how do you say snow in russian?

For dorks like me this is a great slideshow especially since we live in the area and use the Metro all the time. I’ve often wondered about the progress of the system; how they sorted out where to run and when they opened the various lines and stations. I’m still amazed they didn’t build a line to Dulles International way back when. From what I understand, Dulles was built to handle the growing traffic, particularly international and long-haul continental, and opened in the early 1960s and was fully up with jumbos by 1970. Who thought to themselves, “You know what? Let’s wait until the entire area is overrun with population and then try to build a line through 25 miles of suburbs in 2010.” It’s really a horrible example of civil engineering…or thought engineering.

We’re supposed to get another 8” today, and 8” more tomorrow, before our newest and bestest storm friend finishes with us. This is getting a bit over the top.

Quiz night went well last night. We finished a bit higher than normal (8th of 43 teams) and hung a bit tougher with the legendary Naked Hookers, weekly winners and 2009 champions, as they tumbled to 3rd and only about 5 points ahead of us. X got the team prize for coming up with Lulu (sang the theme to The Man with the Golden Gun). (see foonote)

Last season, we (Caps followers, not us) got a quick lesson from our local Moscow hockey reporter on the correct pronunciations of the Russian players’ names, nicknames, and myriad other confusions. They all seem to love living here in D.C. and hanging out a Russia House but they put up with some serious name butchering. Here’s a follow-up that adds audio and an embarrassing correction on how to really pronounce Alexander Ovechkin’s last name.

Even though Corey has some broken bones in his foot, and I honestly do feel bad about that, the story that led up to the breaking of said bones at North Park Dr. is absolutely hilarious. I don't think a story has had a car full of adults laughing so hard for so long. I'll leave it to Kt to rely when she has time.

Footnote / update: I've been alerted, in no uncertain terms, that X actually came up with the Lulu answer and Kt merely made us stand firm on that answer. The original entry claimed that Kt had come up with Lulu. Believe me, it was mere moments after the the original posting before my ding-a-ling rang and I was chastised. It's now been fixed.

t

quarter up

I'm a day behind on this, and X didn't find the story very interesting, but I'll pass it along, regardless. If you hail from the the Plains, Great Midwest, or varying portions of I-95 and Pennsylvania then you know from Skee Ball. We aren't talking about Chuckie Cheese or little kids-disco-light 'Skee Ball'; this is bowling alley, old-time arcade, and midway Skee Ball. I remember long ago when my brother and his friend (Dave or Dan?) played an entire day of Skee Ball at Peony Park in Omaha so they'd have enough tickets to buy eight, stemmed Budweiser glasses - that was big time, but that's not the point.

On my way home from the Caps game on Thursday night there was a couple sitting in the seat in front of me on the Metro and she pulls out her iPhone and starts to play electronic Skee Ball. (If you've ridden the Metro you know that anything going on in the seat in front of you is perfectly visible, especially when they are drunk and gabbing about their iPhone.) She'd only been playing Skee Ball for a few seconds before I knew she wasn't from any of the areas listed above. She's rolling her balls up the middle of the run...as if that's the professional method. I was tempted to remove my headphones and set her straight: in Skee Ball, if you want to properly impress the crowd, you'll need to bank your shots mid-bumper and then sit back and tally tickets. If you want to hang anything near 350-400 points you'll never get there going straight. It was almost unbearable.

Then again, maybe she didn't care.

t

xyzpdq

We were on the Metro last night and after a gentleman got off somewhere in NoVa, X turned to me and asked, “Should I have told that man that his fly was open?” An interesting question which I only pondered for a few seconds; and my answer is no. My theory is that pointing out an open fly is reserved for family (wife or girlfriend included), friends, or co-workers. It may seem a bit counterintuitive because you think you’re preventing embarrassment but the fact of the matter is that on a public train the pointing out only increases exposure. A man is hard-pressed to zip up, covertly, so just letting it slide is probably best. You also have to realize that you’re probably one of the few that might notice since we’re all standing – more than likely – and guy will be walking when he leaves the train; no one notices an open barn door when someone passed them. They’ll eventually sort out the situation with far fewer folks involved so I suggest letting it go.

Two exciting arrivals at the house yesterday: a new Eva Solo coffee carafe and a (new) classic KitchenAid K-4B mixer. This newborn Eva will represent the third in a line of Solos that I keep breaking (it truly is a lack of caring). I have new procedures in place that involve washing it while using three hands, drying immediately, and storing in a series of pillows and precious nothings. I know you’re thinking the Eva is pricey but it’s truly the best system we’ve had. The idea is simple in that the grounds don’t get crushed (French press) and they don’t actually sit on top of the water and slowly pass through, getting delayed, in the pile grounds. With the floating grounds you get full exposure, no packing, and you then pour the water out of the flask with very little coffee ground stall. Trust me, it’s the best handmade coffee and I have at least one sometimes grumpy, coffee-demanding-on-weekend girlfriend to back me up.

The KitchenAid is a different story. I’ve eyed the behemoths for years but never really convinced myself to drop $300 on one. I used Corey’s a few times when we lived on N. Park and they certainly make any number of things easier; but what I’m really talking about is pie crust and bread dough. I decided to shop around a bit on eBay and also ended up learning there’s an entire Web world of KitchenAid mixer whackjobs, and I use whackjob lovingly. Like anything else these days there are forums, question time, photos, and myriad opinions on every product ever made. The K-4B was introduced in 1944 to replace the K-4A and produced until 1962; as if I knew that off the top of my head. There are loads of people who swear by the older models, particularly the quality of the motors, to the exclusion of the newer, heavy-duty configurations; the K-4B is also a tilting head version mixer so it’ll remind my innocent youth. I finally yanked it out of it peanut packing cocoon this morning and fired it up to make sure everything was in working order. The tinned bowl, whisk, dough mixer (it’s not a hook) all seem in excellent shape and the motor sounds smooth and sweet, sort of like turning over an old, classic car. I’ll send along some photos later tonight. This entire mission reminded me of X buying a 1950s-era Singer sewing machine a few years back. I think it was $50 to haul away and then needed only a tune-up and new belt. That total cost came to something like $125 and the sewing machine repair shop guy showed great interest in either buying or stealing that warrior of a machine. The mixer ran me $48 plus shipping and it seems worth the effort.

Speaking of last night, the Eleven hit the Kennedy Center for the opera. The new season kicked off with The Barber of Seville which I place soundly at the top of my opera rankings. As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t have much technical ability to review the intricacies of opera but The Barber isn’t nearly as deep and dreary as others. I’m sure there’s an entire catalog of comedy operas of which I’m unfamiliar – you know, those where no one die – so maybe there’s others to consider. We like everyone in the show and agreed immediately, post-show, on performances of Rosina (Ketevan Kemoklidze) and Almaviva (Juan Francisco Gatell). As I’ve point out to my sig-other on many occasions, theatre, opera, and live music fill some powerful place for me. Whenever I’m there I always appreciate the fact that all they players are expending all their energy and love of the art just so I can be entertained for two or three hours. Always time well spent.

I have a birthday/dinner party to plan for this weekend; I have the center piece of the meal but having trouble with the peripheries.

T

what a trip

We’ve got a pile of stuff to cover today and a good bit of it revolves around the Capitals’ game last night. Not necessarily directly related to the game, just the doings to and from, and while at, Verizon.

The most interesting piece was the last part of my commute home (and by ‘last part’ I mean it will become clear when you finish.) was a young lady who got on the Metro in D.C. as I was heading back to Virginia on the Orange Line. She had about six stops – I now know this because she got off at Clarendon – and immediately after sitting down, and taking a look around, and apparently deciding we were all cool enough, she did her entire make-up routine: base, blush, eyes, lips…everything. Obviously, she’s comfortable enough doing her work en route to the club at 10:30pm and, more power to her. I did think she might pull out some Nair and get her legs in order but she simply ran out of time and possibly towels.

I decided to try to catch a cab home from the game last night so I walked up to 6th St. and Massachusetts Ave NW . This was a grand idea on my part. Traffic in the blocks around Verizon Center after an event is always questionable (police blockades) but after a playoff game versus Pittsburgh it’s even worse. The first cab I corralled told me he didn’t want to go to Falls Church because he was hungry. As I sat in his cab, with the door open, I passed along two helpful tips: first, we have food in Virginia . Second, if he’s hungry and is going to pick-and-choose his fares, which he’s not suppose to do, then he needs to turn off his vacant light and go get some food. I finally get a second ride and he decides, after I tell him I want to go to East Falls on I-66, to head south down 9 St. NW to Constitution Ave. NW. From there he’s ‘planning’ on heading west along Constitution and (I’m guessing) to 14th St. before eventually crossing the river on 395 and heading back north to I-66. What the hell? Now, I don’t think the guy was taking me for a ride I just think he only knows one way in and out of D.C. I, unfortunately,  didn’t pay enough attention until I realized that the traffic was bumper-to-bumper all the way south to Constitution and just as packed heading west. By the time I got to the Ronald Reagan building on Constitution Ave. – after about 25 minutes and six blocks – I just pulled the rip cord, gave the guy the $7 I owed him, and hopped out into stopped traffic. I knew I could trundle over to the Federal Triangle Metro about 100 metres away and catch the Orange Line home. The greater issue is why he would go that direction in the first place; with the other 17,000 people leaving the game? We were about two blocks from K St. NW (to our north) when he picked me up and we could have shot west on K St. to the Whitehurst Freeway passed Georgetown and straight onto I-66. (I know, I’m boring you. Go to Google maps, find the Verizon Center, and if you’d like, play along.) The lesser issue is that I really had to use the bathroom and I foolhardily imagined I’d be home in about 20 minutes when I got into the cab – after 10pm at night it should only be 20 minutes to get home. Great. I wasted that 20 minutes sitting in traffic on 9th St. By the time I got out of the cab and was heading into the Metro I knew there was no way I was going to wait fifteen minutes for a train, ride 30 minutes to West Falls, and another 10 or so to get home. For those non-D.C.ists out there, when you're near the Mall at night there is nothing open: nothing. IF I were lesser man I would have just pissed all over the EPA building right above the Federal Triangle Metro. IF, I were a lesser man.

As for the game, it was something special on a Monday night. Both Alex Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby had hat tricks and the Caps won 4-3. For the second time in as many games in the series, the Caps came from behind (twice this time) and stretched the series lead to 2-0. Games three and four are in Pittsburgh on Wednesday and Friday. These two players are the faces of the NHL and the league couldn’t have asked for more. Crosby ’s goals were all from two or three feet – banging in rebounds, real grinder work – and Ovechkin’s were beautiful slap shots and wristers from open ice. His final two came within about a two minutes of each other in the third period when the game was still tied at 2-2. I’ll wager you’ve rarely heard the kind of eruption from a crowd that came when he broke the tie and made it 3-2. No one had even settled back into their seats from that score before he took a pass at center ice, powered into the zone, moved left in front of the covering defenseman in order to set him up as a screen, and ripped a devastating wrister into the upper corner. I thought Ovechkin, someone who plays the game with pure and reckless joy, might explode. Needless to say, the roof came off the arena and hundreds of hats rained down on the rink. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. If you want to see all three goals in a short video, you can see them here. Considering that the core of this team falls between 21- and 25-years-old, there is a very bright future beyond even these playoffs.

My last scene for today takes place in our bathroom at work. Suddenly this morning we’ve found a huge bottle of Purell and boxes of tissues at our sinks. I’m a tad confused because we have really nice sinks, plenty of soap dispensers that are always full, and loads of paper towels. The last place you’d think of the need for Purell would be in our corporate bathroom. Are people more likely to wash their hands because of the Purell? Aren’t they already at the sink if they are heading for the Purell? Are we in some sort of new FLUCON?

t

a remembered review

This little vignette came flush into my head while I was rereading an entry from last year that detailed my created superhero, Door Man. (I only reread entries when the sitemeter shows me that someone ended up googling a strange combination of words that led to some entry from long ago. I'm always interested in which entry busted down the door.) A few weeks ago I was heading back home from D.C. on the Orange Line (probably after a hockey game) and as the train pulled into East Falls Church the crowd readied for the mass departure. A few "excuse me's", light shoving, bag banging, and newspaper leaving behind, and everyone was safely onto the platfrom and heading off to their own cocoons. But then....just as the door closing ding-ding is heard, it is mirrored by calls coming from the distant innards of the seats - "Oh my! Someone left their Blackberry! It's hers, it's hers!" (the crowd is pointing feverishly through the window at Blackberry Lady; innocently walking toward the stairs.) The younger man at the door turns just in time to see the Blackberry flying through the air as the doors start to close behind him. With decisive action, he catches the Blackberry with his right hand and jams his left arm through the closing door. In the slow motion action that followed, he turned to the five inches of open door that was trying to eat his arm, yelled out "Hey lady! Your Blackberry!", crossed his right hand to the opening, and pitched/slid her device across the surface of the East Falls Church platform. To cheers from the commuter crowd he extracted his appendage and raised his arms in victory. Victory indeed!

What little Christmas shopping to be done will be done tonight. I venture out in hope that my return is assured.

Maybe you'll get more later, maybe not. I did find a Jolie Holland video that I'll add when I get home.

t

run kick step run

In my desire to give dap to those commuters who go above-and-beyond the call of commuting duty, I submit the following event. It occurred at the Dunn Loring Metro station yesterday morning as I was heading towards the up-and-away elevators. The D.C.-bound train was already fully in the station as a woman was running down the escalator, full of eternal hope. She must have been about half-way down, just out of my view, when I suddenly spy a black, low-heeled, slip-on shoe flying through the atmosphere of Metro platform. It tumbled to a stop about 15 feet beyond the end of the elevator. Fortunately, that area of the platform was nearly empty since the running crowd was already a ways ahead of her. The period of time between the appearance of the flying jutti and the appearance of the shoe-kicker was barely long enough for one to sort out what was happening. She bounded down the trailing third of steps, appearing to hop off three or four sets from the end, skipped towards the shoe, twisted her right foot just so, and slipped the mischievous item back on while still at a full trot. I didn’t turn to see if she made the train, I heard the telltale ding-ding of doors closing, but if all’s right in the World she made it.

Former Governor (former Senator, former Representative) George Allen is on the WAMU Politics Hour this afternoon. Exactly how anyone believed that he could actually be President is frightening. In fact, his spewing of the party line concerning the War on Terror, activist judges, and all the other junk that flows from his portion of his party is comical. I’m sure there are tons like him in the Senate but I’m thankful he’s moronic enough to have dug his own grave last Summer.

If only my neighborhood had nicknames as great the newly indicted Gambino Family…

T.

heroes and gyros

X says she possesses something called “Exam Brain” that she claims is triggered by the desperation of finals. I think it sounds like a superhero of sorts – “Quick, call Exam Brain! A high school junior in Manhattan has overslept for his SAT." Ta Dah! She says it’s not so much a superhero as it is a setting, an on and off thing. As an example she gave me this, and I’m not making it up, “It’s like the bagel setting on the toaster. Have you ever tried to toast a bagel without pushing the bagel button?” Or tried to take and exam without the bagel button? Maybe it was meant as allegory, or irony, or simile, or some other type of grammar I don’t understand but I now think of this highly-evolved brain as something akin to a kitchen appliance add-on.

On my way home Friday I took a picture of the warning sign near the doors on the inside of the Metro car. I know it’s a little out of focus but you can make out the premise: not only should you not block the doors, you shouldn’t do it in superhero fashion.



My rush hour Metro riding is limited to running against the tide and staying out in the safe Virginia suburbs but I’m certain that when the doors do get blocked it’s not like this. Most door blockage is generated by riders scurrying, like rats, into overcrowded cars – some rats doing so more effectively than other rats. One of the only instances I remember hearing concerned some lobbyist, young lawyer, or congressional staffer jamming his arm into the closing doors as if to say, “to hell with forward motion and all progress! I'm getting on this damn train.” The warning sticker model seems much more heroic in the “I will, through brute force of heroism, maintain the open valley of passage for all commuters large and small. I. am. Door Man!” vain.

I took the boys to their final gymnastics’ lesson Saturday morning whilst X took her Evidence final. There are normally three classes flipping about the well-equipped Arlington Aerials training facility/gulag. On Saturday the instructor of the 5-8 year-old bouncing daisies has split them into two, the 12-14 year-old bevy of twisting and rotating girls where there, and there was an additional school of 15 year-old balance beam artists tumbling and rounding off. What I find so disturbing about watching all this crazy activity is that I’ve never been able to do ANY of it. Ever. I can barely summer sault and I’ve got no cart wheeling genes. These pixies spent an inordinate amount of time upside down and hurling themselves through air with a future landing on some appendage (or behind) as an afterthought. Up they bounce as if it’s nothing. It’s strangely peaceful to realize that the six year-old flying five feet in the air will eventually come to a landing on parc ferme. I’ve decided after much thought to use this collective term for the limber, flipping hordes: an inversion of gymnasts.

That’s that, for now.

T.

trains and spotting

I remember an entry earlier this year about the bus girls checking out each other’s fashion every time the 401 stopped and some gal the walked up the aisle towards an exit: heads swiveling, eyes glaring. It seemed a combination of both fashion grading and fashion idea theft. In order to present both sides of the sexual agenda I need to rat out the guys – at least the Metro train drivers. I suspect that the bird watching occurs primarily during the morning and evening rush hours as the flocks move in heel-tottering, well coiffed formation. I also believe that the actual Metro station has a lot to do with the view – those stations with the exits/escalators toward the head of the train provide the greatest cinematic pleasure. For those beyond the Metro confederacy, here’s how trains manage passenger exit (first) and entry (second). The train doors open upon arrival at the station and herds of folks pile out as new herds pile into the oft-packed cars. The drivers, after a few seconds in the station, open the platform-side window of their cockpits and stick their heads out in order to look down the platform so they have a basic idea of when the crowd has managed to complete boarding. Once everyone seems on board they trigger some switch in the cab, while still looking out the window, and signal a warning before the doors close and the train begins to pull out of the station. I know that’s a long description but it’ll come in handy. Any number of drivers during the morning rush spend a little extra time looking down the platform because they’ve spied hottie who’s exited three cars down and is waggling her little self towards the escalators located near the front of the train. I can tell you with absolute certainty that those long(er) stops in some stations can be confirmed by verifying the escalator location. If you happen to be getting off a train and heading towards the front you could simply catch a glance at the driver and you’ll easily find who he’s looking at – and he’ll look until he gets a walk-by, full view and all. Of course, he doesn’t have carte blanche on girl watching – anyone beyond three train cars isn’t get the eye…he doesn’t have that much time. I can’t really blame the drivers. If I spend a good part of my day in and out of the tunnels under D.C. and the greater metro area I’d need some fresh air and scenery. I’m just saying.

The Minnesota Vikings head coach says he’s going to continue using two running backs even as super rookie Adrian Peterson returns from injury this week. There are some good reasons to share the workload, and I don’t disagree in theory, but the excuse he’s giving is this – they don’t want to risk him getting injured again. Right. This brings to mind a great book / great problem called Fermet’s Last Theorem. The book, about the problem, is a grand yarn involving a mathematical theorem that us normal folk can actually understand. Fermet, an amateur math genius from back yon, put forth the following: for a3 + b3 = c3 (those are cubes) there are no whole numbers to make the equation true. Same idea as Pythagoras but with the mysterious threes included – “it’s a magic number.” As later mathletes attempted to prove this theorem they ante up the idea that the variables couldn’t be odd numbers (or even numbers, I can’t remember) so they could basically eliminate the search by half…all the odds (or evens). Of course they realized shortly thereafter (probably within minutes) that since we believe in infinity there was, in actuality, no reduction in possible numbers to test: infinite odds and infinite evens. I love that story. Anyhow, back to football. Since most injuries - particularly knee injuries - occur on freak plays and poor footing during a violent sport, cutting a players actions from 40 to 20 doesn’t really change the odds of him getting hurt. Are we assuming that freakish plays and injuries only happen on odd or even downs? Just wondering.

I’ll leave everyone alone.

T.

step in the booth, pull a lever

This afternoon was fraught with choices. None of the decisions were life altering but I was flummoxed by both.

The first choice I had to made was dealing with single-track operations on the Metro's Orange Line out Dunn Loring way. At the top of the stairs (and escalators) was a handwritten sign that read "All TraINs OperTinG ON the VIEnna side of THe plAtform". I'm including my rendition of the Dunn Loring-Merrifield Metro station below. The titles to the outside of each track are what the trains are labeled on the lead-car placards. I'll tell you that 'the Vienna side' makes little sense because it's not like the north or south side - Vienna is merely a destination, which if you care is off the bottom of the map. Don't concern yourself with the direction of travel for each train because it won't matter. So, you're heading down the stairs, you've read the sign, and you're wondering which track to stand near - go ahead and answer for yourself. We'll come back to this conumdrum later.


My barbers (Wilson Blvd. Barbers) are moving to a place in Westover come October. Until then, they are splitting time between the current place and the new place (run by a Greek or Moroccan guy). One barber is at Wilson Blvd. and one is over at Westover. I called Farraj today to see if Habib was working Westover since that location always has fewer people. I was told he was so I show up about 5pm and it's Farraj, not Habib, manning the chair. That has nothing to do with the voting mechnism...I digress. I'm in the shop and there are two barbers working: Gerard, a member of the current staff at the shop; and Farraj, who I want to cut my hair. They are both finishing up the guys-in-seats at about the same time - the problem is that the first chair cleared is the chair the next guy takes and I'm the second waiter. If Farraj finishes first, what to do? I don't want Gerard doing my 'do. I'm very tense. As Farraj starts to finish up the neck shave I sense he's up to some "additional trimming and grooming" in order to stall so he finishes second and I get my cut from him - I am a regular afterall. Sure enough, they finish mere seconds apart - Farraj just in second. Whew! Disaster averted. The hair looks good for those tracking at home.

As an aside, I asked X last night if she's ever come across a fan with first click that is the lowest setting (i.e. 1 of 3, or lo of lo-med-high). She hemmed, she hawed, and I threw out a very confident "there are none in this or any other world" judgment. If you know of any that have an opening click of lo, I'd like to know. If not, why is this? I'll generally eliminate anyone from the discussion that happens to also know the width in inches of standard gauge railroad.

The answer to the Metro question is the right-side track. I think the sign was wrong.

Love to all.

T.

the 9:30 club

Hear ye, hear ye. Metro employees are hardcore when it comes to allowing the visiting kids into the tunnels before 9:30am on weekdays. My dad tried to get the Rosslyn station master to let him slip through before 9:30 last Thursday. The fifty-one (L and I = LI) was meeting at the Rosslyn Metro near his hotel en route to our Washington Monument appointment. I can picture the station agent simply laughing at his Metro day pass and mumbling something about injury and death to day pass holders whilst chuckling to himself.

The turista flock that descends on D.C. in the summer is no competition (simply food) for the Monday-Friday commuters. It all came to the fore on Friday morning as we swapped from Orange to Red line trains at Metro Center. Anyone who’s been a rail commuter in any city understands the pas de deux performed with fellow commuters (consider yourself to be one person with the ‘fellow commuters’ as the second in this deux). The sight of Ohio tourists bumbling through Metro Center post-9:30 is maddening. They can’t work the escalators, the stairs, or the seats on the train. They can’t figure out why there’s a picture of just how you insert the paper ticket in the machine. There’s much staring about the station, staring at gates, memorizing of maps, and securing of the wide-eyed progeny sporting various university logos from the greater Big 10 and Big 12 flyover regions. If we allowed the Buckeyes into the station during the commute we’d have something similar to Pamplona and that running of the bulls that I love so much – goring, stomping, and killing. I can see the opening of the story on the news wire:

Washington D.C. (AP) The Metro’s meanest commuters lived up to their fearsome reputation, goring two and crushing at least seven people as thousands of lost tourists stood about the narrow platforms Monday in Washington’s annual running of the commuters.

The first of five commuter runs in the weeklong Fourth of July tourist festival involved the suited and business casual '16th and K' commuters, renowned as the most violent fighting commuters in the MetroPlex..

As they charged down the 50-meter route from the New Carrollton train to the Shady Grove train, two of them fell after encountering a lost family from Oklahoma and, appearing to lose their way, turned on the crowd of tourists. Two people from Nebraska were gored

"People stumble and fall in front of you but you have to just keep running, jump, knock them out of the way. It brings back old football days," said John Turner, 38, a homicide detective and Metro commuter from Anacostia.

Maybe not.

Love to all.

T.

self-loading baggage

I’m officially marrying up the start of the D.C. Cherry Blossom Festival (March 31st) to the start of the tourist season. I’m not the first to come to this conclusion, I won’t be the last, but it must be said. The combination of spring break families with 2.5 children and the outer Virginia families that make their annual Metro ride in from the sticks can be too much for anyone with a commuter life. The festival attracts a lot of the locals to the big, sprawling, kind of scary city. Here are some tips to parse out the two groups.

Ohio tourists (accepting the award for everyone from beyond Virginia): Mom, Dad, 2.5 kids. They don’t dress mid-Atlantic and they apparently take their luggage with them everywhere they go. You see lots of Ohio St. Buckeye hats and shirts, khaki capri pants, white shorts, and well-groomed children. The entire family enjoys the wall-mounted Metro map! Pay particular attention when noting the kids: any self-respecting goth or punk rocker is not going to D.C. with the family to learn about history and stuff. The black-clad minion will figure out a way to stay home for the week and live with a friend, or better yet, how to have a keg party in the family split-level home.

Virginia/local tourist: The goth/punk kid presence is the first sign. Clearly, this family has driven from Richmond to the Vienna Metro and is riding into D.C. as a nuclear family. Angst riddled kids have a hard time convincing the parents that they can’t spend even one day with the family. I also don’t think many Ohio tourist stay in hotels out in the suburbs, which means most families on the Metro in Virginia I classify as locals. They don’t have the roller bags, there’s no look of real fear, and only the kids usually check the Metro map on the wall. The adults no doubt worked in the city at some point or another; they don’t find the mass transit map all that interesting.

I will be acting the tourist this weekend while Laurel and I visit some of the spots we missed in January, primarily the Washington Monument and Jefferson Memorial. How do I reconcile myself to this fate? Well, I’ll have my messenger bag (sure sign of the commuter), we’ll both have SmartTrip cards (the call of the commuter), and I always give Laurel the city brief on day one (teachings of the commuter). By the time we ride into the depths of Ballston Metro we’ll look tough, we’ll ignore the lost (unless they ask for help…we are actually nice), and we’ll push people out of the way if we have too. Questions?

Thought not.

T.

if...then

I can’t stay away from the non-fiction forever. I’ve slowed in my progress through Harafish because I had reserved The Enemy at Home at the Arlington library and it popped to the top of my queue faster than expected – I had no choice. Dinesh D’Souza authors this tirade at the liberal left and places blame for the September 11th attacks squarely at the feet of those that espouse and export pornography, homosexual acts, divorce, Britney Spears, and atheism to the Islamic world. There are a bunch of impressive quotes and verbiage thrown about, but according to D'Souza there is no other reason for the flames of hate beyond our exporting of liberal culturalism…none. I had no idea that I supported and exported such causes, or that my ‘membership’ in this vast political grouping could cause fury on such a level. D’Souza is a sitting fellow at Stanford University so I’d expect more from him than what appears to be a wholly illogical argument. It’s not his opinion that frustrates but his complete lack of any ability to support his opinion without turning back onto himself and contradicting everything he already claimed. I’d never suppose that I could understand how radical Islam sees America (I don’t think he can either) and I can’t fathom what drives anyone so deeply into religion, but I do know that I could at least frame and support a thesis much better than D’Souza. His pontificating doesn’t bother me, he’s just another ‘thinker’ that falls into that group on the commentary playground that does nothing but point at and blame others. His position would be irrelevant on any issue because no matter where D’Souza found himself standing he’d be blaming everyone else for all the woes of the world. His fame reminds me of the time during the build-up to the Iraq war when people confused brain power with smartness or common sense. I remember when people were questioning the run-up to war, mostly famous people whose voices were heard above the fray, and we ended up with those email chain letters showing up in inboxes spewing vile at anyone questioning the war. They tried to subtly point out that George Clooney didn’t go to college so how could he possibly know anything? Condi Rice DID…so she’s smart as a whip. D’Souza holds sway for the same reason – book smart, well-educated, professor at Stanford – but he couldn’t figure out how to get from Foggy Bottom to DuPont Circle on the Metro because that would require the ability to actually analyze something and come to a logical conclusion based on that analysis. I’m sure when he ended up lost he’d blame the train drivers, station managers, and his inability to figure out how to use a SmartTrip card.

big mo'

Mo', in the sports world, means momentum - once set in motion it continues in motion. Maybe you remember a team that got the mo' and ran away with a championship; maybe you were running for a Red Line train at Metro Center and the woman in front of you lost mo'...and got trampled. I know it's only Sunday and I shouldn't be so frenzied about catching a train because I'm not really late for anything - but the trains only run every 15 minutes on the weekend. It's a gorgeous day here in the Capital and I didn't want to spend another fifteen minutes in the subterrean warren. Tourists. I was headed up the stairs from the inbound Orange Line train and could hear the Glenmont rumbling into the station - I was on my way to the DuPont Circle farmer's market and a whirl through Melody Music CD shop just off the circle. About once a month I manage to sneak in early enough to pick-and-choose from a lovely selection of locally grown organic goods: veg, fruit, dairy, flowers, etc. Back to the story. As I'm running towards the train, let's say I'm about thirty feet out, behind a woman running for the same door who seems to be on my wavelength and we are both set for success. The red light comes on above the doors, the beeping starts to sound and the doors are nearing closure - we'll make it but it's going to be close. As she nears the door, and realizes she'll make it through, she slows to a walk at the door threshold and decides to amble...remember...mo'! I almost ran her down as my bigger mo' is nearly unstoppable. Since I'm light of foot (and could cut a rug if I decided to) I managed to side-step the speed bump and sneak onboard while my mind is screaming "MOVE!". When I got home later in the morning I relayed my distress at silly, mindless people that inhabit my world and X informs me that the WonderTwins routinely physically assault other passengers as they board the carriages. I guess that's how Justice is served in D.C. these days.

If one wonders about what you eat this time of year when you're trying to buy local and seasonal produce - you eat greens. I think Spring time is that period when all the really filling grub is gone and you've got weeds and greens. Along with that you've got the sure thing of quality cheese and the awesome mushroom lady - I'll get a snap of the mushroom lady and her wares next time I go. I grabbed the Sunday NYTimes, a cup of coffee, The Clash's Sandinista, and headed home about 11a.

The picture above is our table. This is what is looks like when the girlfriend is studying Con Law II for finals and the boyfriend is a floral obsessed nutjob. She actual says this to me, "baby, I think we have enough flowers." What kind of girl...

Peace.

T.

in a flash

It’s only right that I relate a few vignettes about my oration (diatribe?) on running for the bus that I made after my move to D.C. last summer. That entry put forth my belief that running towards any public transportation conveyance should be an indication that IF you don’t run, and run FAST, you’ll miss your ride. It shouldn’t appear as if you’re ‘running’ (or giving it the old ‘jog’) because you are so indecisive as to be unable to determine the time-space continuum involved in your movement and its chance of intersecting with the riding thing you desire. What brought this to mind were two steppers I’ve encounter over the last two days. The first I saw at the Ballston bus hub as I was heading to my Metro train yesterday morning. The WMATA 25B bus had departed the bus stall and was slowing at the intersection waiting for an opening to turn left onto Fairfax Blvd. Our contestant, a youngish gentleman, started a good sprint to catch it but just as it appeared he might get a fist on the door the bus slipped left between cars and headed down Fairfax. There was a short letup in the man’s pursuit – a pause just long enough for his inner voice (and commuting experience) to remind him of the fact that the bus would no doubt get held up at one of the next two intersections. Like a bullet he was off, across Stuart St., and blasting down the sidewalk hell bent for leather. I almost starting running just to see the outcome but, alas, I simply stood and gawked in commuter amazement; brilliant. My second harrier I encountered at the other end of my Metro ride (Dunn Loring-Merrifield) this morning. There wasn’t nearly as much target intercept missile plotting as was required yesterday but it was a no less impressive event. A business-casual guy bolted off a WMATA bus and ran something close to an 11-second 100 meters in order to catch an almost departing Fairfax Connector bus heading south; no pause, no thoughts of looking silly, just an opening gun (or door) and fast-and-furious headlong throttle. Both have been enshrined in my commuter hall of fame.

I don't always bitch.

T.