So I get off the metro around 3 AM, and start walking up the street to my apartment. Not for the first time, but for the strongest in a while, I ask myself, “wow… what the fuck are you doing walking through downtown in a major city at 3 AM? you’re a redneck from nowhere. they look at you funny here.”
But then… I don’t really care how they look at me. Just wish more of the cute ones would touch me.
I’ve had serious urges to go back to my home town or some small place and live. Aside from the whole “things to do vs. isolation” argument*, I wonder why I’m where I am. Certainly on my last trip home, it occurred to me that while DC may be infinitely more complex and dangerous, it’s the devil I know. Confronted with a questionably dangerous situation in my home town, I was lost as to how to react. While I’m by no means “citified”, I haven’t lived in a truly small town since 1993. I think in my hometown, it’s more of that whole lord-of-the-flies, go-with-your-gut, redneck, survival-of-the-fittest thing. And I have no illusions as to where I stand under those conditions. Whereas most things in a city, even the bad things, usually involve a whole line of decisions. And when you over-think things as much as I do…
Ideally, I want to reside somewhere under “live and let live” conditions. But it doesn’t seem like those kind of places exist any more.
*New thought for me: Do you think maybe people marry younger in small towns simply because they’re bored? Or put less offensively… because to move on to the “next set of stuff” you do in small towns means being part of a family?
Please keep in mind that this post is more than 6 years old. Who the hell knows what I was thinking back then?! Damn kids... get off my lawn!
I went on my first bike ride of the year, today. This of course means I’ll be walking bowlegged tomorrow. But in the meantime, it felt good. Afterwards. When I’d had a chance to drink something. And breathe. Though the ride did actually go better than the last one I remember. May have had something to do with finally breaking out the WD-40. But I’m going to pretend its all about this tower of masculine fitness that i call my body.
I’m trying to decide something, though. Every time I ride down on the mall, the ride west always seems at least twice as hard as the ride east. And the change is so sudden that I can’t believe it’s always from taking the east route first. I think the southern path has more loose gravel and stone. It’s terrible for traction.
So I sat down by the tidal basin and read for a while. No more cherry blossoms. And hence, no more tourists. Really was nice out there though. Watched a storm pass over Fairfax and head south. This heavy cloud ringed in orange, with stretched, cottony strands connecting it to the ground.
Likewise, I didn’t feel like cooking last night, so I picked up a sub at Potbelly and ate it in Lafayette Park behind the White House. This park is, as they say, spitting distance from the actual building of the White House. It’s kind of nice. They generally keep the homeless people out of it. And there’s enough tree cover to block out the street noise. Of course, any time you hear about someone jumping the fence, or stabbing someone outside the white house, or pulling a gun, this is where they do it. But, you know, psychos can have taste, too.
But I’m sitting there eating and reading and looking around. And I have a thought that still frequently comes to me. It’s really hard to believe that I’m sitting and eating, a stone’s throw from, depending on how you look at it, the single most potent seat of power in the entire world. It’s hard to believe you can get so close. It’s hard to believe that it’s me who’s sitting there, so far away from the little redneck town in eastern nowhere, where I never had friends much less hope. It’s hard to believe that simple building over there can raise up men to another planet, or kill so many people right here at home.
Then some birds started squawking and having birdy sex on the grass in front of me.
Thought:
A couple weeks back now, it was a minor news story because, depending on how you write your numbers, the time and the date were about to spell out 01:02:03 04/05/06. I’ve been lazy about writing this down, so I’m sure no one cares any more. But I have two responses to all the things I read about this phenomenon:
1. People said “this will never happen again”. More optimistic people pointed out, “this will happen in another 1,000 years”. I think you should all go and demand your money back from your school teachers. Unless I’m totally off my rocker, this set of numbers will happen in just another 100 years. And every consecutive 100 years, until we change the way we tell time.
2. Everyone and their mother’s poodle was saying that at the precise moment, they would stop and hold their breath, or look up in the sky, or cheer, or… . Why? Yeah… this is a cute novelty. But why does a coincidental label cause you to declare this a special day, worthy of effort and commemoration? What kind of sad life do you have when you don’t aim for that kind of special-ness every day?
Another thought:
Why has patriotism become a thing of war and conflict? Why is the word only brought up in connection with fighting soldiers and those in context with them?
Final thought:
About 3 weeks ago, I walked down my street thinking, that although it was bright and sunny, it was still undeniably winter. The sun was still harsh, and the air still smelled of… nothing. A week and a half later, and spring was here. The air is fresh, and the light is a bit more hazy. The tree in front of my windows has started to bud. When the leaves scorch under the sun to a dark, forest green, summer will be here again.
Please keep in mind that this post is more than 6 years old. Who the hell knows what I was thinking back then?! Damn kids... get off my lawn!
Have you ever read Syrup, by Max Barry*? Pretty good book, released years ago. Focuses on a drink concept created by a man, and his attempts to maintain control of it long enough to get Coke to give him money for it. Product is named Fukk, and comes in a sleek brown container. Very angsty and shit. (No… really, I have a point here.) So I was waiting in line at the Soviet Safeway on Monday, and I notice a stack of Coke bottles on the floor. In slick black containers. With the name “Bläk” on them. At the exact same time, I both wanted desperately to buy one, while hating the thought of what went into that product if it was anything like Barry’s story. *Barry spelled his name with two Xs on that book, as a joke.
That same day, I decided to go down and check out the Hispanic Immigration protest marches on the National Mall. I wasn’t expecting too much. I’d only heard of this particular march the day before. And marches that take place on a weekday are typically pretty small. But almost as soon as I stepped out of my front door, I knew something was up. The one sure thing to scare off the few locals who are willing to descend into the tourist regions of DC is to tell them there is a major protest or event going on near the Mall. But As soon as I left my apartment, a good 8 to 10 blocks form the Mall, I was surrounded by locals heading down there. Mostly hispanic families. Whole families, with grandparents, people fresh out of work, and babies in strollers. Several times I passed a pickup with a bed full of shouting people and waving flags. By the time I made it to Pennsylvania Avenue, I was caught up in a huge wave in people flowing onto the Mall. Another wave of almost equal size was flowing out of the Mall. By the time I got up to the Mall proper, it was really enough to stop you in your tracks. The entire Mall, full, practically shoulder to shoulder, with people, mostly hispanic. Tens of thousands of people at least. Bigger than 90% of the major gatherings I’ve seen on the Mall. The size of the Protest was staggering enough, primarily because I wasn’t expecting it. But a few other things rather quickly stood out. People who come to DC to protest are usually upset. They’re pissed an they want to make sure everyone knows it. Their signs are angry, their chants are angry, their costumes are angry. But at the Protest this week, everyone was smiling. Everyone was cheering. (Something I’ve never heard on the Mall in 8 years here). It had to be the most positive experience I’ve ever seen in DC. Sure these people wanted change. But they didn’t come in saying “you fucked us over”. They said “we love it here”. “we want to live here”. “We’ll do anything for this place, if you’ll just give us the chance”. And everybody was waving the American flag, in one way or another. Flags on poles. Flags on sticks. Handkerchief flags. Flags as capes. Flags as shirts. Flags as signs. 50… 100,000 flags, all being waved every time a cheer went up. These people, who were there to protest some seriously disturbing bills aimed at them and people who help them, were more positive about America than any other group I’ve seen bring their message to DC.
Anyway…
Since Monday morning I’ve been torturing myself over a project. It’s not particularly complicated. And I had no trouble coming up with some clean layouts that looked just fine. For various reasons they were just fine as is, really. But I really wanted to come up with some stronger “concept” behind the whole thing. But there were just so many things working against me. The type of project, the resources I had to work with. The nature of the client’s personality. So it drove me nuts for three days. This afternoon I told myself it wasn’t worth it anymore, and packaged up everything to deliver to the client. And after 15 minutes discussion, they narrowed it down to exactly those early, safe versions I worked up in 5 minutes on Monday morning.
Did I mention their “new” logo strongly resembles cigarette packaging?
Please keep in mind that this post is more than 6 years old. Who the hell knows what I was thinking back then?! Damn kids... get off my lawn!
