For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.
This and other classics from the 2010 Bulwer-Lytton contest can be found here. Another favorite:
The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Da Bomb
We had a bit of fun this morning. "Fun" in the unpleasant, sarcastic sense, of course, not in the actual meaning of the word. When I got down to the dorm lobby a little before 8, there was a cop waiting at the door. Hm, I thought, this seems a little strange, but maybe he's just checking in on his morning rounds.
Wrong! Turns out somebody found a "suspicious package" right in front of our dorm. Suspicious package--I imagine a shady looking box with dark glasses, a greasy coat, and a sleazy mustache loitering beneath a streetlight. Ah, DC, where there's a surprise around every corner and a suspicious package on every street!
God knows who put the box there, or why. But if their goal was to cripple the federal government, they succeeded, albeit in a very small way. The police put our building under lockdown--nobody gets out unless they want a bullet in their leg. Thus, dozens of congressional interns were cooped up in the dorm. For one day, their bosses experienced the agony of brewing their own coffee and opening their own mail.
Time ticked away. 8:01...8:02...skipping ahead a bit...8:07...skipping ahead a little more...8:09...damn, this skipping business is tricky. Let us simply say that it was a long, long wait. I honestly felt very sorry for the policeman assigned to guard our door. He had to deal with a horde of disgruntled think tank researchers, congressional PR interns, and newspaper factcheckers. Plus, what if he had to use the bathroom? If he left his post, somebody would try to escape. Perhaps they had snipers on the building across the way for that very purpose.
One peculiar thing about the whole kerfluffle. I never felt a bit worried. At no point did I think, "Holy cow, there might be a bomb out there capable of blowing us all into the bite-size chunks." I only thought, "Damn, I can't believe I'm missing a free breakfast." Either I'm very courageous or very shallow and unreflective. Given past experiences, the latter seems more likely.
Also working in favor of our survival: this dorm was seemingly built to withstand a hydrogen bomb detonated five feet away. Godzilla couldn't knock it over with a...uh...um...building-knocker-over.
By the late morning, rebellion was setting in. Remember that scene in "Mutiny on the Bounty" where the people on the Bounty mutiny? Me neither, but it probably looked a lot like the dorm lobby at 11. Somebody approached the cop every five minutes with an impassioned plea: "But Congressman Smith can't survive without my help!" Others slumped against the wall--utterly sapped of all their energy before tea-time. Full disclosure: I was one of them.
Still others took the opportunity to socialize. I hope against hope that at least one marriage will come from the connections made during this bomb threat. It will be wonderfully awkward whenever they get asked, "So, how did you two meet?"
Rather than waste my free time doing nothing, I wasted it by thinking up elaborate escape plans. Perhaps the police could provide us all with "Hurt Locker" style suits. Or maybe they could roll a Humvee right up to the door and drop us off a few blocks away. Or maybe they could let us make a run for it. The bomb can't get everybody, right?
The story's ending is anticlimactic. They let us out at 12:49 EST. No idea what happened to Mr. Suspicious Package. One person said that they "detonated" it. And I did hear a short, sharp Bang! around noon. It sounded like somebody had stuffed a tin can with M-80s. Maybe that's what they did. M-80s: not just for blowing off your fingers anymore!
What did I learn from the bomb threat? First, always carry a book. You'll never know when you get trapped somewhere and need something to read. Second, you can rearrange the letters in Adam Smith to spell "Admit sham." Remember when I said I didn't waste my free time? I lied.
Wrong! Turns out somebody found a "suspicious package" right in front of our dorm. Suspicious package--I imagine a shady looking box with dark glasses, a greasy coat, and a sleazy mustache loitering beneath a streetlight. Ah, DC, where there's a surprise around every corner and a suspicious package on every street!
God knows who put the box there, or why. But if their goal was to cripple the federal government, they succeeded, albeit in a very small way. The police put our building under lockdown--nobody gets out unless they want a bullet in their leg. Thus, dozens of congressional interns were cooped up in the dorm. For one day, their bosses experienced the agony of brewing their own coffee and opening their own mail.
Time ticked away. 8:01...8:02...skipping ahead a bit...8:07...skipping ahead a little more...8:09...damn, this skipping business is tricky. Let us simply say that it was a long, long wait. I honestly felt very sorry for the policeman assigned to guard our door. He had to deal with a horde of disgruntled think tank researchers, congressional PR interns, and newspaper factcheckers. Plus, what if he had to use the bathroom? If he left his post, somebody would try to escape. Perhaps they had snipers on the building across the way for that very purpose.
One peculiar thing about the whole kerfluffle. I never felt a bit worried. At no point did I think, "Holy cow, there might be a bomb out there capable of blowing us all into the bite-size chunks." I only thought, "Damn, I can't believe I'm missing a free breakfast." Either I'm very courageous or very shallow and unreflective. Given past experiences, the latter seems more likely.
Also working in favor of our survival: this dorm was seemingly built to withstand a hydrogen bomb detonated five feet away. Godzilla couldn't knock it over with a...uh...um...building-knocker-over.
By the late morning, rebellion was setting in. Remember that scene in "Mutiny on the Bounty" where the people on the Bounty mutiny? Me neither, but it probably looked a lot like the dorm lobby at 11. Somebody approached the cop every five minutes with an impassioned plea: "But Congressman Smith can't survive without my help!" Others slumped against the wall--utterly sapped of all their energy before tea-time. Full disclosure: I was one of them.
Still others took the opportunity to socialize. I hope against hope that at least one marriage will come from the connections made during this bomb threat. It will be wonderfully awkward whenever they get asked, "So, how did you two meet?"
Rather than waste my free time doing nothing, I wasted it by thinking up elaborate escape plans. Perhaps the police could provide us all with "Hurt Locker" style suits. Or maybe they could roll a Humvee right up to the door and drop us off a few blocks away. Or maybe they could let us make a run for it. The bomb can't get everybody, right?
The story's ending is anticlimactic. They let us out at 12:49 EST. No idea what happened to Mr. Suspicious Package. One person said that they "detonated" it. And I did hear a short, sharp Bang! around noon. It sounded like somebody had stuffed a tin can with M-80s. Maybe that's what they did. M-80s: not just for blowing off your fingers anymore!
What did I learn from the bomb threat? First, always carry a book. You'll never know when you get trapped somewhere and need something to read. Second, you can rearrange the letters in Adam Smith to spell "Admit sham." Remember when I said I didn't waste my free time? I lied.
World Cup Wish
I have one wish for the 2010 World Cup: that Paraguay and Uruguay meet in the championship. We could finally determine the guayest nation of them all.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Vamping
Vampires: discuss. Before you start, though, read this nifty little piece about the real-life origins of the vampire legend. It'll take you back to a time when vampires weren't thought of as sparkly, effeminate men with faces as inexpressive and colorless as a porcelain urinal.
Whither the Weather
Good gosh almighty, but it is hot in DC. The weather forecasts have given up on predicting the exact temperature; the answer is always "too hot." Now, they're just trying to say that in new and interesting ways. Yesterday, the newspaper said it would be "frog-boilingly hot." The forecast for tomorrow is "Hell warmed over." Oh boy...
Names Considered for My DC Bar Trivia Team
The Declaration of In-Your-Face Dependence
Killary Klinton
The Tricky Dicks
Double Strasburger With Cheese
The John Wallbangers
AIPAC Shakur
Killary Klinton
The Tricky Dicks
Double Strasburger With Cheese
The John Wallbangers
AIPAC Shakur
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Mini-Review: The Making of the Atomic Bomb
When the first atomic bomb exploded in the New Mexico desert at Alamagordo, nuclear scientist Kenneth Bainbridge congratulated Robert Oppenheimer by saying "Now we are all sons of bitches." Richard Rhodes's "The Making of the Atomic Bomb" explains how the world's greatest scientists willingly transformed themselves into sons of bitches while pursuing an atomic dream.
The atomic bomb had no mother or father. Instead it had an extended family, a thousand aunts, uncles, and cousins, each partially responsible for raising the little monster. Ernest Rutherford discovered the nucleus--and made it possible to dream of splitting that nucleus. Robert Lawrence invented the cyclotron--which became an invaluable tool for harvesting valuable uranium 235. Leo Szilard conceived of the idea of weaponizing the energy radiating from a broken nucleus--and it was his letter that convinced Franklin D. Roosevelt to create the Manhattan Project.
Rhodes gives each of these characters their due. Even relatively minor figures like Paul Tibbets, commander of the Enola Gay, receive a concise biography. Major players like Neils Bohr and Robert Oppenheimer receive chapter-long treatments. The young Oppenheimer is described as "a Goth looting Rome," obsessed by the feeling that "Nothing was yet his, nothing was original." Szilard, writes Rhodes, "made dull men uncomfortable and vain men mad."
The remarkable thing about the making of the bomb is that much of the project was driven by a completely false idea. The Americans were terrified of being beaten by the Germans, who, they imagined, held an insurmountable lead in the race to build a bomb. Nothing was further from the truth. By the war's end, the Nazis had managed to make a few paltry nuclear piles. They had nothing close to the industrial capacity of American facilities like Hanford and Oak Ridge.
"The Making of the Atomic Bomb" closes with an extended epilogue, in which Rhodes argues that the "republic of science" offers the only alternative to the militaristic nation-state. The republic of science is founded in openness, transparency, and the free flow of ideas, all concepts antithetical to the closed and paranoid nation-state. Science, Rhodes believes, has the potential to liberate us from the endless squabbling of nations. It is an optimistic and perhaps overly hopeful dream, but certainly a dream worth having.
Also, it's a good book. Read it.
The atomic bomb had no mother or father. Instead it had an extended family, a thousand aunts, uncles, and cousins, each partially responsible for raising the little monster. Ernest Rutherford discovered the nucleus--and made it possible to dream of splitting that nucleus. Robert Lawrence invented the cyclotron--which became an invaluable tool for harvesting valuable uranium 235. Leo Szilard conceived of the idea of weaponizing the energy radiating from a broken nucleus--and it was his letter that convinced Franklin D. Roosevelt to create the Manhattan Project.
Rhodes gives each of these characters their due. Even relatively minor figures like Paul Tibbets, commander of the Enola Gay, receive a concise biography. Major players like Neils Bohr and Robert Oppenheimer receive chapter-long treatments. The young Oppenheimer is described as "a Goth looting Rome," obsessed by the feeling that "Nothing was yet his, nothing was original." Szilard, writes Rhodes, "made dull men uncomfortable and vain men mad."
The remarkable thing about the making of the bomb is that much of the project was driven by a completely false idea. The Americans were terrified of being beaten by the Germans, who, they imagined, held an insurmountable lead in the race to build a bomb. Nothing was further from the truth. By the war's end, the Nazis had managed to make a few paltry nuclear piles. They had nothing close to the industrial capacity of American facilities like Hanford and Oak Ridge.
"The Making of the Atomic Bomb" closes with an extended epilogue, in which Rhodes argues that the "republic of science" offers the only alternative to the militaristic nation-state. The republic of science is founded in openness, transparency, and the free flow of ideas, all concepts antithetical to the closed and paranoid nation-state. Science, Rhodes believes, has the potential to liberate us from the endless squabbling of nations. It is an optimistic and perhaps overly hopeful dream, but certainly a dream worth having.
Also, it's a good book. Read it.
It's Thriller!
Michael Jackson was weird. Of that, there can be no doubt. But how weird was he? Read this lengthy--but good--description of the making of "Thriller" to find out. And if you don't have time: the answer is very, very weird.
Fine Dining
"Tapas" is a Spanish word that, as far as I can tell, derives from the same root as the German word "blitzkrieg." Both phrases involve a sustained, merciless assault, one on the taste buds and stomach, the other on the Maginot Line. One does not eat at a tapas restaurant. One survives--endures--rises above the endless waves of meat, cheese, and vegetables.
The tapas restaurant in question is Jaleo, a cheery, airy place squeezed by Chinatown to the north and the Navy Memorial to the south. The occasion was a dinner with family friends. I played the role of a remora, the sucker-headed fish that suctions itself to a shark and eats whatever fragments are left after a feeding frenzy. My friends ordered the food; I ate it.
Like any good tactician, the restaurant softened us up first, in this case with a volley of bread. The fiends were clever; they included an olive oil dish for dunking bread fragments. It was an unfair fight. When the first dishes arrived, I was helpless, my fancy intern tie covered with bread crumbs and oil splotches.
The food never stopped. Never. The waiter came back every ten minutes carrying some new mixture of meat stuff and non-meat stuff. Peas with a poached egg on top? Sure. Garlic shrimp? We could make room for it. Salty asparagus on a bed of bright orange goo? Welcome to the table!
Two dishes stood out. The first one was remarkable for its name. When I read the menu and found a dish called the "Daniel Patrick Moynihan," I had to try it. Not sure where the name comes from. The tapas itself--a beefy sausage resting on a hill of white beans--did not look much like the former New York senator and public intellectual. Perhaps I was overthinking.
The second remarkable dish was...well, you know how everything tastes better with bacon? This tapas proved the point. First, you take a date. Not the kind you go to a movie with--the chewy figlike fruite. Next, wrap it in a bacon. And to complete this heart-stopping creation, dunk the whole thing in oil and deep-fry it. Eat one, and you would sell your soul to taste another.
What did I learn from Jaleo? First, bacon is good. Second, tapas restaurants are bad. Not bad taste-wise, but bad morally, because they transform even the humblest eater into a Brandoesque glutton. Damn you, Jaleo!
The tapas restaurant in question is Jaleo, a cheery, airy place squeezed by Chinatown to the north and the Navy Memorial to the south. The occasion was a dinner with family friends. I played the role of a remora, the sucker-headed fish that suctions itself to a shark and eats whatever fragments are left after a feeding frenzy. My friends ordered the food; I ate it.
Like any good tactician, the restaurant softened us up first, in this case with a volley of bread. The fiends were clever; they included an olive oil dish for dunking bread fragments. It was an unfair fight. When the first dishes arrived, I was helpless, my fancy intern tie covered with bread crumbs and oil splotches.
The food never stopped. Never. The waiter came back every ten minutes carrying some new mixture of meat stuff and non-meat stuff. Peas with a poached egg on top? Sure. Garlic shrimp? We could make room for it. Salty asparagus on a bed of bright orange goo? Welcome to the table!
Two dishes stood out. The first one was remarkable for its name. When I read the menu and found a dish called the "Daniel Patrick Moynihan," I had to try it. Not sure where the name comes from. The tapas itself--a beefy sausage resting on a hill of white beans--did not look much like the former New York senator and public intellectual. Perhaps I was overthinking.
The second remarkable dish was...well, you know how everything tastes better with bacon? This tapas proved the point. First, you take a date. Not the kind you go to a movie with--the chewy figlike fruite. Next, wrap it in a bacon. And to complete this heart-stopping creation, dunk the whole thing in oil and deep-fry it. Eat one, and you would sell your soul to taste another.
What did I learn from Jaleo? First, bacon is good. Second, tapas restaurants are bad. Not bad taste-wise, but bad morally, because they transform even the humblest eater into a Brandoesque glutton. Damn you, Jaleo!
One Good Thing...
...about this blog is that I will never, ever need to worry about moderating the comments.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time
Fun little article from Slate about one of the oldest cliches in the book--and not just in "the" book, but in practically every book ever written.
I'm On Fire
My dorm had yet another fire alarm a few days ago, though this one occurred at a more reasonable hour. All I know is, when the real fire comes, I am going to be good and ready for it.
Living History
One of my goals this summer is to visit all the Smithsonian museums. Another goal is to fly, but the Smithsonian one is probably more doable.
The journey began last Sunday with a trip to the National American History Museum of America. Last time I visited DC--back in the legendary summer of aught-eight--the museum was closed for remodeling. After all, it had not been updated since World War I, and its references to "the War to End All Wars" had grown a bit dated.
Did the renovations do the trick? Yes, probably. I'm no competent judge of museums, or of anything, really, but I found the American National Museum of National American History a diverting way to waste an afternoon.
Most of my time was spent in the presidential hall. Like all museum exhibits, the halls' MO was to collect bits of historical detritus--George Washington's teacup! Ulysses S. Grant's carriage!--and surround them with text-heavy but readable panels. Let it be known that the presidential hall did this very well.
My favorite doodad was the "dress uniform" that Richard Nixon tried to foist upon the White House Secret Service. It looked like something snatched from the wardrobe of a low-budget biopic about Rudyard Kipling. Big gold epaulets perched on top of a starched, lily-white shirt with gold buttons; a goofy white cap completed the absurdity. Now I understand why Nixon was so paranoid. If I had proposed something like that to the Secret Service, I sure as hell wouldn't rely on them for protection anymore.
Down on the museum's ground floor, you can find Julia Child's kitchen. Not simply an exhibit about the kitchen--the kitchen itself, complete with pots, pans, and--my favorite--a doughnut-hole press. A clip from Child's show played constantly outside the exhibit. Passerbys stopped, unable to resist the siren song of Child's voice. I plugged my ears and hurried by. There was still much to see.
A little cubbylike corner on the third floor houses a few relics from American pop culture history. Want to see Fonzie's jacket from "Happy Days?" Come on up to the third floor of the American National Museum of National History for America and its History. You can gaze upon that sacred relic in all its glory. Don't forget to check out Dorothy's shoes from the "Wizard of Oz."
Across the hall from the Fonz's jacket, there is a little room where classical music is perpetually piped through hidden speakers. Half-a-dozen glass cases contain the most beautiful musical instruments you will ever. Note: previous sentence does not apply if you happen to own a collection of Stradivarius violins. I particularly liked the tiny, leering head carved on top of one of the cellos. It must have made practice quite an experience.
Then there was the museum store. While I think selling off bits of Chester A. Arthur's facial hair may be distasteful, who am I to quibble with how the Smithsonian makes money?
In conclusion: a fun and entertaining time will be had by all. I told as much to a security guard on the way out, adding that the museum was welcome to use my testimony as a blurb on their website. He said he would look into it. I have no reason to disbelieve him.
The journey began last Sunday with a trip to the National American History Museum of America. Last time I visited DC--back in the legendary summer of aught-eight--the museum was closed for remodeling. After all, it had not been updated since World War I, and its references to "the War to End All Wars" had grown a bit dated.
Did the renovations do the trick? Yes, probably. I'm no competent judge of museums, or of anything, really, but I found the American National Museum of National American History a diverting way to waste an afternoon.
Most of my time was spent in the presidential hall. Like all museum exhibits, the halls' MO was to collect bits of historical detritus--George Washington's teacup! Ulysses S. Grant's carriage!--and surround them with text-heavy but readable panels. Let it be known that the presidential hall did this very well.
My favorite doodad was the "dress uniform" that Richard Nixon tried to foist upon the White House Secret Service. It looked like something snatched from the wardrobe of a low-budget biopic about Rudyard Kipling. Big gold epaulets perched on top of a starched, lily-white shirt with gold buttons; a goofy white cap completed the absurdity. Now I understand why Nixon was so paranoid. If I had proposed something like that to the Secret Service, I sure as hell wouldn't rely on them for protection anymore.
Down on the museum's ground floor, you can find Julia Child's kitchen. Not simply an exhibit about the kitchen--the kitchen itself, complete with pots, pans, and--my favorite--a doughnut-hole press. A clip from Child's show played constantly outside the exhibit. Passerbys stopped, unable to resist the siren song of Child's voice. I plugged my ears and hurried by. There was still much to see.
A little cubbylike corner on the third floor houses a few relics from American pop culture history. Want to see Fonzie's jacket from "Happy Days?" Come on up to the third floor of the American National Museum of National History for America and its History. You can gaze upon that sacred relic in all its glory. Don't forget to check out Dorothy's shoes from the "Wizard of Oz."
Across the hall from the Fonz's jacket, there is a little room where classical music is perpetually piped through hidden speakers. Half-a-dozen glass cases contain the most beautiful musical instruments you will ever. Note: previous sentence does not apply if you happen to own a collection of Stradivarius violins. I particularly liked the tiny, leering head carved on top of one of the cellos. It must have made practice quite an experience.
Then there was the museum store. While I think selling off bits of Chester A. Arthur's facial hair may be distasteful, who am I to quibble with how the Smithsonian makes money?
In conclusion: a fun and entertaining time will be had by all. I told as much to a security guard on the way out, adding that the museum was welcome to use my testimony as a blurb on their website. He said he would look into it. I have no reason to disbelieve him.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Take Me Out, Part III
Oh yes, the game itself. The Nationals worked a no-hitter through several innings. Granted, it was their batters doing the no-hitting, but you take your no-hitters where you can get them. The Nats ended with a grand total of three hits. As a seatmate of mine complained, "I could have gone out their and gotten at least one hit!" Too true. The Nats probably would have added him to their roster, no questions asked.
There were no home runs. This is not a capital crime in a ballgame. Baseball is, after all, as much about speed as about power. But this game was played without speed OR power. Perhaps it was the heat, but the players seemed to hustle with all the enthusiasm of a third-grade nerd playing kickball in PE class. I should know. I used to be that kind of nerd.
Still, the game had its high points. The highest of those was the Presidents' Race, in which four people dressed as presidents Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Teddy Roosevelt--complete with hydrocephalic foam heads--race around the bases. Teddy was going strong, but he stumbled in the home stretch and lost to Lincoln. Afterward, I checked Wikipedia and found that Teddy has yet to win a race. The article was written with the loving detail that we have come to expect when Wikipedia approaches arcane trivia.
My dream is that one day the Nationals will host a Mediocre Presidents' Race. Who wouldn't want to see Millard Fillmore square off with Rutherford Hayes, Chester A. Arthur, and Gerald Ford? The comedy potential is limitless.
Another plus was the "Who's That Nat?" competition. The Jumbotron put up baby pictures of a Nats player and we had to guess who it was. That might not sound like a high point. I guess it really wasn't. The humor, though, was when I realized that "Who's That Nat?" could easily be renamed "Who Dat Nat?" This thought kept me giggling through the sixth inning.
At some point the Nationals manager was ejected. Don't know why, though. Perhaps the referee was simply appalled that anyone could be so dimwitted as to choose a career as manager for the Nationals.
We left somewhere in the eighth inning. Normally, I hate it when people leave sporting events early. In this case our crime was especially bad. It was 1-0! Anything could have happened in the last inning! We wagered that it wouldn't. And that's one bet that turned out OK.
There were no home runs. This is not a capital crime in a ballgame. Baseball is, after all, as much about speed as about power. But this game was played without speed OR power. Perhaps it was the heat, but the players seemed to hustle with all the enthusiasm of a third-grade nerd playing kickball in PE class. I should know. I used to be that kind of nerd.
Still, the game had its high points. The highest of those was the Presidents' Race, in which four people dressed as presidents Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Teddy Roosevelt--complete with hydrocephalic foam heads--race around the bases. Teddy was going strong, but he stumbled in the home stretch and lost to Lincoln. Afterward, I checked Wikipedia and found that Teddy has yet to win a race. The article was written with the loving detail that we have come to expect when Wikipedia approaches arcane trivia.
My dream is that one day the Nationals will host a Mediocre Presidents' Race. Who wouldn't want to see Millard Fillmore square off with Rutherford Hayes, Chester A. Arthur, and Gerald Ford? The comedy potential is limitless.
Another plus was the "Who's That Nat?" competition. The Jumbotron put up baby pictures of a Nats player and we had to guess who it was. That might not sound like a high point. I guess it really wasn't. The humor, though, was when I realized that "Who's That Nat?" could easily be renamed "Who Dat Nat?" This thought kept me giggling through the sixth inning.
At some point the Nationals manager was ejected. Don't know why, though. Perhaps the referee was simply appalled that anyone could be so dimwitted as to choose a career as manager for the Nationals.
We left somewhere in the eighth inning. Normally, I hate it when people leave sporting events early. In this case our crime was especially bad. It was 1-0! Anything could have happened in the last inning! We wagered that it wouldn't. And that's one bet that turned out OK.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Take Me Out, Part II
John Updike described Fenway as a "lyric little bandbox of a ballpark." If Updike had ever turned his descriptive powers on Nationals Park, he might have described it thus: "Ah, well, it's got seats and everything, and they play ball there, so I guess it counts as a ballpark."
Nationals Park--or NaPa, as some might call it--does not have much character. But then, is character really so great? "Character" is rusted bleachers that heat up to egg-frying levels under the summer sun. "Character" is a jellyfish-size wad of bubble gum jammed in the water fountain. "Character" is seats so steep they require crampons and a belaying line. No, sometimes antiseptic works fine.
We arrived maybe half an hour before they kicked off. Er, pitched off. Whatever figure of speech they use in baseball. Outside the ballpark, a classic rock cover band was playing in some kind of tent-arena thing. I never figured out why, why they were playing and why they were walled off by a big plastic barrier. Was it to keep non-paying freeloaders from hearing their version of "The Weight?"
Seats were surprisingly cheap: $26. OK, make that "surprisingly cheap for any team aside from the Washington Nationals and maybe the Pittsburgh Pirates." Each ticket came with a free inferiority complex, a requirement for any true Nats fan.
We sat right behind that base where the man with the glove does that thing. I really can't tell. My baseball knowledge ends with the spoken interlude in "Paradise By the Dashboard Light." And with that frank confession I must leave you for this evening. More to come tomorrow.
Nationals Park--or NaPa, as some might call it--does not have much character. But then, is character really so great? "Character" is rusted bleachers that heat up to egg-frying levels under the summer sun. "Character" is a jellyfish-size wad of bubble gum jammed in the water fountain. "Character" is seats so steep they require crampons and a belaying line. No, sometimes antiseptic works fine.
We arrived maybe half an hour before they kicked off. Er, pitched off. Whatever figure of speech they use in baseball. Outside the ballpark, a classic rock cover band was playing in some kind of tent-arena thing. I never figured out why, why they were playing and why they were walled off by a big plastic barrier. Was it to keep non-paying freeloaders from hearing their version of "The Weight?"
Seats were surprisingly cheap: $26. OK, make that "surprisingly cheap for any team aside from the Washington Nationals and maybe the Pittsburgh Pirates." Each ticket came with a free inferiority complex, a requirement for any true Nats fan.
We sat right behind that base where the man with the glove does that thing. I really can't tell. My baseball knowledge ends with the spoken interlude in "Paradise By the Dashboard Light." And with that frank confession I must leave you for this evening. More to come tomorrow.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Take Me Out
Baseball claims to be America's pasttime. Well, maybe. But are Americans really as boring as that? Granted, a well-played game of baseball can be exciting. But a bad game drags like a dying camel.
As you might have guessed, I went to a game a few days ago. A bad game. One of those games where...uh oh, it's 11:43 and my bedtime is 11:45. Let me go through the ultra-condensed version:
1. I went to a Nats-White Sox game
2. It was a bit dull
3. The water cost too much
4. And I got sunburn
5. And kids these days wear their pants too low and listen to outrageous music
A full update coming tomorrow, I swear! Specifically, damn!
As you might have guessed, I went to a game a few days ago. A bad game. One of those games where...uh oh, it's 11:43 and my bedtime is 11:45. Let me go through the ultra-condensed version:
1. I went to a Nats-White Sox game
2. It was a bit dull
3. The water cost too much
4. And I got sunburn
5. And kids these days wear their pants too low and listen to outrageous music
A full update coming tomorrow, I swear! Specifically, damn!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
On the Run
Running in Washington, DC is a very different experience than running in Yorba Linda. It's not simply the humidity--though the feeling of having to jog through a swimming pool does count as a black mark against DC.
For one thing, each city takes a different attitude toward pedestrians, though neither one is terribly friendly. Southern California doesn't try to disguise its anti-pedestrian hostility. You are an intruder in the realm of the SUV and therefore must be destroyed.
Thus, running in Yorba Linda felt a little like being a deer during open season. Every car was actively trying to destroy you. Paranoid? Perhaps. But running in a place with very few sidewalks, busy six-lane highways, and "Walk" signs that abruptly switch to "Don't Walk" with no warning, you inevitably get a little paranoid.
Compare this with Washington, DC. The district is supposed to be pedestrian-friendly, and I guess it is. Kind of. There are many, many crosswalks, plenty of open green spaces, and lots of spectacular marble monuments to take your mind off the lactic acid burning deep in your muscles.
Still, I can't escape the feeling that all this is simply for show. Washington belongs to the drivers, and one day--not too far from now--they will reclaim it. Whenever I pass in front of four lanes of stopped traffic while crossing the street, I wonder what might happen if one driver, just one, decided "To hell with the lights!" and gunned his motor. Would the rest follow his lead? Would they go tearing through the crosswalks in a frenzy of anti-pedestrian gore?
That's my cheerful thought for today. Tomorrow: kittens!
For one thing, each city takes a different attitude toward pedestrians, though neither one is terribly friendly. Southern California doesn't try to disguise its anti-pedestrian hostility. You are an intruder in the realm of the SUV and therefore must be destroyed.
Thus, running in Yorba Linda felt a little like being a deer during open season. Every car was actively trying to destroy you. Paranoid? Perhaps. But running in a place with very few sidewalks, busy six-lane highways, and "Walk" signs that abruptly switch to "Don't Walk" with no warning, you inevitably get a little paranoid.
Compare this with Washington, DC. The district is supposed to be pedestrian-friendly, and I guess it is. Kind of. There are many, many crosswalks, plenty of open green spaces, and lots of spectacular marble monuments to take your mind off the lactic acid burning deep in your muscles.
Still, I can't escape the feeling that all this is simply for show. Washington belongs to the drivers, and one day--not too far from now--they will reclaim it. Whenever I pass in front of four lanes of stopped traffic while crossing the street, I wonder what might happen if one driver, just one, decided "To hell with the lights!" and gunned his motor. Would the rest follow his lead? Would they go tearing through the crosswalks in a frenzy of anti-pedestrian gore?
That's my cheerful thought for today. Tomorrow: kittens!
Subway Thought
This occurred to me after being squashed into the back corner of a Red Line subway train en route to Union Station. If you need space on the subway, wouldn't the best tactic be to yell "I think I'm gonna throw up!" and make retching noises? Instant space. Guaranteed.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A Tip to the Street Musician at Farragut North
If your sax music is impossible to distinguish from the rattling sound of the broken escalator--if, in fact, the escalator sounds a little more tuneful--then it might be time to give up busking. Y'know, just sayin'.
Monday, June 14, 2010
In Hot Water
This story involves nudity. You were forewarned.
Anyway, this morning I was taking a shower in the hall bathroom(for your information--I'm staying in a DC college dorm room this summer). I'm a big fan of showers; I try to take one every week.
Understand one thing: the showers in this bathroom are loud. Vuvuzela-level loud. Someone could be gruesomely murdered in the next stall, and you wouldn't even realize it until their blood started pooling in your drain.
I'm taking a shower when I hear what sounds like an ambulance siren. Like I said, the shower is loud, so the siren sounds kind of distant. I don't think much of it. Probably some mid-level functionary at the Department of Agriculture got run over while texting on his Blackberry or something.
A few minutes pass. I hear the siren again. And again a couple seconds later. Geez, I think, that's an awfully persistent ambulance. Maybe it's parked right outside the dorm. But the siren keeps going every couple of seconds. Finally, a horrible realization dawns on me--doubly horrible, considering that I just lathered up my face for shaving. Could it be a...
FIRE ALARM! AAAAARGH!
If there had been anyone else in the bathroom at the time, they would have heard me yell "Goddamnit!" in a voice so loud God himself probably blushed. Now I faced a conundrum: assume it was a drill and finish my shower, at the risk of being boiled alive, or grab my shower caddy and make a run for it, at the risk of ending up locked out of the dorm in my underwear?
My self-preservation won out. Barely. Only the thought of being cooked like a pepperoni hot pocket got me moving. And that's how I ended up on the streets of Washington, DC in my underwear and a towel at 8:30 in the morning. The front of my underwear might have been open, too. I decided not to look. If it was open, I probably would have died of utter humiliating right there.
Perhaps I should consider this little adventure a public service. The sight of me--and a bunch of other pajama-wearing interns--standing on the sidewalk was probably a refreshing change of pace for most morning commuters. So there; I've done my good deed for the week.
Anyway, this morning I was taking a shower in the hall bathroom(for your information--I'm staying in a DC college dorm room this summer). I'm a big fan of showers; I try to take one every week.
Understand one thing: the showers in this bathroom are loud. Vuvuzela-level loud. Someone could be gruesomely murdered in the next stall, and you wouldn't even realize it until their blood started pooling in your drain.
I'm taking a shower when I hear what sounds like an ambulance siren. Like I said, the shower is loud, so the siren sounds kind of distant. I don't think much of it. Probably some mid-level functionary at the Department of Agriculture got run over while texting on his Blackberry or something.
A few minutes pass. I hear the siren again. And again a couple seconds later. Geez, I think, that's an awfully persistent ambulance. Maybe it's parked right outside the dorm. But the siren keeps going every couple of seconds. Finally, a horrible realization dawns on me--doubly horrible, considering that I just lathered up my face for shaving. Could it be a...
FIRE ALARM! AAAAARGH!
If there had been anyone else in the bathroom at the time, they would have heard me yell "Goddamnit!" in a voice so loud God himself probably blushed. Now I faced a conundrum: assume it was a drill and finish my shower, at the risk of being boiled alive, or grab my shower caddy and make a run for it, at the risk of ending up locked out of the dorm in my underwear?
My self-preservation won out. Barely. Only the thought of being cooked like a pepperoni hot pocket got me moving. And that's how I ended up on the streets of Washington, DC in my underwear and a towel at 8:30 in the morning. The front of my underwear might have been open, too. I decided not to look. If it was open, I probably would have died of utter humiliating right there.
Perhaps I should consider this little adventure a public service. The sight of me--and a bunch of other pajama-wearing interns--standing on the sidewalk was probably a refreshing change of pace for most morning commuters. So there; I've done my good deed for the week.
Wish I Were in DC
Back in Washington DC. Third time in four years, as a matter of fact. Something draws me to the city like a Snickers draws a fat kid. Actually, that metaphor makes sense. Most of my fond Washington memories involve food: the bite-size burgers at Matchbox, the Old Glory hot dog with the relative dimensions of a riot club, the slightly stale chocolate doughnuts from the 7-11.
But enough about food. I'm only making myself hungry without purpose. I figured that, as long as I'm in DC for the summer, I might as well document the goings-on and whatever. Not my work, of course, which is STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL AND WOULD REQUIRE ME TO KILL YOU IF I TOLD YOU ABOUT IT. Seriously. It was part of the paperwork I signed. If I tell a friend about work, I am required to kill them in no less than thirty-five (35) business days.
No, this blog will (hopefully) talk about the little things I see in Washington, the inconsequential bits of city life that drift by, unnoticed by everyone except an intern shambling his way up Eye Street. Enjoy!
But enough about food. I'm only making myself hungry without purpose. I figured that, as long as I'm in DC for the summer, I might as well document the goings-on and whatever. Not my work, of course, which is STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL AND WOULD REQUIRE ME TO KILL YOU IF I TOLD YOU ABOUT IT. Seriously. It was part of the paperwork I signed. If I tell a friend about work, I am required to kill them in no less than thirty-five (35) business days.
No, this blog will (hopefully) talk about the little things I see in Washington, the inconsequential bits of city life that drift by, unnoticed by everyone except an intern shambling his way up Eye Street. Enjoy!
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