Metro Encounters II

Hey. Hey, you -- perfectly normal looking guy, riding the metro, wearing a suit.

Yeah, you.

Why are you listening to House-Techno? Loud.

Loud enough that I can hear it... half a train car away.

There's no bee-bopping on the yellow line, my friend. Ever.

Turn it off and read your Financial Times.

I'd beat you senseless with my satchel, but I don't want to break my BlackBerry.

Hangers and Pennies

I started a new job today. It was full of excitement, as all first days of employment are -- filling out paper work, struggling to remember names, learning the "style" of the place, and setting up my work area.

As I was looking through the drawers of my new desk I found myself rooting through the detritus of my predecessor. I found:

a single Marlboro Light
a half book of matches
three screwdrivers
a Budweiser bottle cap
a metro card with $3.50 left on it
receipts
five loose Alleve

Unlike the drawers and "utility" closets of our homes, which are usually just filled with junk and laziness, I think the kinds of things we accumulate in our work desks are interesting -- even telling. Now, I'm not going to sit here and try to extrapolate what kind of a person used to sit at my desk based on the things I listed. I will say that I can understand the lone cigarette, the trace of beer, and the loose meds. But three screwdrivers?

I guess the contents of your desk could represent the kind of relationship you have with your workplace, your colleagues, your current state of mental health. And, it follows that the things you leave behind, in you little desk drawer, are the cast offs -- the stress, uncertainty, or anguish of your job or situation. Like a snake shedding its skin, we start anew.

I should also note that I found a pair of pants in a file cabinet.

Do with that what you will.

Thought Drawings

Here's a short lyrical bit from a great group, The Animators:

I was never any good at navigation
I can barely read a compass rose
and I never want to know the destination
just that someone knows

That pretty much sums up how I've been living my life for, uh, the past 5 years or so. Think about how, and if, it relates to you. And, check out the website.

(Work-friendly Note: there is automatic audio that opens with the site.)

Uncle Richard, Me, and James Earl Jones

If you live in DC you've probably seen commercials for Verizon featuring their spokesperson, James Earl Jones. It is a pretty, pretty, pretty sad affair. Jones, famous for his portrayal of Darth Vader, that writer in Field of Dreams, and a little known cameo in Dr. Strangelove, marches around a set asking people about Verizon products. At one point, a television within one of the ads shows Jones, gussied up in cowboy garb, riding a horse and spinning a lasso (does one spin or twirl a lasso?). The first time I saw this commercial, I burst into tears. What had they done to James? How had the man with the deep, sugary voice been reduced to such tripe?

James, calling on behalf of Verizon last week, gave me the chance to answer these questions.

[cell phone rings]

JEJ: Hello, this is James Earl Jones of Verizon Wireless. As a part of the Verizon family you are entitled to our latest offer of--

Q: James, is that really you?

JEJ: Whah, ah, hello?

Q: James! I'm a huge fan -- I loved you in all your movies. And on the stage, I mean, I'm assuming you do theater... I've never seen you on stage.

JEJ: Yes, I do theater, and thank you. What I'm calling about, though, is our "new-line addition" discount--

Q: Yeah, that's great, but before we get down to the details on THAT, I'd like to ask you something.

JEJ: Shoot.

Q: What the in the HELL are you doing? You're a huge film and stage star! You're probably set for life with royalties and things. Why are you working for some second rate phone company?

JEJ: Yeah, well, it isn't that bad, I mean--

Q: James! Have you seen your commercials?!

JEJ: Okay, I'll be straight with you. I'm addicted to Meth. I started a few years ago and it just took over my life. I mean, thank god it isn't crack, but that stuff has a hold on me. I'm out of cash, man. I'll do anything for my next fix.

Q: No way. I've seen that commercial with you in the cowboy outfit, spinning the lasso, there's--

JEJ: It's twirling. You twirl a lasso.

Q: Oh. Well, whatever. There's no way Meth is doing that to you. You're a classically trained actor. I know you'd rather give blowjobs on the street for cash if you were faced with dressing up like a cowboy. Jesus, and they made you wear that hat...

JEJ: Okay, okay! [voice lowers to a whisper] Listen, they have my family. They've threatened to kill everyone I love if I don't do their bidding. They strap me in this chair, in a room with only one light bulb and an auto-dialer, and I make these promotional phone calls day after day -- when I'm not shooting their shitty commercials.

Q: Shit. Who's "they," James? Where can I find you? I'll bust you outta there, just give me a general location--

JEJ: I don't know where I am [unintelligible background noise] Shit. They're coming. [Normal Voice] Well, I'm sorry we can't interest you in our latest offer. I'll call back in a month with another exciting innovation from Verizon Wireless. Thank you for your time and have a great day!

[dialtone]

So there you have it. Fucking Verizon. Just imagine what T-Mobile is doing to Catherine-Zeta. We need to get him out of there. Let me know if you get a fix on his exact location.

Regulators.... mount up.

Metro Encounter

I was riding the metro today, sitting across from a man -- easily in this 40's -- who was reading the latest Harry Potter. To make matters worse, he was wearing the replica "Harry" glasses -- you know the style, big, oval, black.

I don't care if it's entertaining. If you are an adult you should be reading something of substance -- especially whilst riding the metro, I mean, you're all out in public, and we're judging you. Among the most heartbreaking literary tragedies is J.R. Tolkien's wasted life; one of the greatest linguists to ever live, Tolkien spent his time inventing fake languages for children's novels.

If you want to read like a child, expect to get beat like a child.

Elderly Harry Potter fans, you've been warned.

"Tear down this wall!"

There's been quite a bit of attention focused on America's "illegal immigration problem" recently. A few states have even declared "emergencies" in order to fight immigration with federal dollars. In Arizona, some "officials" believe 1,000 people illegally cross the Mexican/American border every day.

Yeah, so what? We live in a country that was built upon the strong backs of immigrants -- illegal or otherwise. I'm tired of hearing commentators or "officials" or politicians or my barber deride these desperate and daring people -- willing to put their lives on the line to make a better life. The problem with these nay-sayers is that they focus on the "jobs" and "safety" that illegal immigration "supposedly" takes away from us and they've forgotten what illegal immigration has given us. Without the fence-jumping daredevils, my friends, I'm sorry to say we wouldn't have much in the way of entertainment here in the good ole U.S. of A!

Name: Wayne Gretzky
Illegal From: Canada
Method: Down on his luck and unable to get across the border, Wayne meets a beautiful figure skater who just happens to need a partner. He needs to learn finesse and she needs to learn to have some patience, but they end up teaching each other. Wayne is later smuggled into the U.S. in the false floor of his partner's 1980 Volkswagen Beetle.

Name: Gloria Estefan
Illegal From: Cuba
Method: In May 1980, Fidel Castro opened the harbor at Mariel, Cuba, with the apparent intention of letting some of his people join their relatives in the US. Within 72 hours, 300 US boats were headed for Cuba. It soon became evident that Castro was forcing the boat owners to carry back with them not only their relatives, but the dregs of his jails. Of the 125,000 refugees that landed in Florida, an estimated 25,000 had criminal records. Of the 25,000, Gloria was one.

Name: Iman (a.k.a. Kola Boof)
Illegal From: Somalia
Method: Kola lured a UNICEF worker, Iman Figowitz, out into the ocean in a rowboat and beat her senseless with an oar. Kola then stole the woman's clothes, passport, and identity.


Name: Ricardo Montalban
Illegal From: Fantasy Island
Method: After the death of a high powered investment banker at his, "resort," Ricardo flees to the U.S. on "de plane." He's reported to have settled in DC, among a burgeoning Latino population.


So, the next time you're at a dinner party and you hear someone lamenting the state of the "immigration problem," stand up, point a finger right in their face, and shout: "Hey! That's Wayne Gretzky you're talking about! I know Wayne Gretzky. Wayne Gretzky is a friend of mine -- a great American. You, sir, are no Wayne Gretzky." Then, stomp out, go home, and watch a movie/music video/tv show/sporting event featuring any one of our famous illegally immigrated Americans.

Redskins

Yeah, so the name may be a little offensive to some -- get over it. Last night, I sat down and watched my first Redskins game of the season. They stunk. It was looking good for a while -- the defense making stops, the offense moving the ball down the field. Then, Patrick Ramsey threw two interceptions. I shouted some obscenities after each. Something to the effect of, "Shit, fuck, Ramsey!!" And then I thought, why am I yelling about a game that doesn't even count?

A cold sweat broke out all over my body as I realized that I'd become a "victim fan." Oh, you know who you are out there. Full of shame, you watch your team lose game after game. Finding ever more unbelievable and Shakespearean ways to disappoint you.

The Victim Fan (VF) resides in the traditions of the Browns, the Redsox, the Cubs, and the Dolphins. The VF starts to refer to their sports team in the first person-inclusive, "We." Never satisfied with all the nights the VF spent last season crying himself to sleep, he irrationally builds his hopes and dreams for his team yet again. When VFs congregate they talk about all the "close calls," or (in the cases of some teams) the glory days, circa 1954. The VF blames the owner, the coach, the running back who "just wants to get paid," the trainer who forgot to bring Thurman Thomas' helmet to the Super Bowl -- everyone, it seems, but themselves.

If only the VF realized that if he cheered just a little louder, prayed a little harder, and didn't wash his replica jersey before the playoffs, his team would be successful.

That, or maybe if they fired that shit-head quarterback who couldn't read a zone blitz if the linebackers were holding up giant index cards with the phrase "Zone Blitz" emblazoned on them, I'd see the playoffs for the first time since Doug Williams. Jesus.

Feel sorry for me.
I am a victim.

I am a Redskins fan.

It Could Be Worse

Alright, listen. I realize that what I've written so far is neither the funniest nor the most entertaining stuff you have ever read. But guess what? I'm not The Daily Show, nor am I The Onion. I don't want to be McSweeney's. All I really ask is that if you come to this site, you acknowledge that someone (Me) has been slaving over a hot blog-stove all day to produce whatever roast-cleverness you have just feasted your eyes on. I need some comments!

Half the point of doing this was to invite commentary and conversation among you, the loyal readers. Don't go all Tommy Quarterback, fingerbanging me in the back of your Blog-Buick only to bail out when I want to talk about "us." I need some love -- true love.

And, because I was raised on guilt, this post is dedicated to showing you the kind of crap you could be reading. So, without further ado, an excerpt from a blog dedicated to -- Pool Chemicals and Pool Safety.

Did you know that drowning is one of the leading killers of Sailors in recreational mishaps? It is preventable if you follow these tips: 1. Learn how to swim 2. Swim only in authorized areas 3. Don't drink alcohol and swim 4. Never swim alone 5. Know the depth of water before you dive 6. Always wear a flotation device while boating.

Two Marines went swimming in a rain-swollen drainage ditch. They were swept away into a pipeline and drowned. Use some common sense when you're outdoors, so you can live to enjoy some more fresh air. A broken neck can spoil your day in paradise.

If you're going to drink like a fish, don't try to swim. Your chances of ending up as a statistic are pretty good. A Sailor sat in his hot tub after an evening of drinking. To cool off, he dove into a pool that was four feet deep, hit his head and suffered cuts and a compression fracture. Diving in shallow water isn't smart for anybody, and swimming when you've been drinking is inviting disaster.

By: Tim -- Swimming Safety

This example of blogs-that-could-instantly-kill-a-creative-writing- professional wouldn't be fitting for NTC if I didn't endeavor to rip it apart. Let's begin at the beginning, shall we?

Why is this guy, Tim, obsessed with the safety of Sailors and Marines? Are they the only ones who suffer water related deaths? Oh, wait, I get it. We're supposed to be blown away by the fact that people who's JOB it is to know the water are ALSO susceptible to its dangers. Oooooh. Yeah, see what happens when you try to be clever by being overtly clever?

What is a "recreational mishap"?

Is learning how to swim really the first step in swimming safety? I thought it would be something like, "Keep that baby away from the pool!" Or, "Don't tie rocks around your ankles."

Rule 3 and 4 seem to present all sorts of problems. Social people are usually going to drink around a pool. Then they might take a swim. But, they won't be alone. If you are alone, and at a pool, and contemplating swimming, and not drunk -- something is seriously wrong. And, it isn't safety-related.

Where did that boating rule come from? Who was talking about boating? Whah?

Okay, who invited the Marines, and why are they playing in a drainage ditch as though they are me, circa 1985?

I have no qualms with "A broken neck can spoil your day in paradise." In fact, I just had it tattooed across the small of my back.

It's one thing for the Sailors and Marines to get killed while doing their DUTY -- you know, on the HIGH SEAS -- but, why does Tim have to kill them in a backyard pool or drainage ditch? Like these poor bastards don't have it hard enough? I mean, Sailors are only Sailors because they couldn't hack it in flight school. And, Marines are usually 19 years-old and fleeing a broken home. Don't they have enough on to worry about without strapping on a life-vest before slipping into the hot tub after a full day of Sailor-ing/Marine-ing?

I think doing a blog about swimming pools is inviting disaster.

Do you see now? Do you see how good you have it?

One day I'll be gone -- probably from a cramp in the middle of a lake (depth unknown) I had jumped into, drunk and alone and unlife-vested and not knowing how to swim, after just eating a meatloaf sandwich 10 minutes prior.

I'll slip silently beneath the cold, black water.

Then you'll be sorry.

How Much is That Doggie in the Window?

I don't particularly like animals. Most people I know have dogs or cats or fishes or (ahem) rabbits. And, frankly, these pets are pretty cute. Unless you have a big dog. I don't like big dogs at all. "Get off me big dog. You're paws are all up on my suit jacket."

But what if you didn't have a big dog, or a cat, or a fish, or a rabbit -- for that matter?

What if you were the proud owner of this dog:


What IS that thing? THAT cannot be a dog! Who could love that? Why?
It's like one of those tumors they find growing on someone in Kazakastan and it has gone unchecked for so long that the tumor has grown hair and teeth. Or, it could be that one dog from Lady and the Tramp mixed with the Crypt Keeper. Imagine finding THAT thing sharing a plate of spaghetti with your female doggie. Sweet Jesus.

I'm going to need some people to weigh in with other ugly pets they've spotted or owned to put this in perspective.

I just hope I can get to bed tonight...

"How's Grandma?"

--"Dude, Grandma's dead."
Survivor fans remember this exchange. It got Johnny Fairplay through a round of voting and, upon learning his grandmother wasn't really dead, it earned him the ire or admiration of viewers everywhere.

It is, for better or worse, the old "Grandma Excuse." I've used it a few times. Once to get out of a college class to see a Guster concert. Once to get out of the last few days of a job I hated. And once, though this is a variation on the practice, to make an anecdote in an essay a little more poignant.

Using a dead grandmother, and the ensuing funeral, to get out of something is praised by some as genius and derided by others as dastardly, immoral, and just plain wrong. (Note: the latter group's judgment is often influenced by the fact that they are usually too chicken, too unimaginative, or too far up Jesus' ass to ever attempt the Grandma Excuse).

Like any good con, however, the Grandma Excuse must be employed with extreme prejudice and be executed with flawless observation of "The Rules." Derivation from The Rules is possible, but only if the excusee is an artist in the truest sense of the word.

What follows are The Rules for the Grandma Excuse:

1. You cannot claim the death of a grandmother who has already passed away. This is the coward's way out. If there is no fear of karmic retribution, no belief that what you are doing is so totally wrong that the universe will exact a horrible revenge on your still-living grandmother, you will not possess that edge, that gleam in your eye that silently screams to your excuser, "Oh My God, My Grandma is Dying/Dead!"

2. Never scream "Oh My God, My Grandma is Dying/Dead!" Such outright emotion is unlikely for someone who is actually losing their grandmother. The passing or sickness of a grandmother is an emotionally confusing experience. She gave you peppermints and made you French toast. You didn't see her a whole lot, but your Mom is pretty upset, so you are too...kinda. Remember, this death is a swirling, ambiguous emotional cornucopia. It isn't true, or real, or earnest.

3. Talk quietly when you explain the situation. It will remind your excuser of funerals, of wakes, of talking to the bereaved. (Remember, that's You.) It might even cause the excuser to breakdown themselves -- thinking back to the passing of their own grandmother. Just make sure to Keep it Together. Don't get drawn in and start crying yourself. Chances are, you'll just end up laughing because, come on, grandmas are pretty funny.

4. Make the excuse in person. Only use email or the phone if it is absolutely necessary. The Grandma Excuse must be planned. You must be in character and in control. If you're using the phone or the computer to communicate with the excuser, chances are you're already in the midst of whatever selfishness you needed the excuse for. Selfishness involves alcohol. If you're drunk and try to make the Grandma Excuse I don't even know you. Amateur.

5. Keep track of your grandmothers. Only a complete idiot would forget to whom he/she had made the Grandma Excuse. But, since most of you are idiots, we have a little something I like to call...

5.a.subpart1. When using the Grandma Excuse make it clear that your grandmother is on her Death Bed -- not sick and NEVER dead. A sick grandmother will be asked about (by a polite and concerned excuser) after you return -- sometimes we aren't in the right frame of mind after an Excuse Trip, sometimes we forget, with a blank stare, "My grandma?" It is this very mindlessness for which 5.a.subpart1. was created. A grandmother who is on her death bed can either die -- and no one will ask about her: "So, how was the funeral?" -- or can miraculously get better. The Miracle is what you should use in the event that you forget that you already used the Excuse with that particular excuser. "Oh, yeah, well she snapped out of it kinda, but then she just took a turn for the worst."

Is it diabolical? Evil?

Have YOU ever seen Guster play a small venue, live?

She'd have wanted you to. (Sniff)

Jaunt

This weekend I'll be headed up to Providence, RI.
Home of, um, Buddy Cianci...

Anyway, it should be fun and hopefully a lot cooler than the DC swamp.

And, most importantly, it will give me a little respite from the thugs of my neighborhood. Thugs who, bored with stealing cars and bikes and credit cards, have turned to stealing...well...puppies.

Check out my neighborhood listserv, here.

So, if you're in Columbia Heights this weekend, keep your dog on a short leash.

Tell Me a Little About Yourself

I was just talking to a friend of mine, who is looking to land a job here in DC. She's incredibly intelligent and would be capable of doing just about anything. It should be obvious to anyone interviewing her that she'd be a good fit for their organization. I say all this to set up my complete shock when she told me that she would have to submit a "writing sample" to a company she had recently interviewed with.

Why is a "writing sample" such a shocking thing?

It isn't, except that the topic is (Ready? No really, are you ready?) A press release (wait for it)

ABOUT HERSELF.

As I said, when I first heard about this task, I was shocked. What kind of pseudo-creative, ass-lick HR crap was this?

But then I got to thinking, maybe a self-reflective press release isn't so much an innovative job-selection technique as it is an innovative life evaluation tool.

Think about what your "press release" would look like from today.

Here's mine:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Q woke from a healthy slumber this morning at about 10:00 AM. After finishing his morning coffee, he scoured the web for jobs, news, and sports scores.
While taking a crap, Q laid out his plans for the day, "I think I'm really going to buckle down and get some work done. With the weekend rapidly approaching, I realize I haven't been as productive as I'd like. That's going to change today. I've set some goals."
A lunch of peanut butter and grape jelly, a nectarine, and a tall glass of milk put Q in good spirits and ready to tackle the work that lay ahead of him. Then he fell asleep.

Contact: Q at nothingthatclever.blogspot.com with questions or comments

###

See, now that's a healthy exercise. It helps me see that my life is in complete shambles. It helps me see that I sleep way too much. Months later I'll do another press release about myself and then compare the two. Hopefully I'll see that my life has changed dramatically. I'll be gainfully employed, I'll be driving a new car, and you won't even be able to find grape jelly in my apartment. That, or I'll still be asleep on my couch.

What would your press release look like?

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

Robert Frost, you sarcastic fuck.

Today, DC officials descended on a homeless "camp" in Foggy Bottom. They brought garbage trucks, garbage haulers, and a singular social worker -- to point out what was "property" and what was "garbage." No really, the news coverage shows this large women gingerly stepping over refrigerator boxes, pointing to things.

The news coverage also showed a whole lot of stolen Safeway shopping carts being crushed in the garbage truck compacter, which was stereotypically hilarious. Asked what happens when the "cleanup" is finished, one sanitation worker said, "Oh, they'll be right back in here -- with more stuff."

Right.

The City's solution? Put up fencing.

They've fenced in quite a few underpasses already.

Good work! That'll keep those homeless out of...well... keep them homeless. Yep, still homeless. Maybe more homeless, really.

So the progression is: 1) notify the homeless to vacate their "camp" so it can be cleaned 2) throw away stuff that belongs to these homeless persons 3) put fencing around the place they were calling "home."

Huh.

"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence."

But, You're in Bethesda

I was in Bethesda, Maryland on Saturday night. Bethesda is a nice little city -- lots of restaurants, bars, and shopping. I was enjoying a drink outside the bar, Ri Ra, when the bane of my existence walked by.

Picture Mo Rocca -- with the glasses and the hair cut and the gangly, tallish figure. Then dress him up in a suitcoat, tight jeans, brand new Chuck Taylor's, and -- most importantly -- A SCARF!

Dude was wearing a scarf (like your Aunt Buffy would wear, not like you would wear in the cold winter months), tied jauntily around his neck. I think it was floral. I know it pissed me off.

I'll add the fact that this guy was carrying a big shopping bag from the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. Let's just think about that for a second. If he's from New York and was visiting DC for the day and brought the bag down on the train and then out to the bar with him -- that's bad. If he's from DC and got the bag at the MET gift shop years ago and brings it with him whenever he goes out on the town -- that's worse. Either way, I wanted to punch him in the face.

But that's the thing. Why did I want to punish this hipster wearing clothes that were no more suited to this area in August than to this area, ever? Was it because he looks like Mo Rocca? (As a matter of full disclosure, I had a friend who, every time Mo Rocca popped up on the television screen, would shriek "Oh! I love Mo Rocca!" I drew a lot of strength from Jesus every time she did it to prevent myself from punching her in the face.)

Or, was it just a visceral reaction to this guy and his clothes? It has to be. I'm not an angry person and this guy made me angry -- really, for no reason other than looking like a fucking schmuck. I think it was the scarf and the bag that truly put me over the edge. I mean, a suitcoat and pants in August (when you don't have to)? Fine. But a scarf and a museum bag from NYC? Now you're just showing off.

I hate show offs.

And Mo Rocca.

Weigh in with your own strong feelings about fashion or fashion combinations.
Help me not feel like "the only one." Please.

I Do!

Remember this foxy lady?

Well, despite Jennifer Wilbanks faking her own kidnapping and having really, really intense eyes, her hubby-to-be, John, is still planning on marrying her. According to my sources, the wedding is going to take place on August 12, 2005.

Yeah, I know, not a lot of time to find that perfect gift for everyone's favorite runaway bride! But, fear not. The couple have registered at Pottery Barn.

Most of the "awesome" gifts were already taken -- who doesn't need a "Springwood Cheese Dome?!"

So I settled on the "Bradford Task Lamp."

According to Pottery Barn:

"This lamp'’s retro style creates versatile task lighting. The arching stem has two points of adjustment with turn keys. The cast-brass base has an antique-bronze finish and is topped with a shallow milk-glass shade that reveals the bottom of the bulb."

Yep. AND, it's perfect for tasks like when your new wife calls you in the middle of the night from a bus stop in Alaska. John's gonna need that Bradford Task Lamp so he can accurately write down Jennifer's exact location.

Funny though, I didn't see any crazy pills or a new bath towel on the wedding registry...

So This Panhandler...

...limps up to me the other day on 14th street. Now, being accosted by a panhandler is nothing unusual in DC. I remember when I was about 6 years old (back when my family lived in Chantilly) walking from our parked car, over by the Red Cross Headquarters, to the Christmas Tree Lighting in the Ellipse. You literally had to step over the crouching, pleaing panhandlers huddled around the steam vents . I think things have gotten better since then, but there remain a healthy number of panhandlers roaming the streets.

So back to the guy all up in my grill the other day -- we'll call him Jerry. Jerry had snuck up behind me as I was looking in a store window. He cleared his throat, and I turned around.

"Yeah, 'scuse me sir, but I was wonderin' if you could..."

As Jerry spoke, he waved a dirty, plastic Solo cup and, what looked to be, a Chinese take-out menu in my face.

I took a step back and Jerry sputtered on, "...help me out with a few dollars -- ANYTHING you can spare. You see, I been walkin' around all day lookin' for a job, and I got a few applications (waves the take-out menu), but right now I just need somethin' to drink (waves the plastic cup). I can go right over there and get somethin', I just need a few--"

I cut him off. "Yeah, well, I'd like to help you but I'm just down here taking a walk and all I have is my metro card -- no wallet, no change. Sorry."

Jerry blessed me and sidelded off. I didn't have any money -- really -- but even if I did, I probably wouldn't have given it to Jerry. Not because I'm a cold-hearted bastartd (because I am), but because Jerry's story, his plea, sucked.

I called Jerry back over and told him I didn't believe he had been looking for jobs all day (the take-out-menu-as-application kind of gave it away), but even if I had, so what? Jerry needed a better reason than just looking homeless and thirsty for me to part with some cash.

How about a sick baby at home? Maybe a tragic tale involving loss, disaster, or heartbreak? Or, for once, maybe he could just say, "Hey, you know what's unfair? Me having to ask you for money so I can get something to drink. But, that's the way it is, and I have to ask. So, can you help me out?"

In other words, if you're going to lie, make it good. And if you aren't going to lie, say something that will get my attention.

I continued to help Jerry. I told him not to be waving some piece of paper in my face from the get-go. Chances are, I think you're trying to get me to sign up for something, and everyone walks away or pays no attention to those guys.

Jerry, I told him, you don't need any props. Just a story or a smile. And a shower.

We parted as friends, and although I couldn't help Jerry purchase a beverage I think I gave him something much more powerful that day: an understanding of the power of narrative.

So, the next time you're approached by someone asking for money, take a moment. Ask yourself: "Is this story believable? Is this plea heartfelt? Has this person said anything to make me interested in giving them money?" If the answer to any of these questions is no, help out -- tell that pan-handler exactly why you aren't giving him or her any money. And then, most importantly, give them some suggestions on how to strenghten their "story."

Remember, the little deeds add up -- we can all help to make this world a better place if we just take the time.

I Don't Know

Why does anyone start a blog? I think this inaugural post is supposed to be all about why I decided to post my thoughts, experiences, and complaints on the web. But, really, I don't know why. As I've already asked, why does anyone start a blog? Its got to be boredom, right? I think trying to make your blog out to be anything other than a self-indulgent time-filler makes you a sanctimonious asshole. DC is already full of those.

This post, then, is a coming clean -- of sorts. I'm saying, "Hey, I'm bored and I'm going to write about some shit that happens to me." Nothing more, nothing less. I wouldn't call it a mission statement; because, really, I'll probably end up complaining and philosophizing and sermonizing just like everyone else. And, if the posts end up being "clever," and my title becomes some ironic, hipster-sly-wink -- get over it. It's my fucking blog.