Smoking Gun Pointed at Idiot Reviewer

In the good old WaPo the other day there was an opinion piece by Michael Kinsley that discussed if Barak Obama had quit smoking or not. This is my favorite line:

"Obama's steely calm is now one of our country's major assets. If he needs an occasional cigarette to preserve it, let's hand him an ashtray, offer him a light and look the other way."

Uhhhhhh, what? The article is basically about how Obama might not be trust worthy but we should all just look the other way as if having a president that smokes matters to the rest of the world. Really, does anyone care? Right now my 401(k) is evaporating, my health care is dependant on if rich people continue eating out every night, Social Security will not be able to support my parents, much less myself, and we are sitting in the smoldering ruins of what used to be a country of idealism and opportunity.

Smoke em if you got em, Obama. Let's just get this cleaned up.

I'm not. Uhhhhh. Drinking.

So let me tell you a story. Mom, this is one of those times that you might want to, say, not read any more. You've been warned.

I like booze. A lot. It's the best. We've been BFF since I started drinking. There's so much to love! Available in multiple colors, flavors, sizes, strengths and combinations! Cheap beer for white trash times, expensive beer for city-living times, cheap wine for most of the times, expensive wine for foodie times! And then the liquor! Hurray. What other intoxicant offers both social acceptance AND the ability to be a snob about it when need be?

Cigarettes lost that along time ago- everyone acts as if lighting up is the equivalent of pooping on a public sidewalk. Marijuana used to have sort of an acceptance amongst a section of the population, and it definitely still has its devotees, but it never was able to break out into the mainstream. Cocaine? Maybe socially acceptable for clubbing and the like, but who wants to go down to the corner pub to do a few lines? Nothing relaxes me like hanging out with five people who all feel the chemically-induced urge to talk at the same time! Plus, what, it comes in white and that's it? No mixers? No different flavors? What is this, a commodity?

No, it's brother booze for me.

But the other day I woke up feeling predictably horrible and I had a thought: do I always feel like this in the morning, or is it all that wine I drank the night before? And I have to say I don't know. I have absolutely no idea.

Because I can't remember not drinking at least one glass of wine or a beer or a cocktail or something during the course of a day. Can't. Remember. I think it was last winter when I got sick. It's a chilling thought. So I am taking a week off from the drinking. It was daunting at first. I was kind of worried that maybe I would find that I was much more in the thrall of the bottle that I had assumed. Cause if it's always around, who knows? The good news is that it has been really easy. Simply replace booze with something not quite as delicious and life continues on. End of story.

Here are my discoveries:

• I still feel like crap every morning.
• All that forgetting stuff? Yeah, that's because I am forgetful. Seems to have nothing to do with drinking.
• Late at night, I feel tired. That seems to also have nothing to do with the booze.
• Know what is great about not drinking? I'm five days in and I lost six pounds. That's right! Booze has calories! Unacceptable.
  

I'm out to finish my week. I started the week on the wagon, and I'll finish it on the wagon. And then I'll go on a bender. Kidding.

It does throw into relief how hard it must be for people who do not drink because they are alcoholics or religious or just don't like alcohol. So much of what there is to do during a cold November (well, so much of what I am used to doing- I suppose there are church pot lucks and bible studies and book burnings that I am missing out on) involves going out for a drink, going to a friends house for a glass of wine, having a beer and reading on the couch.

And I kind of miss that part of it.

Tea anyone? No? Oh. Right. Tea does suck.

90 Bus Versus 70 Bus, A Comparison

Some of you might think that I write about Metrobus a little but too much. Rest you assured, you have never been more wrong. There is no possibility for this to be true. Metrobus, even when awful, is awesome, even if it is awesome just for it's sheer awfulness. Circular logic? Never heard of it. Must be big in Japan.

Some friends of mine like to claim that the 90 bus is the worst bus in the District, while I contend, after living for more than a year on Georgia Ave, home of the 70 bus, that the 70 bus is the bus that epitomises the "bus" experience. What, pray tell, is the "bus" experience? You'll understand by the end of this post.

Today I had the pleasure of riding both buses. That's right. I did it on purpose. For you. I'm always doing things for you.

First, The Ninety Bus:

Requisite person with missing limb, requisite person in a wheel chair. These two things are required for ALL 90 bus trips. I don't know if Metro issues every bus with a set of each or if there is just some unstudied symbyosis. The bus stopped on average twice a second to let on ten people and let off two people. Buy the time I got off the bus there were people sitting on the roof a-la-indian train.

The Seventy Bus:

I sat in urine. When I jumped up in disgust/horror, the woman behind said "What, you didn't smell the seat before you sat? Foolish!"

Any bus line where customers would be expected to smell the seats for urine wins, hands down. Game. Set. Match.

Sidenote: Ignore the sirens you might be currently hearing. It's just the fire department attempting to douse a blaze in my front yard. It's amazing how much gasoline urine-soaked pants require to ingnite, but once they do, stand back, friends.

Metro staff perform a routine cleaning of a 70 bus.

A Primal Yulp

I cried when Barak Obama gave his victory speech. I won't lie. I had tears streaming down my face. Well, I mean I would have if I had let them stream down my face and then stood under a light to underscore the piquant portrait of a man moved by a historic moment. In reality I just wiped them with my sleve a lot and then talked loudly about allergies.

Will Barak Obama make a difference? I have no idea. But it was moving to cast a ballot for someone who I believed in, not just a set of ideas espoused by someone I wasn't sure about. Am I setting myself up to be disappointed? Of course. That's what politics is about, after all; it's all voting for ideas that are hard to achieve, and therefore, don't always come about.

But good God the man can talk; it's rain on parched plains falling in a soft light.

The district was a fun place to be (well, if you voted for Obama). I was at work the whole night, and everytime Barak won a new state, the shouts from the bar and lounge drowned out the bad techno we listen to (it makes the food tastier if you cook it listening to Eurotrash-pop from 1998). After I got done, all the cars along Pennsylvania Ave were honking their horns and everyone was giving high-fives. And for just a minute, it felt really good to think that maybe everything was going to be alright.