in my next home repair, the first thing I'm tackling are those blasted ruptures.

Don't be Fooled - I Don't Read

2006-12-18T23:08:00.000-05:00

For years I've managed to get by on a lone bookshelf, one of those single-wide Ikea jobs everyone somehow seems to acquire six months on either side of college graduation. It has proven more durable than much of my other furniture from that Big Blue Box - the key, I've discovered, is to never take anything apart - and has been tall enough to absorb the trickle of new material I occasionally toss up on its shelves.

It's only been in the past couple of years, really, that the shelf has begun to fail me. Its inadequacy emerged innocently enough, when in a rush I placed a couple of volumes horizontally across an upright row of like-sized books. I suppose I could have rearranged a few titles and found some unforeseen space, but I viewed this solution as simultaneously expedient and ingenious; not only had it made use of available real estate, but did so without obscuring the names of nearby books, most of which, honestly, I had never read, nor really planned to read. Like Johnny Carson for all those years on the Tonight Show, it was more important for me to know they were there than to actually flip through their pages. For me they were decorations, symbolic of my interests, but little else.

My disinterest in reading, however, hardly prevented me from acquiring new books. I just knew there'd be some speed-reading frenzy on the horizon and I was desperate to be ready. Before long I ran out of horizontal storage on top of the existing rows of upright tomes, forcing me to apply the technique in front of those rows, starting from the surface of each shelf. At this point the strategy became a victim of its own success, with books jutting outward from the shelf face and scaling upward over the spines of everything else. If a visitor had seen this sight in a vacuum, they would think I was quite prolific reader indeed.

Alas, that same visitor, if he bothered to look around, wouldn't find another book in my entire apartment. I'm into periodicals...

Naughty or Nice?

2006-12-06T16:52:00.000-05:00

I started Tuesday, quite willfully, with a simple act of courtesy, holding open a door for an attractive woman passing the threshold behind me. I resisted the urge to exaggerate the gesture, careful not to look too closely at her or break my stride to the coffee counter. This was about kindness for kindness’s sake, not some calculated pickup attempt, and I, extrapolating from that moment, wondered how many karma credits I’d end up earning that day. I repeated the gesture on the way out, and watched as, in my mind, the value of my cosmic assets surged upward.

Every ledger, though, has its liabilities, and before long mine were piling up. The problems began en route to work, at a bus stop in a crumbling part of town, where a white haired man pulled himself past the driver and into the aisle, stopping in front of my seat. Normally, the crossword distracts me from these developments, but my failure to conjure the word for “seed coat” led me to his gaze.

He nodded in an inquiring way, and I looked him up and down for signs of ill health, noting his remarkably erect posture and firm grip on the overhead rail. He was nearly smiling, a picture of geriatric fitness! I quickly made my judgment, deciding the time standing would bolster his youthful vigor, or what was left of it, and I returned to the four-letter crisis taunting me from the grid. Was it “rind?”

Later, long after the soccer game, a homeless-looking man approached me as I entered the corner market. The soles of his shoes had pulled away from their upper halves and at least one or two gnarled and darkened toes peeked out from the openings. He used a rope to tighten his pants and wore a t-shirt decrying unprotected sex. I could tell from his glossy glare that he was very eager to speak with me.

“Got any change?” he said, extending a heavily callused hand. I considered his request and thought of the crisp dollar in the depths of my pants pocket, and how quickly I could pass it from that pocket to his hand. But instead I squeezed my fist around the bill and crinkled it, declaring it unfit for further transfer – if one can assume such things – at the local liquor store.

Now I’d learned from experience that the polite use of “no, thank you” and “sorry, not today” often invited unpleasant retorts from pan-handlers, so I uttered my refusal in the most unambiguous and resolute way possible. I glanced in his direction, but not directly at him, and firmly said “no.”

“Fuck you,” he said, rejecting my reply. I walked into the store and used the crumpled dollar to grab a six-pack, then returned outside. More insight was on its way: “You’re an asshole!” he shouted, and then hurled insults as I plodded towards home. With this I re-assessed my cosmic assets and liabilities; turns out that morning’s surplus had transformed into a staggering deficit. But I was still optimistic – despite all the evidence screaming otherwise, I strongly believed, and to this day am certain, that I’m a good person, maybe even a really good person.

Just don’t ask the old guys on the bus.

Save a Life - Flush the Toilet!

2006-11-29T22:44:00.000-05:00

I wish I lived in an era where mankind knew a little bit less about bacteria. I'm not saying I would have preferred the days of ritualized bleedings, but I'm finding the current age, replete with anti-bacterial this and that, a little too empowering for the common man. Nowhere has this excess knowledge proven more inconvenient than in the bathroom, where numerous lawsuit-conscious concerns - and corporations with skyrocketing health insurance premiums - have fed the public's fear of disease carrying microbes.

Of course, public toilets have never quite inspired images of cleanliness. If it were at all possible, I'm sure most people would cinch tight their bladders and sphincters if it meant avoiding a pungent, poo-splattered encounter with a messy public commode. Alas, our high fat, high calorie diet all-too-frequently expands our waste processing organs to their fullest capacity, simultaneously "greasing" our plumbing and forcing many a trip to the nearest sanctioned loo. It's here, in the public space, where we find oversized sheets of paper, meant to separate our bums from the toxic surface of the toilet seat; printed exhortations to wipe properly and wash up afterward; no touch faucets and urinals; yesterday's sports section.

All these innovations exploit our fear of bacteria as a known pathogen, drastically changing the way we behave in the communal space. We suddenly kick open doors to avoid handling their knobs and latches, or contort our bodies to slip through doorways as they slowly close or open. No matter that it's impolite to do such things; what's a colleague's broken nose when you've avoided an encounter with millions of infectious bacteria? But now people, and by people I mean men, as I typically avoid the ladies' room, have taken this "no handle" ethos to yet another extreme - increasingly, folks simply refuse to flush the toilet, preferring to let their urine mellow in the basin for the next person to deal with.

While I've long ago reconciled myself to the unpleasant sights and smells of public restrooms, I find it somehow galling that grown men think it's acceptable to leave unflushed puddles of piss in the toilet. I blame it on the bacteria. Had we not known so much about them, how they live and get around, and what they do once they've climbed through your mouth or anus, we wouldn't have this phenomenon. And frankly, I fear it may not be a simple bacteria-avoidance maneuver - I bet most of these guys pretty much just don't want to wash their hands.

The End of Fun?

2006-11-29T22:39:00.000-05:00

Saturday night is all that matters anymore.

The decline of Thursday, while not exactly telegraphed, coincided with the joint rise of low-rider jeans and exposed thongs as the evening-wear of choice, in effect blunting the once-enduring appeal of dollar beer night.

And then, not much later, Friday night and I had a falling out. It was a mutual parting, actually – I couldn’t, with any reliability, summon my liver and kidneys to her service, let alone endorse to her skull-splitting devotion to both binge drinking and fascist conspiracy theories, a.k.a. “blowing off steam.” After too many years, the standard rationalization – “It was a tough week; I earned that puddle of vomit!” – had really lost its luster, and the couch, unfathomably, replaced the bottle as Friday’s cure for fatigue and disillusionment.

With that bombshell I embraced Saturday night, as not only the last redoubt for my youthful indiscretions, but also a portal to something different, more, perhaps even better. Saturday, in fact, is ideal for quixotic experimentation. It’s a blank slate, free from work-week obstacles and the prying mandates of Jesus Christ, allowing ample time for self-realizing pursuits as well as the gutter. And wedged as it is between Friday and Sunday, Saturday night doesn’t suffocate with cast-concrete obligations – stifling deadlines, appointments.

You’re free to do what your body wills and ignore that harpy ol’ mind; if that means gobbling a half-dozen doughnuts, of the variety you typically bypass if left uneaten in the corporate kitchen – “I can’t handle the carbs,” you might say – then guzzle them down! There’s still room for an a la carte steak later! Saturday night doesn’t judge or reprimand; after all, that’s why God made Sunday.

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk

2006-11-29T22:36:00.000-05:00

For all its faults, Hollywood succeeds in providing an important public service beyond simple, direct to consumer entertainment. This service in no way enhances the economy, nor does it unite the harried American citizenry with a common cultural thread. Rather, through catchphrases and clever dialog easily etched into the popular consciousness, it provides a general merchandise trove of pith and wit capable of propelling both the dull and feeble-minded to undeserved heights of social prominence.

Among the media, film is most responsible for this trend. Its products can be consumed in a single sitting, generally in less than two hours, and can be viewed again and again thanks to the butt-numbing wonders of home theater technology. The result is a populace awash in stolen words of encouragement, expressions of love, and, perhaps most frustratingly, laughter. More than ever, any lout with a decent memory and outsized ego can ingest hundreds of punchlines, verbatim, and with practice, casually spin them as products of his own wit. As if it wasn't bad enough, in the previous age, when people merely thought themselves hopelessly funny. Now, with their pilfered catalog in tow, they can regurgitate proven winners and claim it as evidence of their genius.

The result? A population funnier than ever before, but, corrected for inflation, still far less funny than the guys connected to anything featuring Ben Stiller. And as annoying as in epochs past. Thanks Hollywood...

Gettin' on in Years? Try the Sedgewick!

2006-04-27T22:50:00.000-04:00

The forces of gentrification, like commercial-strength Liquid Plumr, are foaming into the holdout buildings and street corners preventing DC from achieving the demographic ideal coveted by the myriad holders of interest-only home loans. All the easy growth has pretty much come and gone, with the bombed out crack houses and brownfields of yesteryear transformed, by this obliging developer or that, into gleaming towers in which no surface goes ungraced by high gloss granite or endures the shame of non-recessed illumination. Oh yes, and there are the Viking appliances; can't forget that. Takeout and Whole Foods fricassee just doesn't taste the same without them.

But with the profits from no-brainer investments long since diverted to the oversized flags fluttering from every crane in the universe - Americans, like beavers, are natural-born builders - a smaller battle rages, building by building, for the remaining real estate unoccupied by people partial to the joint ownership of Metrochecks and BMW 700s. In the new calculus, cash poor homesteaders are selling out to dual-income power couples in an uneven process of organic change. Sure, there are still more new construction projects than you can count on your fingers and toes and teeth, but with homebuyers finally trading their heroin for methadone, it's less likely entire blocks and buildings will be rejuvenated overnight.

This also means rickety rental apartments, once fixtures on the condo conversion watch-list, will remain entry-level dwellings for commitment-phobes and non-profit do-gooders for some time to come. And then there's Northwest's forgotten elderly, who, if they're not living in well-appointed row houses, are often leasing tiny apartments near sunswept patios flooded with margaritas, young scrappers, and puke. Changing economic conditions have surely saved their asses, though I'm certain this blessing doesn't extend to residents of the The Sedgewick on 19th St. just north of Dupont Circle, which is where old folks go to die, unless the management is simply killing them, I can't figure which.

Tonight, for the fourth time in about a year, I came across the possessions of an expired senior splayed on the sidewalk outside the building. The cool spring air deprived my senses of the musty odors no doubt wafting from the afghans, mattresses, and easy chairs clogging the walkway, but this sad fact didn't hinder my inner scavenger from embracing the upside of the circle of life. I spotted a three foot tall table piled onto a heap of plastic bags, its 18-inch square top perfectly sized for my hard to furnish foyer, but an unfortunate split on its surface dashed my hopes to benefit from Louella Barkley's death.

I continued to poke through her things, however, and was intrigued by a pair of brass lamps dumped in a box filled with her old pill bottles - treatments for diabetes and ossified stools. Alas, the lamps were also damaged. I walked away, though, with a wide-angle photo taken in 1936 outside the Agricultural Adjustment Administration, just before the Supreme Court came to its senses and started striking down the communist provisions of the New Deal. Everyone's smiling, perhaps even Louella somewhere among secretaries - trust me, all the women were secretaries back then - packed in the front row. It's a simple piece of history, but I intend to keep it as my own personal treasure, nevermind the disregard the landlord and maybe Louella's family have for the stuff that, in the end, is her legacy.

Hopefully my demise will inspire more recognition, but even if it doesn't, one thing's certain - there's no fucking way I'm moving into that damn Sedgewick.

Lost in Cerebrum

2006-04-23T20:29:00.000-04:00

From time to time I think of leaving DC, permanently, in defiance of my ten-year record of lauding the place top to bottom. And that record is voluminous; just ask those poor fools, among my friends, who insist life's worthwhile in the far-off hinterlands of Bethesda and Arlington, not to mention those more distant upstarts Fairfax and Loudon counties. I've refused many an invitation, in lieu of the polite "no, thank you" my mother has long suggested, with a sophisticated reply of my own choosing, modified as circumstances require, but generally amounting to something like this: "Huh? You want me to go where? I'd have to drive you know. (Sigh)... When are you going to move downtown?"

There's something lovable, I've found, in each of the many inconveniences linked with living in the District, from obvious nuisances including petty street crime and public urination, to the lesser troubles induced by ridiculous taxes and incompetent bureaucrats. Under the right conditions - lots of booze, the psychic safety net provided by one's cushy Northwest surroundings - even the city's most discomfiting sights can prove endearing. The homeless looking man meting out compliments for your spare change. The woman parading down 12th St. in too high boots and a tiny fur coat, and little else, hoping to strike up some impromptu social engagements.

I've found it easy to love them all, but have had a helluva time getting anything resembling reciprocity out of them. I'm a vote to the city councilman, a score to the street hood, an ATM to the man begging for small money by the upscale coffee shop. Yet despite this, I consistently choose the solitude of their company - walking the streets in my law-abiding way, or watching them over the top of my newspaper or book - over that of my friends, the people who care about me, in concept if not fact. Unlike these other folks, the flacks and hucksters I know only by sight or smell, my friends are stubborn organisms. They are forlorn when I demand happiness, inert when I'm looking for action. So often not what I expect and command, so disappointing.

As for those others, they never seem to deviate from my notion of what exactly they are.

Whore. Alcoholic. Homosexual. Whatever. All neatly categorized, all serving their purposes, drip dropping muted smiles and blunted heartache in the day-to-day of my existence, a facsimile relationship borne of familiarity but not knowledge. I've spent countless hours in this milieu, passing up actual human interaction in defense of the pure archetypes, unchanged by time or experience, in my mind. The friends, well, they're consumers, not unwittingly, of the non-stop charming, arrogant, childish, bullying, insightful, combative, hilarious performance that is whatever me I'm trying to sell at that moment in time. You might call it the Un-Me. Or Facet of Me.

I've been in it for the laughs, but, of late, those laughs are mostly bouncing around in my head, echoes of the mirth of yesteryear. Families and careers, or perhaps some problem with the tired haunts and routines of the deposed ringleader, have left me laughing at myself. It's still fun, but with each lonely cackle, another tiny link to everyone else fails and breaks away, like a fleck of paint chipping away from a high-gloss figurine, and I retreat further into my mind and the nameless characters that inhabit it.

People want more than good times, I think. Authenticity. Open arms. Vulnerability. These are the requirements for the new age, my new age, the fourth decade. With some laughs, sure, but with honesty too. I've understood this for some time, but it's amazing how one weekend, 36 hours at an out-of-town wedding, can crystalize the difference between bullshit, the freaks and cads from my beloved hometown, and those wonderful people who've been dragging me down life's path all these years, trying to get me to see.

The irony - and what would this disjointed tale be without any? - is that I stopped kicking and screaming, and took a good look around, not at the behest of my stalwart friends, but through the contrivances of a lovely five-year-old.

Metro Vigilante Assails Minority Muncher

2006-03-28T23:30:00.000-05:00

For years, the sight of the impossibly innocent girl drawn crudely on the packaging of Utz snack foods has brought me nothing but joy. I've always been impressed, actually, with how her attire - limited as it is to a matching bow and blouse, her torso obscured by a bag of something yummy - always matches the colors assigned to the specific snack vacuum-sealed into the package. Green for the sourdough pretzels, red for the classic chips, orange for barbeque style anything; it all works, in a fashion sense, with her stubbornly sixties mop, which seemingly requires gallons of gel to achieve its helmet-like appearance.

Alas, as with all things virtuous and good, I'm sad to report this little girl, with her milky skin and cheerful expression, is no longer capable of making me smile. Not after today, when, during the evening rush-hour, unwitting teens instigated an outburst from a fellow subway passenger while consuming a brand of the ubiquitous Utz potato chips.

I was reading an article about Liberia's new president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, and the ridiculous challenges she's facing trying to turn that decrepit hellhole around, when out of nowhere this guy starts shouting in the sanctimonious tones of an elementary school crossing guard. "No! That behavior is not allowed on Metro transport vehicles! Listen to me; put that down! No! You are not allowed to eat on our trains! You must keep the cars clean!"

While his language, his exact phraseology, could have come straight from the Metro employee handbook, from the "Semi-Confrontational Demagoguery" section, his tone resembled that of HAL in his death throes, an uncertain and plaintive coo which made him somehow endearing even though he was being an asshole. I followed his invective, starting from his quivering self-righteous lips, to the orange bench across the aisle, where a Minority-American duo sat crunching on their snack, oblivious to the cackling mainframe ten feet away.

"I said no! No eating on the Metro; this is how we keep things clean!" He kept repeating this theme, and although he proved quite unable to get the words exactly right during each successive outburst, thus minimizing the effect of his rant, this much was clear: those kids weren't eating those Utz chips today, not on his watch. In traditional teen form, his adversaries invoked the "whatever" retort, which would have disarmed a lesser muckraker, but not our man, who's boiling blood nearly dislodged the yarmulke pinned tenously to his head.

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm gonna take your picture then and... and... and send it to Metro." With that he busted out his fancy pants cell phone cum camera and prepared to snap the perps for posterity. His fiance, withering beside him, shrunk into the deep recesses of her seat, whispering words of encouragement or disbelief, I couldn't tell which.

The camera gambit, while startlingly effective in warding off the Car 4 crumb factory - their half eaten bag of goodies fell to floor, and with it a bottle of juice - it had the unintended consequence of inviting hostile actions from other passengers. Another woman, seated next to the teens, whipped out her own camera phone, pointing it in the man's direction.

"You want to take picture? I take your picture." I seriously wondered what everyone was going to do with all these pictures. One thing was certain - this guy enraged the wrong fucking lady.

"You take my picture? OK, take it!" said the man, pointing his camera phone at the woman. Pretty soon cameras were flashing and everyone was gathering lots of evidence to send to the authorities or, more likely, the oblivion of the trash bin once we reached Metro Center. Finally, the conflict ended when the man's girlfriend, having found a way to get him out of this silliness, made the suspicious claim that no pictures had actually been taken. Then the woman, sensing a possible detente, said the exact same thing.

"I take no pictures." She turned around and said something in Spanish to the chief muncher, and an eerie silence fell over the car. With that, it was all over, and the bottle of cranapple juice, which had dropped to floor moments before, rolled slowly toward the exit doors, underscoring the close of this cross-cultural battle.

I tried to return to the tale of Liberia's rebirth, but, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Utz girl's smiling face undulating with the movement of our car, and I hated her for her guileless cheer. Maybe someday I will see things once again as I did in my age of innocence, but for now, that girl is one commute ruining slut.

World Baseball Classic?

2006-03-20T23:12:00.000-05:00

Well folks, it's down the final, and Japan and Cuba are fighting for the title of "World Champion". Actually, I don't think the winner can rightfully make that claim; I believe the victor, officially, will be the "World Baseball Classic Champion", leaving the arrogant front-runner of the US major leagues to lap up the "World Champion" imprimatur sometime in October.

Makes you wonder, really, if the victor in any American sports league - the NFL with it's lunatic battle-gear the lone exception - could ever, with any degree of seriousness, say its dominion extends much beyond the Rio Grande. It would be nice if, as in soccer, the Major League Baseball champion - either the Red Sox or Yankees, I don't care which - had to face the reigning kings of other leagues, in a champion on champion face off to determine club team superiority.

Could the White Sox, those darlings of the South Side, beat the Tigers or Giants of Japan? That would be the truest test of our baseball superiority, if the pampered American squad could fend off the disciplined stalwarts of a foreign club team. Of course, there aren't any MLB team's that would qualify as "all-American" in the Republican sense, but if some Fortune 500 outfit bought the rights to the club team championship series, they'd probably support the Marlins even if they are minority American.

If that couldn't be worked out, maybe the "World Series" survivor could contest the reigning WBC-winning team, either the Cubans or those scrappy upstarts from the Far East, as things stand now. If Japan pulls it off, my money's on them against the American representative - if mullets, per capita, are symbolic of baseball prowess, the US will have no chance. Same goes if we face the Cuban team - obviously our decades-long sanctions-regime just isn't working, not in Havana, and definitely not on the baseball diamond.

My LCD is Bigger Than Yours, and I Know How to Use It

2006-02-05T23:56:00.000-05:00

America's coffeeshop culture is really getting me down. What used to be a haven, a neutral territory rewarding introspection and trivial diversions, has for me become a hostile battlefield, overrun with climbers inflamed with visions of success. Sure, you can hang out and read a book if you want to, but if it's just for fun, nowadays, you really get the sense you're just wasting your time. How can you enjoy yourself when there's so much striving going on at the next table?

The problem really began when laptops entered the realm of affordability. Next thing you know, would-be novelists, students, and shouting entrepreneurs are scurrying from shop to shop, like frightened rodents, monopolizing the cushiest chairs and questing for self-realization. Their power cords wind across the floor, entangling the feet of passersby and confirming, in the event of uncertainty, that public safety is a small price to pay for a chance at true success.

What can they all be working on? Should I be working on something too? I wonder, as I page through my City Paper and ponder things to do, if I'm overlooking - or worse, purposefully evading - the hard work needed to achieve my dreams. But then again, what if they're only playing solitaire?

Don't Bring a Knife to a Gunfight

2005-10-01T22:39:00.000-04:00

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.

Cuddly Yankees Tame Inflation, Sox

2005-09-24T00:29:00.000-04:00

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.

And Then, I Saw Coke

2005-09-21T23:10:00.000-04:00

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...

French Method Actors Complicate Prospects for Real Tort Reform

2005-06-06T00:14:00.000-04:00

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.

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

2005-05-26T20:36:00.000-04:00

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!

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

2005-05-24T02:23:00.000-04:00

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."