You're Driving Me Crazy

I just can't explain it to you, and I don't even feel like I should have to.

I appreciate that you have emailed me, out of the blue, to offer me a new job. I understand that it's a great opportunity, that your company is prestigious, that it represents a nice jump in pay. I get all that.

But I'm not taking it, because taking it means I'd have to haul my ass all the way out into the suburbs every single day.

Oh, I see the irony. I was born and raised there, spent thirty years of my life there, so now I don't want to go back? How metrosexual of me, to have invented myself in this fancy new urban mold.

No, you douche. It's not about where you are (although dude, where you are sucks). It's about the getting there. The act of dragging my ass out of bed every day, and figuring out how to get way the fuck out there. I could:

1. Buy a car, deal with the DC DMV, spend an hour a day looking for parking, spend 3 hours a day wondering what day it is, hoping I'm parked on the non-street cleaning side, worry about gas, pay astronomical insurance rates, contribute to the destruction of the planet, fight traffic for hours every day on a highway full of people I want to die (but please pull over first), have to listen to the same nine records that have been playing on a loop on corporate controlled radio for the last 15 years as I sit in my car (honestly, Stone Temple Pilots weren't even good then, can you please add something new to the rotation, Clear Channel?), kill kill kill, die die die, everything everything everything, etc.

2. Use some combination of atlas and GPS to devise a way to take public transportation all the way out there, involving taking the Orange Line to the bitter end, then getting on some kind of bus or shuttle and sitting in traffic on the beltway for hours on end, which is supposed to somehow be better because I don't have to worry about the driving? If I'm not driving, I don't even get the benefit of fantasizing about standing on the gas and plowing my car into every fucker that cuts me off. Explain to me again how sitting on a bus with a bunch of whack jobs (have you ridden a fucking bus?) is better than sitting in your car by yourself?

Or I could just not take the job, which is what I'm gonna do.

You just don't understand, because you haven't tried it. My commute takes, at the very longest, a half hour. And that's if I walk from door to door and get stuck at every light. It takes about fifteen minutes if I take the Metro. Do you get that? I'm home and drinking a beer before you even pull out of the parking lot. Guess when the last time I scraped ice off my windshield was? Guess how much time I spend waiting in line at Jiffy Lube?

So spare me the condescending tone that suggests I'm a flake. There are more important things in life than salary. I value those extra hours I'm not sitting in my car every day, and I relish not having to worry about any of that car nonsense. Some people only care about money, and they're willing to commute four hours a day for every last dollar they can get their hands on. Some people value the piece of mind that comes with never having to worry about any of this shit. And fuck you if you can't see the difference. If you're going to be a cunt about this, why on earth would I ever want to work for you?

Don't Be That Guy

When Baby and I are angrily talking about which people we are better than (everyone does that, right?), the conversation often turns to people who lack self-awareness. These are our favorite targets. See if you can think of people who fit these descriptions-

"Make It Up As I Go Along Driver"- The rules of the road are merely suggestions. My SUV with the Virginia Pentagon Memorial plates and Support Our Troops yellow ribbon stickers affords me the opportunity to create my own set of driving guidelines as the situation dictates. Make a U Turn across traffic from the far right lane? No problem. Right turn on red when people are in the crosswalk? Go for it. It's not like there are other people out here sharing the road with me, right?

"Don't Hold The Door"- Look, I'm in a hurry. Glancing behind me to see if someone else might be standing there will waste valuable nanoseconds. I simply can't be bothered. Manners be damned, I am late for shit!

"Stop Somewhere You Shouldn't On The Metro"- Some tourists get a pass on this one, because I understand how the Metro can be confusing (if you can't read, listen, or even understand basic symbols on signs). But how completely unaware of your surroundings do you have to be if you feel compelled to stop at the the top or bottom of an escalator to get your bearings? How do you not notice the wave of human beings standing right behind you? And did it ever occur to you to fish through your pockets for your farecard BEFORE you got to the turnstile?

"Waiting In Line Talking On Your Cell Phone"- Hang up the goddamn phone. If you were really that important, you wouldn't be standing in line in Subway, would you?

I've recently added a new person to the list, and he/she is climbing the charts with a bullet.

"Fucking Wheelie Briefcase Douchebag"- The wheelie suitcase is very helpful. Makes you wonder how you ever got along without one. But how fat and lazy do you have to be if you have to get wheels for your goddamn briefcase? For starters, consider not carrying so much crap with you wherever you go. I regularly bring books, my gym stuff, and my lunch with me to and from work. It makes my bag pretty big. But I certainly don't need goddamn wheels to lug it around. And please miss me with the 'my back hurts' argument. My back is in goddamn shambles, to the point where I sometimes can barely walk, even with a cane. And yet I somehow manage to carry my stuff without wheels. Get rid of some of your material possessions, man, or they will only end up owning you, man. Why on earth do you need to carry them all with you, anyway? Is this some sort of hobo training program? Harden the fuck up and invest in a good, sturdy bindle. Your dignity will thank you for it.

If you absolutely have to have the wheelie suitcase, because your combination of abject laziness and utter apathy has rendered your muscles useless, can you consider trying to remember that the bag you're trailing behind you leaves a twisted path of stumbling commuters in its wake? Every second of the day, things are occurring outside of your meager little mind. And not just things directly in your line of sight! Look around, including behind you. You'd be amazed at what you might find back there. We're tired and just want to go home, too. And we're actually carrying our shit, so give us a break, k?

And I'm just gonna say this last part once, people. This is your only warning. You know that backpack you bought for your kid with the wheels on it? You've got one chance to go get it at this instant and set it on fire. Do you honestly believe you can raise your child to be anything other than the World's Biggest Pussy if he can't even carry his own books home from school? If he has that many books, have you considered that maybe he should start doing things other than homework for a change? Give him a football or a slingshot or a book of matches and let him be a real boy for once. Tell him to go outside and climb something. Set him free. Because if I see him standing on the Metro platform lugging that thing around one more time, I'm pushing both of you in front of the next train. The future of the human race is at stake, god damn it!

$80?! You Have Got To Be (Blanking) Kidding Me!

Andray Blatche is a young kid who plays for the Wizards. He's long on potential, but apparently short on judgment. In the summer before his rookie season, when he was drafted right out of high school, he was shot in a carjack attempt gone wrong. You'd think he was the victim there, except it happened at 6am in Alexandria. I'm no detective, but something tells me that if you're getting carjacked at 6am in Alexandria, you're up to no good.

Now he is 20 years old, and he's a free agent. He's entertaining offers from teams, trying to convince them to give him millions of dollars. Last week, the Wizards offered him about $12 million but he's reportedly holding out for something better. Well, he was... until he made a trip to my neighborhood Thursday, where he was arrested for soliciting sex from an undercover cop.

I was out of town all weekend, so I missed this when it first happened. Forgive me for being a few days late. But I find the whole thing fascinating for a million reasons. For starters, it happened close to my house. And by close, I mean next. Literally. Mapquest puts the distance from the arrest to my house at "<.1 miles." Had we been home, we would have heard the sirens.

Here is a rundown of the episode as quoted in the Washington Post blog written by Ivan Carter, the beat writer for the Wizards:

According to the document titled: "United States vs. Andray Blatche (sic), the event occured on 8/2/07 at approximately 12:11 at 10 Thomas Circle NW in Washington DC. Blatche and Palmer were both accused of solicting an undercover officer working in the prostitution unit.

From the document, here is how it went down: Blatche and Palmer were in a vehicle when they pulled up at Thomas Circle.

Defendant 1 (identified by police as Blatche) : "Hey, what's up with you?"
Undercover cop: "You tell me."
AB: I'm trying to see what you're doing."
UC: "Do you want (Blank) or (Blank)?"
AB: "Well, I want both."
UC: "And what about you?"
D-2 (identified as Palmer) : "I want the same."
UC: "I charge $80 but I do two at the same time."
AB: "Yeah, I'm good with it."
UC to Palmer: "And what about you?"
GP: "Yeah, $80 is good."
UC: Aight, you want to pull right?"
AB: "Naw."
UC: "I have a room right here."
AB: "Uh, ok?"

I want to get one thing out of the way right now: the hookers in Thomas Circle are banged up. So banged up, in fact, that you wouldn't let them pay you $80 to blank you. But that's neither here nor there.

What I want to know is, what is she talking about? I'm gonna assume that "blank" and "blank" mean oral and regular, if you know what I mean. Seems logical, right?

But what does "UC: "I charge $80 but I do two at the same time."" mean? She does two dudes at once? Or both blanks at once? Is she gonna finish one guy then move on to the next? I just gotta know.

And how that hell can that only cost $80? I honestly had no idea the hookers in my neighborhood charged that little. And I have no clever way to introduce this, but it's funny enough to include. I sent the link above to Baby, asking a question along the lines of "Did you know you can get all this for $80 in our neighborhood?!" Her response: "Why the fuck am I giving it to you for free?"

Condos at The Whitman: Getting Cheaper, Staying Sucky

We're in the condo market, but it's a goddamn minefield. In case you hadn't noticed, there are 2,308,729,571 units for sale in Northwest DC, and they're all nearly identical. Five or six sell each week. Now I've never taken one of those real estate seminars advertised in infomercials, but it looks like we've got more condos than buyers. And I seem to remember something from Econ classes in college about supply and demand, so I think we're in the driver's seat. I imagine there are deals to be had.

So we've been waiting for the proverbial bubble to burst, and it looks like it's about to. Over the Winter, there was a steady supply of condos coming on to the market as new developments opened. But when Spring arrived, the number for sale skyrocketed. People are bailing out, selling existing units and backing out of contracts on ones under construction, but the developers continue to flood the market with new units. In the meantime, sales agents have grown desperate.

Exhibit A is The Whitman, a gigantic new condo building adjacent to the Convention Center. I've been walking by this building every day for two years now, and I have to admit it's impressive. It does appear to have a bit of character, unlike so many of the cookie-cutter places going up. And you can't beat the location. Unfortunately, that's about all it has going for it.

When it was under construction we were actually pretty excited, and we contacted the sales office to get more information. We weren't surprised- $500,000+, minimum, for a one bedroom loft unit with a den. Plus another $35,000 for parking (not that we need it). What a deal, right? Sadly, that's been the going rate in the neighborhood for a few years, and we've decided we like the area enough that we want to stay within these few blocks. So I contacted them again to get more specifics.

They started flooding me with emails and phone calls for open houses, private showings, special events, and everything else imaginable. The message was always the same: Get them while they're hot! These condos won't last forever! Ignoring the bullshit, I asked pointed questions.

bryc3: "Where are the loft units located in the building?"

The Whitman: "On the ground floor, so you'll have your own private entrance!"

bryc3: "You mean those ones in the front? Those are condos and not retail or something?"

The Whitman: "That's right! You're just steps from all the neighborhood has to offer!"

bryc3: "There are no bars on the windows, they're just french doors."

The Whitman: "Rest assured, the neighborhood is perfectly safe. Shall I send over a contract?"

bryc3: "Safe, sure, got it. Where do you live?"

The Whitman: "Alexandria. Why?"

bryc3: click

Shaw is, to put it delicately, a neighborhood in transition. It certainly isn't Southeast, but it ain't Reston, either. And you would have to be a certified fucking idiot to move into one of those places without bars on the windows. People can, and do, walk right up to those windows from the sidewalk and peer inside. You could rob each of them blind by merely breaking one pane of glass and turning the door handle. You'd be gone with some metrosexual's plasma TV and the keys to his Jetta before he even woke up. And lord only knows how dangerous it would be for a woman in one those places. But in order to keep the prices high, and to project the air of safety, they've refrained from putting bars on the windows. Nice. That's crossing some ethical line in my book. There have been several murders in the immediate neighborhood this year, and there is a long-standing (although hopefully cooling) gang war happening just a few blocks away.

Thankfully, other people seem to have noticed, too. Those units are generally empty, although a few brave souls (read: idiots) have moved in. That hasn't stopped The Whitman's marketing campaign though. They're plowing ahead, continuing to pledge that the units are going fast, and you need to act now! I got this email yesterday:

"The time is at hand when The Whitman will be sold out. Thanks to the overwhelming response to The Whitman's unconventional elegance, this summer is the final opportunity to purchase a one-bedroom/den/two-bath or two-bedroom/two-bath condominium - parking included.

$15,000 Incentive! For a limited time, The Whitman is offering a closeout incentive of $15,000 any way you want it: toward closing costs, toward condo fees, as a discount on the purchase price - whatever (except cash - sorry!)."

Hang on a second, I wanna make sure I've got this straight. The "overwhelming" response you've received (not to mention the "elegance" that comes with broken beer bottles and cigarette butts on the roof) has created a buying frenzy, and you just can't manage the demand. To compensate, you're now throwing in parking that used to cost $35,000, and you're offering to give me $15,000 if I move in? Man, those things must be flying off the shelves!

Why even both lying to me? Why not be honest, and admit you've slashed prices by 10% in attempt to move units that are unsafe and sitting on the market? Oh, right, the whole panic thing. Sorry.

Thanks LeBron, Thanks A Lot

So I hate that LeBron James. Something about him rubs me the wrong way, and I assure you it has nothing to do with his team knocking my Wizards out of the playoffs the last two years. I just think he's a dorknob.

My feelings are unlikely to change soon, as I've just read that he's fathered a baby delivered this morning named:

Bryce Maximus James

I don't know where to begin. A childhood of torture for having a sissy name has left me scarred and bitter. Why couldn't my mother have thought to name me Maximus? Think how much more masculine I would have become! I'm willing to bet that Maximus will never be taunted with the name Bryciepooh. Although to be honest, Maxiwuss has potential.

Bryce is cursed name. On the one hand, you meet women who say, "Oh, I love that name!" Let's face it, you're not going to hear a woman say, "His name is Mike/John/Dave, isn't that just the coolest name ever?!" So that's pretty cool. But those women become the mothers who name their kids Adrian or Perry or Brantley, and then the poor bastard gets the shit kicked out of him every day until he mercifully graduates from high school, assuming he doesn't Columbine first.

That *ahem* benefit doesn't begin to counter the most pressing problem. Every single man who meets a guy named Bryce will immediately think he's a douche. I could extend the blood-stained hand I've just used to bludgeon the dead deer I'm carrying home to feed my wolves, and the guy is still going to think I'm a fairy.

And finally, we all know that Bryce is absolutely a gay name. LeBron's take on homosexuality is remarkably mature, so that probably shouldn't be a big deal, right?

"You take showers together, you're on the bus, you talk about things. With teammates, you have to be trustworthy. If you're gay and you're not admitting that you are, you're not trustworthy. It's the locker room code; it's a trust factor.'' -Akron Beacon Journal

Uh oh.

Today Show: "Webkinz Carry Smallpox"

Unfortunately that's not true.

So I'm watching the Today Show this morning because it's my personal Two Minutes Hate. They were running a segment on something called Webkinz- the latest kids toy in the vein of Cabbage Patch Kids and Beanie Babies. Ignore, for a moment, that as is the case with nearly all of these crazes, the people who are most excited are poorly adjusted adults. Webkinz are different from typical stuffed animals, because somehow the internet is involved. Apparently kids go online and take care of the pets, decorate their houses, and attract sexual predators. I'm not sure exactly how it works, but the segment featured a lot of pasty little seven-year-old kids clicking their mouses on the computers in their bedrooms.

Kids are going batshit crazy for these things, and what's a parent to do? You just can't find them anywhere, the stores sell out too fast! The segment focuses on young girls who have dozens of them in their bedroom, and they love them all ever so much. And if you're into the Children of the Corn, you can't help but feel for these poor little girls who want, nay, FUCKING NEED, more Webkinz. For God's sake, won't someone think of the children!?

So, like:

1) We're on the verge of any number of world wars, and the entire earth is turning to shit by the second. If your biggest concern is that you can't find Webkinz for your spoiled children, you need to re-evaulate your priorities. If you feel compelled to save the children from this tragedy, and you believe the correct avenue for doing this is bitching about Webkinz on the Today Show, then you simply have to kill yourself.

2) We only have a 'shortage' of Webkinz because you bought ninety of them for your rotten children the last time they were in stock. As you drove your SUV from toy store to toy store throughout the suburbs, did you ever once consider the poor kids who would go without as you snapped up every one you could find, all along knowing it still wouldn't be enough to satiate your own materialistic children?

3) Your seven year old son (Cole, Maddox, Banana Republic, whatever his name is) who loves Webkinz? Gay.

4) Tomorrow's Today Show will almost certainly contain a segment on childhood obesity. Parents and researchers will wag their fingers and blame Oreos and commercials. They'll petition the school board and get cookies removed from the cafeteria. And the kids who actually, I dunno, go outside and run around sometimes will be punished while your kids become fatties as they sit in front of computers playing with their virtual pets.

5) Everyone at Ganz, the company who makes Webkinz, should be fired today. The company has stated that demand has been crushing, and they've been unable to come up with a strategy to manufacture what has become the hottest toy for American girls, ages 4 to 8. You're lying or retarded. What idiot doesn't know that the best way to make toys for American girls, ages 4 to 8, is to pay Vietnamese girls, ages 4 to 8, to make them?

The Bad Touch

I'm a consultant. My company has a lucrative contract with a large Federal agency. We're helping them design a large IT system. We're not actually building the system, mind you. We're just helping them figure out how to pay for it and then build it. The Federal government is awash with many of the most grossly incompetent, unmotivated idiots you'll ever meet, so there are lots of opportunities for companies like mine to help them figure things out. And let me tell you, business is booming.

Most of my coworkers have some specialty. Some are programmers and some are accountants. I, however, have no specialty. I'm a generalist. They hired me by design, I believe. They need someone to talk to the client, and that someone is me. I have people skills, damn it, and I often find myself in the role of shaking hands and making promises and telling Government people that everything is going to be okay if they'll just butt out for a while.

So my job is to make friends with everyone, and I'm pretty good at it.

Today I was on site, getting ready for a status meeting with Joe, one of my favorite Government people. He's a self-proclaimed Maryland redneck. He drives a Mustang, and he recently told me how excited he was to be taking his wife to see Rascal Flats for her birthday. The guy really couldn't be less like me, but I'm actually very fond of him. Joe is one of the few Government people I've met who takes the idea of civil service seriously, and he works his ass off. You see that a lot in the Government- a phenomenon my boss calls work magnets. If 90% of the Federal workforce is a waste of oxygen, the other 10% must be doing all the work. Joe just attracts everyone else's assignments like a magnet, and he does the work of ten bureaucrats. Plus he drops the F bomb a lot and calls Asian people Orientals. That always makes me laugh.

I was standing outside Joe's cube, organizing the materials for the meeting. He walks up and stands next to me and puts his hand on my back, between my shoulder blades. That's a little inappropriate, but I'm willing to overlook it because he's Joe and that's just kinda how he do. He's standing way too close, and I'm easing back ever so slightly, probably imperceptibly. But because Joe is a close talker, he's got a sub-conscious awareness of that kind of thing so he presses more firmly on my back and leans closer to me. He's just making small talk at this point, asking how I'm doing and kidding me around a bit. I realize I'm probably being silly, so I just loosen up and let him violate my personal space. I like Joe, and having Joe like me is integral to not only my personal success but, to a smaller extent, the success of the company. I can take one for the team and let him grope me for a while.

But then it gets much, much worse. He slowly starts to slide his hand down my back, til it comes to rest on my belt. He's got his hand open, so half his fingers are below my belt, dangerously close to my buttcrack. The rest of his hand is on the small of my back. It's exactly where you put your hand when you're slow dancing with your girl. It's also exactly where you touch a 31 year old consultant to make him feel like a whore.

There is nothing I can do at that point. I have to finish the conversation and let him cop his feel. Mercifully he doesn't get any closer to my no no parts, but I'm afraid my lack of action implies complicity. This is bound to happen again, and I probably won't say anything next time, either. My review is coming up in July, and I have a wedding to pay for. The things I'll do for love.

Everyone Is Talking About The Ban, But They Should Be Talking About Race

Background: Seventeen year old Taleshia Ford was shot and killed at 1919 nightclub (also known as Smarta) early last Saturday in Northwest Washington, DC. The media jumped on the story, wondering what, exactly, was an underage girl doing at a nightclub in the first place? Opportunistic DC Council member Jim Graham of Ward 2, home of the nightclub, pledged to introduce legislation that would ban minors from nightclubs serving alcohol.

On the night Ford was killed we were at a club called DC9, located directly across the street from 1919. On our way there, around 11 or so, we passed a number of groups of young black men who were very intimidating. The minute I noticed I was alarmed I was immediately mad at myself. I felt terrible because I knew that had these kids been white, I probably would have felt differently. But at the same time I knew that the color of their skin probably had little to do with why I felt uncomfortable. These weren't my neighbors, or the people I ride the Green line with every day. These kids were thugs, or were at the very least trying to look like thugs. I forgave myself. If I passed a group of white kids in soccer uniforms at 3am I probably wouldn't worry about it. If I passed a group of skinheads at 3am I'd probably be nervous. It's got nothing to do with the color of their skin, and everything to do with the image people try to project. Later that night, someone from outside the club, perhaps one of the people we passed, would get into a scuffle with a bouncer at 1919 and Ford, an innocent bystander, would be killed when a gun went off by mistake.

People like Jim Graham have every right to wonder what on earth a seventeen year old girl is doing in a nightclub where adults are drinking alcohol. Although there is no evidence to suggest that minors or alcohol had anything to do with the shooting, you can certainly see why concerned citizens would want to stop the potentially volatile mix of adults, alcohol, and underage kids. That makes perfect sense. Ford was there that night to see a go-go band perform, and she was there with older family members and had the blessing of her parents. They knew she was there, she wasn't misbehaving. And now she's dead. So shouldn't we make a law keeping kids out of bars, for Christ's sake?

Just a few days before Ford was killed, a thousand or so kids were at a Fall Out Boy show at the 9:30 club, just around the corner from 1919. I was there, too. Although the crowd was overwhelmingly underage, there were a sizable number of us ordering drinks at the bar. No one was shot. In fact, in the hundreds of all ages shows I've seen at places like the Black Cat or the 9:30, I can't remember a single incident that can possibly compare with what happened at 1919 last weekend. Plenty of fist fights, a fair share of broken bones and bloody noses, but certainly no dead bodies. These shows are safe, these clubs are safe, these kids are safe.

The music community is up in arms about the possible ban. The usual local music luminaries (people I've admired for years for not just their musical ability, but their dedicate to the scene and the politics that affect our community) are speaking out. People are writing letters, signing petitions, calling for sanity. I've even written Jack Evans, my council member. The ban is just bad policy- it's a knee jerk reaction that will do almost nothing to help protect our kids, and it will certainly hurt local businesses if they're forced to kick kids out of their clubs.

But I can't help thinking about race, the elephant in the room in this discussion. One thousand screaming teenage kids from the suburbs hardly presents a security risk for the veteran, trained staff at the 9:30 club. It's their bread and butter. But can the same be said for a club that, say, caters to go-go fans in Southeast? It's taboo to raise that question, it's probably racist to even consider it, but shouldn't we?

Southeast is the capital of go go music in DC, but it's also the murder capital of the city. The music, of course, has nothing to do with it. The violence that plagues that area of the city is the product of dozens of social problems, ranging from lousy schools to inferior policing to an almost complete lack of opportunities for the young people in the poorest neighborhoods. Generations of kids from Southeast have embraced go go music, and they've brought their other problems with them. Go go has long been synonymous with violence, at least in the eyes of the local media, because the biggest fans of the genre are so often mired in the other problems facing kids from Southeast.

I'm conflicted on this issue, and I can't help but see the role of race in the discussion. If you'd been at the Fall Out Boy show at the 9:30 last week, you'd see the obvious errors in the ban. But if you'd been outside 1919 that night, you'd understand why folks might want these kids off the streets and out of bars. I was in both places, and frankly I don't know what to make of it. If a bar opened two blocks from me that featured all ages punk shows and swarms of suburban punk rock kids I'd be thrilled. If a bar opened two blocks in the other direction that featured all ages go go shows and swarms of tough looking kids like the ones outside 1919 last week, I might move. Does that make me a racist? And why aren't we discussing the obvious racial differences here?

Ban On Smoking: Check. Ban On Fun: Pending

You're excited that the DC smoking ban goes into effect next week, making it illegal to smoke cigarettes in bars, nightclubs, restaurants, and pretty much everywhere else. You're an idiot.

I understand that smoking stinks. I get that you hate the way it smells in your clothes, in your hair, in your inflated sense of self importance. You'd go out more often, but you just can't stand all the young people with their chain smoking indifference to the obviously catastrophic health consequences associated with even being near a lit cigarette. You smoked until you were damn near thirty years old, but the important part is that right now you currently do not smoke, so therefore you have every right to demand that everyone else quit at once.

By your reasoning, cigarettes may as well be loaded guns pointed at the poor, innocent bar patrons who are simply trying to get their hands on yet another alcohol-loaded drink that is obviously not nearly as dangerous (well, except for the whole domestic violence, drunk driving, ruined liver thing) as something so terrible as a smoke. If we take a moment to ignore the bodies you've left in your wake as you puffed away until last call from the moment you entered college til the minute you bought your condo, we'll surely see what a victim you've become, trapped in your house while the young people are out enjoying themselves.
But what about the poor bartenders who are forced to work in that environment? Won't someone think of them? Someone as conscientious and aware as you, lawyer/analyst/researcher/human resources coordinator, someone with the foresight and compassion to make decisions for other members of the workforce relegated to such lowly jobs as taking your cash for your booze. Surely those poor souls didn't have the mental capacity to understand that, oh my god, people are actually fucking smoking at these bars where I've decided to work! Why didn't I think of that!? Thank you, dear upper-middle class patron saint of the service industry, for fixing the wrongs of the world. Perhaps you can help me get health insurance? Wait, where are you going? Come back!

So, you've gotten your wish. Starting next week, you'll be able to rejoin the cool kids again. You'll be free to restrict the rights of strangers, rights you yourself once enjoyed with absolutely no regard for people in your current position, just to further your own, selfish goal of extending your own health-conscience, miserable life a few precious days. Won't it be great? Bars full of late thirty-somethings dying to reclaim the night from those awful hipster kids who've been polluting the air these long years. Once we get Prohibition up and running again, this town might actually start to be fun again.

I, for one, can't wait.

To: AllStaffDC Subject: Advice Priority: High

I present, in no particular order, advice to my co-workers.

-Everyone, and I repeat everyone, can see you adjusting your crotch. I am a man, and I understand that, at times, it itches or is otherwise uncomfortable. Yet in all my thirty one years I have never encountered a situation where I simply needed to move my penis and or balls in a public place. I understand that you're hoping no one will notice. They will. Just leave it alone. Go back to your office and tend to it there. None of us need to see that.

-The carpet in the hallway is not interesting and does not warrant such careful scrutiny. You might consider actually making eye contact with me when I pass you in the hallway. Smiling is also nice, although certainly not necessary. But be aware that because I know you are uncomfortable in those awkward hallway situations, I will be making a point to not only meet your eyes but actually speak to you, loudly. I enjoy making you nervous. I think that kind of thing is funny because I'm an asshole.

-The human body is truly amazing, but I promise you that we do not find yours all that awesome. As such, you might want to spend a bit less time picking at that thing on your neck in our next meeting. It's been what, three weeks in a row now? I'm sure you feel that, sooner or later, you're going to unravel the mystery behind whatever the hell that thing is. But I know that it's going to get infected any day, and I'm going to have to do your work while you're in the hospital. It's not getting any better, and it's all banged up because you won't stop fucking with it. Go to a doctor and get some medicine for it. And if it's some kind of weird compulsion that's making you do it, go to a doctor and get medicine for that.

-You're too shy to use the urinal in the restroom, so you pee in the stall. You probably do that to avoid being embarrassed. But, in case you didn't know, men who use urinals think men who are afraid of urinals are pussies. Don't believe me? Ask around.

-If you don't drink, stop coming to happy hour. You're unhappy cause you're surrounded by drunken idiots, and we're unhappy cause you're making us look like drunken idiots. You're ruining everything.

-The cute new girl does not like you. Or you. Or you. Or you. She's being nice to you because she's new and that's what you do. She's only been at her new job for a week, she's certainly not going to start dating anyone in the office yet. Give up, you're embarrassing yourself.

-That email you sent out last week with information about window washing, while attempting to be informative, only served to make the 85% of the people in the company without window offices hate the 15% with window offices even more.

-I will now be spending 2% of my pre-tax salary on prescription co-pays because we've 'adjusted' our 'benefits' for 2007. No, I am not interested in buying your kid's fucking girl scout cookies.