Leaving the District

Things I will not miss about Washington D.C.:
1. Our crappy house and everything that goes along with it (i.e. the room-sharing; the shower that now issues nothing but a trickle; the rug that smells like urine; the couch that smells like urine; the unused toilet (in the bathroom off our shared room) that smells like urine; the sunroom stacked with worthless junk that someone crazy feels the need to keep; and last but most certainly not least, the sociopath landlady that lives in the basement with her two mangy dogs, who turns of the air conditioner just whenever it suits her, who has to unplug her refrigerator to plug in her microwave, who lets her mail stack up on the steps outside her door for a month before picking it up, who insists we contact her via text message, whose voicemail - if you should call - is FULL, who is married to a husband we have never seen and has several "handymen" in and out on a regular basis.

2. The metro. It is not easy; it is confusing. It is not clean; it is disgusting and hot. It is not cheap; it is expensive. It is not convenient; it doesn't go half the places you need or want to go.

3. The ghetto Safeway. You saw the escalator to nowhere. Need I say more?

4. The ghetto CVS. See above.

5. The spin. How hard can it be to answer a question one way or another? Impossible, apparently. Also difficult to speak in plain English and say how you really feel.

6. Free taco Friday at the National Press Club. Stale tacos, cheap beer and a smokey bar - not my cup o' tea.

7. Writing for a newspaper in NW Missouri.

8. The heat. Oh my god the heat.

9. The JFHQ-NCR. Don't ask.

10. Things falling apart.

11. Living in a house with four women.


I could go on, but I'll stop there. I will miss a few things. They follow.

Things I will miss about Washington, D.C.:
1. The fab-u-lous deli around the corner from the newsroom. I know it only as Phillips. The meat is carved in front of your very eyes, and all the toppings are fresh. I've never had a better roast beef sandwich. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, yum.

2. Free breakfast at the press club with Shayna.

3. The sherbert-colored cat that lives on my street. I met him when I ventured boldly onto his porch whilst he was reclining. We parted rather poignantly night before last after he padded over to me and I gave him a farewell rub.

4. Living in a house with four women.

That's it, I think. I can't wait to leave. Will be back in the glorious Bluegrass tomorrow. Can't wait.

Along for the ride

Love this. My friend Barrett takes an unexpected trip. Who hasn't done something stupid like this? Here's a snippet from his blog post:

I'm walking along the platform, trains on both sides. The only people I see are the ones on the train, but as I check through the windows I don't see my friends. I decide to hop on for some quiet. Right away, just inside the open door it's amazingly calm. I can hear a voice from my phone.

-Where are you?
-I got on the train on track 7. Are you on it?
-Is that the train to Ravinia?
-I don't know. Uh, the doors are closing.
-The doors are closing?
-Yeah, they are closed and I can't open them. The buttons aren't working. The train is moving.
- THE TRAIN IS MOVING? BARRETT, GET OFF THE TRAIN!
-I don't think I can.
-Where are you going?
-I don't know.

The Sweet Spot

My teacher on Fridays this quarter was Lynn Sweet, the Washington bureau chief for the Chicago Sun-Times. She is traveling to Africa with Barrack Obama and just left this week. Not!, however, before filming the following stand-up in her D.C. backyard. It's called convergence, baby! To check out my teacher's broadcast debut click here and then click on the Aug. 18, 2006: Durbin Discusses Obama's Trip to Africa link.

Christian Science Monitor plug

If you're not reading the Jill Carroll story, you should be. Tres, tres bizarre!

Crazy World

Here's a disturbing L.A. Times story, written by Claire Hoffman, their Hollywood and adult entertainment reporter. The story ran earlier this week. The lede follows:

Joe Francis, the founder of the "Girls Gone Wild" empire, is humiliating me. He has my face pressed against the hood of a car, my arms twisted hard behind my back. He's pushing himself against me, shouting: "This is what they did to me in Panama City!"

It's after 3 a.m. and we're in a parking lot on the outskirts of Chicago. Electronic music is buzzing from the nightclub across the street, mixing easily with the laughter of the guys who are watching this, this me-pinned-and-helpless thing.

Francis isn't laughing.