A 3 year old as Milosevic?

First things first. I have come to a decision on the next couple of years of my life. Law school it is. I received a treasure trove of good advice from y'all (and some questionable advice - bull semen collector? If that's the desired position, I don't even want to think what the entry-level position looks like), and most of it told me to be patient, keep trying to figure out what makes me happy, and to trust that it will all work out. That forced some serious introspection as to what I really see myself doing and what will really satisfy me. I don't know what I will end up doing with a law degree, but I do know that I love learning, enjoy school, am ambitious, enjoy analytical thinking, and will need something more than a political science degree to make it anywhere (damn the social science propaganda machine...when you start school they tell you to get a liberal arts degree, to learn to think, to get a "real" education...and when you graduate and ask for help finding a job, they tell you to talk to the business school that they have been deriding for the last 4 years. Oh well, at least I'm not a humanities major.). Furthermore, as an unanticipated ancillary benefit, going to law school will allow me to postpone finding a real job for another three years.

As far as the current state of things, I quit my day job. It happened for a variety of reasons, but the main three are as follows: I didn't see the sense in working 35-40 hours a week for free; I have enough to offer that someone, somewhere, should be shelling out major bucks to have me (perhaps a gigolo position is in order). I spent too much time sitting in front of a computer creating Word documents and entering data. I saw the sun 30 minutes a day and other people about as much. Most importantly, however, I realized that I'm not a starry-eyed idealist. My organization believed that by working as a coalition of countries under the aegis of the United Nations, we can end war and poverty, and make the world a more tolerant and kind place. What's more, they believe that such change can be effected by small groups of determined, idealistic people. I realized that I don't particularly ascribe to those beliefs. I don't think war will ever end. I think there will always be areas of the world that are more disadvantaged than others. I think that people will always highlight their differences so they can exploit them to justify violence. Every generation likes to think that theirs is more advanced, more refined, and more capable of harnessing the violence that has characterized man's existence. Our generation is no more immune to the temptations of hate and savagery than any other, however, we're just more aware of their effects and more self-conscious of our own roles. Lastly, I don't think that a small group of determined people can change the world. I think a small group of people with political power, money, or nuclear weapons can get something done, but I don't think that passion alone can carry the day. Or am I just being cynical?

So...long story short, I'm in the market for a day job. I've been trying to find something in Congress, with either a representative or a senator. Earlier this week I got exasperated at the fruitlessness of sending out resumes into the void that is online recruiting. So I put on my suit, did my hair, borrowed my roommate's briefcase, and went up to Capitol Hill. I went to the placement office and then walked around the building where the representatives have their offices, hoping for something to materialize. I remembered that adage that "fortune favors the bold", and decided to get myself a job. I walked into five different offices and asked to speak to the Chief of Staff, explaining to the receptionist that "of course I have an appointment, it's about your open position for a Legislative Assistant". I didn't really have a game plan. I didn't know if I was going to lie to the Chief of Staff and tell him\her that I had gotten an email about the interview, or if I was going to confess my ruse, throw myself on their mercy, and hope that my ingenuity and determination would get me a job and not get me thrown out of the building. I would like to be able to say that the heavens smiled on me and that the outing resulted in a job, an interview, or at least a fun story. Alas, I ended up sitting in each office for about 15 minutes until the receptionists notified me that the chiefs of staff were "busy with hearings". I tried flirting with one to see if it could get me a cell-phone number, but she was one of those unfortunate women who never got married because she always cheated on any prospective mates with her paramour (Dunkin' Donuts) and her some-time lover (fried foods) (calling people fat is acceptable if it's done circumspectly and semi-wittily...right?). Therefore she has filled her life with cats and soap operas and her desk with pictures from Anne Geddes (that photographer who takes pictures of babies dressed up as sunflowers, food, Slobodan Milosevic,etc.) in an attempt to compensate for the human affection that constantly eludes her. Long story short, she was resistant to my charms (perhaps I should have offered a 15 piece from KFC) and I obtained nothing from my outing. I'm optimistic though, I hope to be wearing a suit five days a week on Capitol Hill within the next three weeks. I know I promised vituperation of Europeans (even more necessary after an incident last night, but Melting Pot stories will come on the next post), but that also must wait. Lastly - my next post will explain more, but I am putting Spencer Hyde, a.k.a "Pepe" the author of the blog "Haberdashery" (http://spencerhyde.blogspot.com/) on notice. Consider yourself warned Spencer.

Slinging Vitriol

I want to start this post with a vilification of the state of Colorado. After spending a fantastic three days in Provo, I set out with Phil, Stephen, Carolyn, and Aubrey Quebe, and Brittany Patterson to drive home to Texas. Like anyone else who has ever sat foot in the state, I have a moral objection to New Mexico. Granted, certain parts of the state are gorgeous. Angel Fire, Santa Fe, the entire northwest part of the state, they're all breathtaking and I have no issue with them. My objection to the state has four main components.

First - the entire eastern part of the state. You know those dates where all of dinner is spent hoping that the waiter will stop by in order to provide some semblance of conversation? Where your date's most scintillating topic of conversation is her marriage prep class; a class where they obviously teach her that the only requirement for marriage is that she have a pair of X chromosomes and a complete inability to offer a response consisting of more than two syllables? Eastern New Mexico is the geographic equivalent of those dates. I have actually tried to fall asleep while driving there because death would be preferable to traveling past another truck stop\porn shop\"authentic Indian crafts" store.

Second - driving on the reservations. Granted, I've only driven through these on weekends, and weekday nights, and weekday mornings and afternoons too. I've never driven through on Arbor Day though, so it would be inaccurate to say that you will always encounter drunk drivers in 1978 Ford pickups on the road. Every time I've driven through, however, I have almost been hit by no fewer than 35 drunk drivers. There are many experiences for which I don't mind tempting death...driving through New Mexico ain't one of them.

Third - doe-eyed little kids who try to sell me cheap trinkets, packs of gum, and "authentic" arrowheads while I'm trying to ingest enough grease-filled food at aforementioned truck stops to anesthetize myself to the soporific effects of the New Mexican scenery outside of my window. I feel like I'm in a third world country...it's humiliating. I half-expect a bunch of starry-eyed European idealist non-profit employees, flush with cash from not having to spend more than .000000001 percent of their GDP on military or defense spending (don't worry, we'll keep defending your borders so y'all can keep up your 15% unemployment rates and 35 hour workweeks) to show up to these New Mexican restaurants and attempt to airlift these little kids back out of the region.

Fourth - tribal casinos. They all have names like "The Proud Indian", "Running Bear Casino", and "The Mighty Chippewa" because these sound better than "Truckers Losing Their Money", "Grandmothers Gambling Away Their Social Security", or "Using Indian Tribes as a Front for Rich White Lawyers Whose Ancestors Probably Took the Land From These Tribes".

For the reasons outlines above, I avoid driving through New Mexico when traveling between Utah and Texas. It's a little bit longer driving through Colorado, but it's much prettier. Therefore, Tuesday morning before setting out on what should have been a 14 hour drive with six people in a Suburban, I checked the weather report to see forecasts of clear skies through Colorado. I must have checked the map for the western fifteenth of the state, because as soon as we passed Grand Junction our speed dropped to 25 miles an hour, visibility dropped to 15 yards, and those numbers maintained their positions for the next 7 hours (197 miles!!) to Denver. The only way we were able to navigate was by reflectors on the side of the road, and the only way we maintained our sanity was by playing old-school Contra on Phil's laptop (a special shout-out to the first one to contact me with the code for 99 lives in that game). Our trip from Provo to Denver ended up taking as much time as our return trip all the way from Amarillo to Provo. After reading this post thus far, I realize that I only want to vilify Colorado's mercurial weather patterns, but that I also want to heap calumny upon New Mexico (already done) and weather.com for the inaccurate forecast (suck it, weather.com).

There. Now that I have fully exorcised the opprobrium from my system, let's get on with it. Thanksgiving was fantastic. It started out with a 9 hour layover in New Jersey. I was initially upset about the length of the stop, but after I realized how close Newark was to NYC, my layover turned into a chance to let Kent Breard III buy me the best BBQ I have eaten outside of Texas. Kent alone was worth the layover, but I decided to avail myself of my presence in Manhattan to buy some fairly homo-suspicious scarves and eat (in addition to the BBQ) two slices of pizza, two hot dogs, one glass of papaya juice, a falafel sandwich, chicken kabobs, an italian sausage, a chocolate cupcake, cup of hot chocolate, oatmeal raisin cookie, and a box of strawberries. This was in 4 hours. I don't care to discuss the matter.

Upon landing in Provo I was reminded why I felt so detached in D.C. Driving past the Modest is Hottest billboards (don't you think they would at least try to find attractive girls for those ads?) from Salt Lake to Provo, I realized that Utah felt like home in a way that I never really expected. That feeling was accentuated by the comfortable and familial air that accompanied everything I did that weekend. The dinners out were fun, Steak Night was an unqualified success (much thanks to Noelle, Jake, my roommates, Rilee, Scott, Heidi, Emily...everyone who helped out, brought stuff, or just came bringing meat). I realized that much of the turmoil I feel over my career choices is exacerbated by the desire I have to stay in Utah, be near the people I have grown to care about, and feel like I'm somewhere where people care about me. After further consideration, I realized that I can only stretch and challenge myself when I have stepped away from everything familiar. I grow too attached and become too accustomed to the people, things, and activities that I enjoy, and I forget about testing myself. By constantly maintaining a foot in my comfort zone, I deny myself the chance to meet and learn from the challenges concomitant with life outside that zone. This realization gave me a new perspective on my time here, as I realize that, regardless of what I do or accomplish, my life has been enriched by the sheer fact that I'm here...that I left.

Anyway, as always, I let this post swell to behemoth size. The next one will be more manageable...and much sooner. I will comment on the suggestions y'all gave me for my life plans and probably rain down more bile on Europe...albeit with scholarly assistance.

My Life Plan (question mark)

Most of you are probably familiar with my presidential aspirations. I had considered jumping right into it this year and announcing my candidacy, but my name-recognition in certain parts of the country (pretty much anywhere except for Utah and Texas) isn’t quite where I want it to be (practically nothing). There were also the dual stumbling blocks of not being old enough and not having a catchy campaign theme song. I considered “Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta” and “I Feel Pretty”, but couldn’t get rights to use either of them. Therefore, I decided to put my campaigning off for a term or two. This lack of any clear career options for the next eight years brought with it some introspective moments in which I feel I have figured my life plan out. My request is that you respond to my plan (elucidated below) by offering affirmation of my ideas, gentle critiques and suggestions for change, or phone numbers of a local McDonald’s along with assertions that the shift manager position should be my goal.

Ok. So I laid out my life plan to myself and realized a couple of things. First, it is the most convoluted life plan imaginable. It entails three different types of schooling (law, culinary, international relations), 4 or 5 moves, practically unlimited funds, and 17 barefoot Filipino man-servants. Furthermore, I would not actually start making money for at least the next 8 years, and after adding up the years necessary to follow through on everything, I calculated that I would need to live to the age of 125.

Therefore, barring the advent of medical technology that will drastically extend the human life, the acquisition of a spare 30 million dollars, and the voluntary servitude of some affable Filipinos, I need to rethink things. If you have ever eaten a meal with me, you know that I am incapable of planning things reasonably and not going overboard. It’s evident that the same holds true with life plans. Consequently, I am going to offer only the vagaries of what I want my life to look like and ask for input from my readers.

The problem, as I see it, is the conflict between what makes me happy, what satisfies and challenges me, and what I feel I ought to be doing. The more I’ve gotten to know myself, gotten to know what makes me happy, and tried to figure out what makes other people happy, the more I realize that I don’t want to be defined by what profession I choose. I want to be defined by the friends I keep, the family I have, and how I elect to spend my time. Therein lies the problem. I will likely spend 50 plus hours a week for the next 45 years at some sort of career, and the sheer magnitude of the chunk of my life that will be dedicated to that career means I need to find something worth my time. I hardly think that I’m the only one struggling with this; everyone wants to find fulfillment in their work. My problem is that I can’t and won’t dedicate myself even half-heartedly to anything I’m not passionate about.

Anyone who knows me well enough to be reading this blog knows how much I enjoy people. I have an active social life and like being surrounded by people who are comfortable enough around me to ask me to do anything for them. You also know my feelings on food, get-togethers in general, and barbecues in particular. The suggestion has been offered over and over again that I go to culinary school and open up a restaurant, thus combining my natural sociability with my fat-kid love of food. Is that the way to go? I admit, it sounds tempting. If everything worked out, it would seem to be ideal. I would have a place where my friends and family could come. I would have opportunities to positively influence the lives of my employees and to positively affect the community. I have two reservations about the idea. First – when your start working at what you enjoy, does what you enjoy become work? Should food and hosting always be a diversion, an area of fun for me? Second – is that really what I’m supposed to do with myself?

Y’all are already aware of the esteem in which I hold myself. I think fairly highly of my intellectual abilities, my skills at networking, my prospects in the professional world, etc. Would I feel fulfilled serving food all day? I need intellectual stimulation. I need to feel like I’m making a difference, changing the world, and utterly exhausting my talents. This isn’t to be found owning a restaurant. Then what? Law? Politics? International charity work? Dead animal disposal? How is it for you? Is there a chasm between what you like doing and what fulfills you? Will I to live with this dichotomy or should I see it as an opportunity to fill my life to the fullest by doing what fulfills me and what makes me happy?

I think the crux of my dilemma is the following question. Do we have the blessings we do so we can fulfill our dreams and find happiness for ourselves; or do we have a greater obligation to spend ourselves and our talents blessing those who don’t have what we have? Are the two mutually exclusive? If so, at what point does our obligation to others end? You can always find a person or a cause that needs your attention, your time, and your support…when do you stop giving? When is it ok to be selfish? Is it? What is pi to the 78th number?

Anyway…sorry about the torrent of turmoil. If you have any answers, suggestions, comments, questions, or demands that I quit my bitching and go back to writing about Ryan’s mustache, feel free to comment here, e-mail me, facebook me, text me, whatever. I promise my next post will be more fun. And shorter.

Of mass killings and mustaches

When you're younger you think that "adults" have grown up, have matured, and have managed to do away with those puerile impulses that seem the mantle of adolescence. Turns out that getting older just makes it much more socially unacceptable to give in to one of those impulses, and much harder to justify if you actually do. Allow me to explain.

I was in a meeting today on the International Criminal Court and the keynote speaker was a woman who had been the head mediator between the government of Uganda and the head of the LRA, a rebel army in northern Uganda. She had just gone through 20 minutes of descriptive accounts of atrocities committed: mutilations, beheadings, mass rapes, etc. and was ready to take questions. I started to raise my hand in order to ask a question containing the following words - intransigence, non-governmental organizations, intractable, immutable, and mandate. Instead of stringing those GRE words into a coherent phrase, however, I immediately thought of my old roommate Ryan Sandberg and his mustache. For your viewing pleasure, and in an attempt to reinforce the futility of fighting off the full-body laugh that threatened to engulf me upon conceiving of this image, I offer the following picture of Sandberg.



Suffice it to say that the interrogative I had planned quickly became an impossibility. I was no longer concerned with sounding knowledgeable, articulate, or prepared. I was willing to settle for not knocking the guy next to me over as I fell, choking and spitting, out of my chair and onto the floor. Luckily, I managed to regain some sort of composure and was able to pass it off as a quasi-believable coughing fit. My only hope is that everyone in the room thought I was overcome with emotion at the atrocities just mentioned and that my reaction was attributable to the aforementioned occurrences.

I'm realizing that my first couple of posts can most charitably be described as fatuous, and that inane might even be a more appropriate description of them. Therefore, tomorrow's post will likely contain an update on more of my current life and future plans (yes, I figured my life out and will let you know the details tomorrow along with a plea for input) and possibly even some ruminations on topics of interest. I want to stress, however, that my blog will never become a blow-by-blow of my life (is there anything more boring than those?) or an attempt to disseminate my views on political matters. I don't categorically rule out the possibility of occasionally mentioning an item of interest, but this won't be one of those-Clinton said this, Romney raised that, this is why my position on the healthcare budget is correct-type blogs. Not that it matters, because I still don't think anyone actually reads this. Which I why I can state that Sam Wright is actually straight, and I just made fun of him because I was intimidated by his charismatic masculinity. I can mention that he is my idol and my role model. I can even say that at nights I put on a suit and pretend to take calls on my Blackberry while formatting spreadsheets, all in an attempt to be Sam Wright. I can safely say this because absolutely nobody will read it. Except maybe my mom. Love you Mom! You kick ass.

Me and my boys in blue protecting the city from the drag queens at the annual "High-Heel Drag Race". Last year things got out of control and department stores everywhere were stripped of their mascara and panty hose.

My house is the blue one. Compliments to David Trichler, D.C.'s resident photographer for the picture.

(Insert Clever Title)

I've had several requests for further explanation of where I live. D.C. is divided into four quadrants, with the Capitol building at t the center of the dividing lines. The northwest section is the best-known and the most affluent. When I moved out here I started looking for apartments in the other sections and was laughed at for it. I was told that the other sections were too "sketchy" to live in. I always had to laugh at the fact that I, after having lived in the poorest parts of my state in Mexico, after having made it through rioting in Bolivia, and after having been robbed at gunpoint (two of them!) in Peru, was being warned away from parts of D.C. Irony aside, we found a row house (two separated stories in the same house) technically in the NW section, but only four blocks away from the NE, which is close enough to pay a little less in rent than the rest of the NW ($1975 a month between three of us).

Our block consists of the following: us three white kids, a Chinese woman who owns a dry cleaner (breaking some stereotypes there, aren't we?) and who speaks so little English that I speak to her in Spanish without her even noticing, and such an assortment of other people that I can't really tell who lives on the block and who doesn't. There are quite a few houses on the block that have been in the same families for the last 100 years, and the current inhabitants refuse to make any improvements on the houses that might result in higher property taxes. They also keep the houses in a constant state of "construction", thus obviating the levying of property taxes at all. A couple of the houses also don't pay any sort of utilities bills, which means that they are dark all the time and their inhabitants spend a lot of time on the front porch. I will leave my front door at 615 in the morning to go jogging, leave at 830 to go to work, and get home from work at 1230 at night, and I can always count on multiple someones hanging out on the porches. Unemployment seems rampant, unless you count drinking Mad Dawg 20 20 all day as gainful employment. I am, however, in D.C., so I suppose that political correctness is in order. Therefore, the people who don't have utilities aren't poor, but they're economically disadvantaged. Also, the "transactions" that take place in the alley by my house and which involve plastic bags and rolls of ones aren't drug deals, but are "participation in the unofficial economy".

Some of my readers may be familiar with my sleeping patterns, which tend to alternate from sleeping outside, to sleeping on the couch, to sleeping on the floor. Outside is not really a possibility here, but my sleeping quarters are almost always located in the living room. This is prime real estate for auditorily experiencing the interactions between the porch-dwellers on my block. We've had fights, two breakups, one very...ummm...passionate reconciliation, a death threat, and a royal rumble involving close to 8 pugilists. I love where I live though. My other options were all suburban enclaves in either Virginia or Maryland. You know the type; yuppie couples walking their golden retrievers to Starbucks where they enjoy their soy chai lattes while perusing the latest Eddie Bauer catalogs. They then go home, get in their Volvo (high safety ratings!), and go to the latest restaurant out of the Zagat guidebook and order the newest Chilean wine. I'll stick with the porch-people, thanks.

Into the Netherworld

So...I have no idea if anyone is actually even reading these. Obviously, the narcissistic side of Austin (and no predictable comments like "is there any other side?" please) wants to think that people might actually be interested in the minutiae of his life. The other side realizes that even if nobody is reading this, it's still a fairly cathartic process to just put something into words. In other words...part of me doesn't give a damn if you read this and the other part is begging you to. It's a little disconcerting to share parts of yourself and just send them out onto the internet, hoping that people read\enjoy them. You also hope that the wrong people don't read them.(just ask if you want me to post the story\stories of my two 40-something male stalkers, one of whom thought\thinks that Arnold Schwarzenegger is the anti-Christ...no joke) I'm also a little leery of the whole "blog" thing. It seems to me that "bloggers" just talk to other bloggers, respond to other bloggers, and believe that the entire world reads blogs. In actuality, while they're blogging away (and seriously, is there no better word we could use? A blogger sounds like the kid who got made fun of by the chess team in high school.), the rest of the world is out having fun and meeting people. In the end, bloggers end up only associating with themselves to such a degree that the entire community becomes intellectually inbred. Before you know it we will have people writing blogs who look and think like the offspring of royal families in which brothers have been marrying sisters for the last 4 generations. I suspect that in a few short years, most bloggers will be typing their blogs by banging their protective helmets against their keyboards until they short-circuit out from the drool emitting from their mouths. Or maybe I'm way off. Anyway...I meant this to be a post on the Senate "business meeting" I attended today, (Don't call it a "hearing" when it's actually a "business meeting" or else people will know that you're new to the scene and don't know who is staffing with whom, or what bill is up for review, and they will send e-mails about you on their Blackberries and you won't be able to respond because you're not important enough to have a Blackberry, but instead have a ghetto cell-phone with a Rice Krispy sticker on the back and "Informer" by Snow as the ringtone. Then you will feel stupid. I'm assuming anyway, this is all hypothetical.) but I worked for 16 hours and had to make my way home by myself because the taxis were on strike and\or not driving to my neck of the woods. So this will suffice for tonight. I will attempt to put something of substance up tomorrow for everyone (all 2 of you?) who is reading this.

Walking while white

First, an update on my job and living situation, which will segue into the ignominy of racial profiling that I've been forced to weather. I'm waiting tables at the Melting Pot, a slightly pretentious fondue restaurant right on DuPont Circle. For those of you not in the know, DuPont Circle is the most gay-friendly district in D.C. Now, you might have read that last sentence and decided that I pointed it out due to myopic Texan intolerance. I point it out, however, so that you understand the problems posed by the uniform that I wear to work. My uniform is a tight black t-shirt tucked into black pants, black shoes, etc. Add to the mix the fact that my hair is cut short, that I actually style it occasionally and that I still carry my (very manly) Bolivian man-purse, and I find myself that recipient of more male attention than a half-naked jogger in a room with Sam Wright. Now, when I come out of work, I tend to have real loud conversations on the phone about my fantasy football team, fried foods, the large trucks I like to drive, and my love for the female form. If you find yourself on the receiving end of these phone calls, just roll with it. Thanks.

That job pays the bills, but I didn't come out here to wait tables. Last week I started at Citizens for Global Solutions (globalsolutions.org), a fairly progressive non-profit. They work for more engagement with the international community, ratification of the UN Law of the Seas, membership in the International Criminal Court, and a lot of other things that would bore the hell out of you, so I'm going to stop here. I'm working on the external relations team, which means that I'll be lobbying Congressmen, getting our positions in newspapers, meeting with other non-profits, etc. It's about forty hours a week, and I'll be getting paid enough to cover my transportation costs (about 4 dollars a day). In retrospect, all of the vitriol that I heaped on my friends getting business degrees seems like it might have been unfounded. Yes, I got a degree that taught me how to think and gave me a "real" education. I doubt, however, that my friends who didn't "learn how to think" are making cheese fondue 35 hours a week. Whatever. That's the price for saving the world, and it'll look good when I campaign. In the future, please don't refer to what I'm doing as an "internship". I prefer to call it "pro bono employment", because that implies that I am independently wealthy and able to dedicate myself to altruistic causes. Something I didn't realize about this organization (hereafter referred to as CGS) is how progressive (liberal) they were. I agree with them on most topics, but they're to the left of me on several. I'm not sure how to convey to them my semi-conservative bent. I'm thinking about driving a Hummer limo to work while spraying Chlorofluorocarbons into the air. I'll then walk into work drinking oil out of the skull of a freshly-killed woodland creature and present a proposal to keep troops in Iraq, invade Canada and Mexico, and nuke a country a week until the world admits that global warming is fraudulent. That would get the point across, but might it be just a little extreme? Facetiousness aside, I really enjoy what I'm doing and am hoping for a raise to 30 dollars a week. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Anyway, now that you're filled in, onto my being racially profiled.

I get off work around 11 during the week and 1:30 on weekends. I take the metro home, and it's an 8 minute walk from the stop to my house. Three Friday nights ago I was walking home around 2 in the morning when a cop car pulled up next to me. The cops looked me up and down (damned work uniform!!) and asked me if I was ok. I responded affirmatively, and they then asked me if I was lost. I told them I was walking home and was almost there. What followed was about 15 seconds of silence, followed by an incredulous "you live here?" A little nonplussed, I told them yes. They told me to be careful and to keep an eye out for them if I needed help. Seriously...it's getting to the point where a white kid can't go anywhere these days without being hassled by the cops. Next time, they might even offer to give me a ride home. Where will it end? Anyway, I'm realizing this story might not mean as much to people who aren't familiar with D.C.'s quadrants, but this post is already a behemoth, so I'll fill you in next time. This is for you Kent Breard III.

Post the First

There is always a lot of pressure to make the first sentence catchy. If it's a school paper it needs to evince your knowledge and hard work. If it's a text to a potential significant other it needs to be witty and memorable, but come off unscripted and original. If it's a suicide note it doesn't really matter because everyone has already skipped ahead to your will anyway. So what about a blog? Damned if I know. I suppose I should consider my audience and tailor the first line towards them, but I haven't the slightest idea who will be reading this. I imagine there's an audience out there, because everyone always tells me that I have lots of opinions and good ideas but that I'm far too shy and unwilling to speak my mind. This is exactly what people need - a chance to hear what I think without me censoring and filtering it like I normally do. Ok, let's be honest. The prospect of me saying what I think without running it by people (Sam, Matt, Brett, Neil) is terrifying, both to any hopes I have of having a future unsullied by (well-founded) accusations of insulting anyone and everyone, and to anybody I know or write about who is easily offended. In all likelihood though, I'll just end up writing about the most ridiculous parts of living in DC, rhapsodizing about restaurants I've eaten at and sharing recipes, plagiarizing straight from The Onion, and insulting Sam Wright. Next time I post, I'll tell you about getting stopped by the cops for "walking while white" (huge problem these days, we can barely make it to a Starbucks and a J. Crew without getting hassled for our race) and I'll post pictures of my house on Islamic Way. Ohh...and Philip Quebe.