Hello again my (hopefully) loyal fan base! Greetings and salutations from Washington D.C. Luckily, over the past week, I haven’t been maimed, dismembered, skewered, or otherwise injured (mentally or physically). But, I do come bearing more stories for all ‘yer prying ears to absorb. Before we start, however, I figure I might as well explain the nature of the quotes that crown each of my awfully structured paragraphs. Now for all of you with some modicum of brain power, and a healthy dose of Hollywood knowledge, you may have noticed that my quotes from last week sampled some of the finest film delicacies to ever emerge from Tinsel Town (Back to the Future, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Top Gun, and… of course Wayne’s World). You may not agree with my picks, but then again: who’s the one writing the blog? That’s right, it’s me. If you don’t like it, leave me a nasty comment. I’ll be sure to totally ignore it. If you did enjoy it: Congrats! There’s still hope that we can be friends… maybe.

For The Record, I've Written My Crimes

Disclaimer: After my last post, I received a second-hand comment from my sister saying that I need to work on my paragraphing. Well, solely to spite her, I plan on entirely forgoing any logical use of paragraphing throughout this entire post; occasionally even omitting this luxury you call paragraphs in favor of a massive wall of intimidating, eye-sore-inducing, text. Your move Baba…

Let me begin by saying that I’m slowly sliding into the swing of things out here. Life is finally beginning to make sense. I no longer cry myself to sleep at night/wet the bed/ awake shivering from night terrors/ or sleep-fall (oh, who am I kidding)… throw myself down the stairs in agony at the earth-shattering change in pace that I’ve been force-fed. It really is astounding how smooth the day-to-day can be when you finally get into the proper grove (and not the kind of groove that Jimi Hendrix and the Beatles took ridiculous amounts of acid to achieve). The Metro, a once hulking metal behemoth of terror and confusion, now simply seems like a fear-frozen deer in front of my careening, spike-grilled Escalade as I barrel down a shoddy-lit backcountry road (quite descriptive, I know… look what creative writing has done for me!). The jams of people, the surprisingly-painful turn-style stops (those of you who are out here with me can probably attest to the bountiful hate I have for those little gates that always seem to open and close at the exact, inopportune moment as you enter/leave the Metro stations), and those annoying people outside the stations trying to give you useless newspapers all don’t really bother me anymore. I simply ignore them, or make the meanest looking scowl I can muster at 8:30 in the morning in their general direction. Mission accomplished. It’s only been two weeks and I already feel like a jaded, city asshole! But beyond the hectic calamity of the streets, lies a softer, more professional, inner sanctum. The office is an entirely different beast. Let me be blunt, work is hard. I don’t mean hard in the sense that the work is too overly challenging for me, either. I mean that there’s simply so much for me to do, that I find myself at times amazed that everyone in the office is capable of handling such extreme multi-tasking without alleviating their stress on a punching bag… or on an especially ugly passerby.

Simply put, all the above people are really capable of anything. They surely have the drive required. Thankfully, they have been courteous to my neophyte status within the office. Last week was really the first week where I was given a set of tasks, left to myself, and expected to complete them in an efficient and orderly fashion. While this, in and of itself, scared the pants off of me in one way, it also allowed me to really test the waters of how things will, and should, be done for the rest of the semester. Looking back one week later, I feel as if I’ve been there a lot longer than I really have, and I owe that 100% to the staff at the Trust for constantly keeping me busy, and therefore entertained during my days spent in the Reagan Building. Tomorrow, we’re hosting our first event for the spring, something we’ve been planning, researching, and calling A LOT (and I mean A LOT of calling) for. While the work I’ve been doing so far might not be as immediately vital or game-changing as the projects the full-time staff has been engaging in, I still feel as though I’m contributing something important to the overall operation of the Trust: I’m doing the things that no one else really has time for, yet still need to be done in order to accomplish the many goals that the Trust has for this year. I know that bigger and harder things loom on the horizon for me at the Trust, but for now, I’m quite content helping out wherever they can use me. After all, it is only my third week, and I’m sure there’s plenty left for me to learn before I’m through at the Trust.

Someday I'm Bound to Feel Guilty, But Now's Not The Time

Now that I’ve covered the basic office semantics that come with being a new employee, I think it’s time to move on to something a little more interesting: miscellaneous terrorism. Wait! Now hold up, I’m not saying that I’m a part of this in any way shape or form. I simply have a story to share that, from my perspective (and from what I was told), could have caused quite the stir in a political hub like Washington D.C. The other day, while my roommate Demetrice (I just call him “D” ‘cause it’s easier) and I were leaving a tour of the U.S. Capitol Building, a very gnarly looking place I might add, we noticed that not all was well along the parkways and avenues that flanked the side of the Capitol that we happened to be strolling down. As we walked down the empty streets, scanning the horizon for any sign of… well… anyone, we got approached by a stationed Capitol Police Officer. Thinking we were in some kind of trouble, my immediate first instinct was to play dead… He can’t arrest you if he thinks you’re dead, right? Luckily I didn’t embrace this primal inkling and instead chose the more cautious route of asking him what seems to be the problem. To our utter surprise, the officer told us that we couldn’t walk down the sidewalk that was barren for at least a couple blocks down the street. “Yarrr,” I scowled; “why ye be cramping me sidewalk-fearing ya’ scurvy dog?!” (Note to readers: there was no pirate speak involved in our conversation with the officer, I just figured, hell, why not throw in some pirate dialogue). The officer told us, in a very serious tone, that they had spotted a package. Now in my carefree, D.C-blinded mind, I mistook package for some kind of important person; be it a Senator, Representative, President even. So, we casually meandered across the street and kept walking down the path, carelessly chatting away at what we would do that evening. “Hey guys,” he said, “the package is right on that corner, I’d cut through the park if I were you.”

That’s when we saw it. Sitting not two blocks from the U.S. Capitol Building was a strange looking parcel on the corner of the sidewalk. The light bulbs finally switched on in our heads. Package…package… the package, the package was what he was talking about. They thought it could’ve been some kind of bomb. Bomb…bomb, oh S%$#! There could be a bomb on that corner. Needless to say, we made a b-line directly across the middle of the park; it didn’t mind that we had to suck through nasty, goopy piles of mud in the process. Our safety was at stake. And to think, we were maybe 50-75 feet from what, hypothetically, could’ve scattered our bodies in eight different directions. I’d call it luck, but when you’re as amazingly perceptive to what’s going on around you as I am, then luck just doesn’t factor into the question (…uhurm). Either way, what we saw over the course of those couple minutes could easily be one of the most exciting things I’d seen all week, if not one of the most exciting things I’d seen in my entire experience here. I mean, common’ who doesn’t love a little explosive excitement (insert derogatory comments about how bad my puns are here) while navigating our nation’s capital.

I'm Caught Up In the Heartless Disorder of a Friday Night 

Now I’d hate to leave all you night-life-lovers left in the dust in this post, so I figure I’ll update you on what happened after the sun fell out here in the district. This past Friday night, we had the utmost pleasure of entertaining ourselves at an establishment called Madam’s Organ. Up until this point, most of the night establishments that we had attended had been slightly upscale versions of everything I’ve already had the opportunity to experience in good ol’ Iowa City. In other words, nothing really blew my socks off… up until this point. Madam’s Organ is a D.C.-area blues bar with a whole lot of soul crammed into such a, seemingly, small place. As we walked in, I couldn’t help be prepare for the worst. Here comes another typical bar with even more typical prices for an ever-typical crowd. But, oh how I was wrong. Instead of the computerized crooning’s of, well… pretty much anyone without talent, we heard some downright soulful notes pierce our eardrums like a misguided (and misunderstood, of course) teenage Goth girl trying to be “different.” It was different, but nevertheless, I liked it. It gave the right kind of vibe for the exact kind of atmosphere I was looking for. But the surprise didn’t just stop there. For such a seemingly small place, there seemed to be a lot of noise coming from the upper echelons of the relatively small bar building. Well, as it turns out, this place not only had a second floor, but a third floor as well! Fancy that! I’d like to tell more, but unfortunately, I’m trying to keep this experience on here relatively couth, and that means keeping my “bar stories” as exactly that: bar stories, meant to be savored within the confines of drink-serving establishments.

I've Had A Good Run, But I Can't Run Anymore

Therefore, with pretty much everything that happened covered, I find myself growing tired of writing to you all. Simply put, my fingers hurt; and you don’t want me getting Carpal Tunnel before I can even get to my third post now, do you? That’s right, I didn’t think so. So, take it easy kiddo’s, stay in school, work hard- play hard, and all that jazz. Until next time when I can, hopefully, bore you into a suicidal frenzy with more stories of my adventures (and sometimes misadventures) in this fine District of Columbia.

(Note to readers: The pictures most likely will not be related to the text around them, in which case: suck it up and be happy I put something for you to look at while you rummage through my catastrophic destruction of the English language.)