The Baseball Diaries (Part 2)

Previous installments:

The Baseball Diaries Part 1

- Bought a Nationals jersey over the weekend. A few months ago, I complained about the absurd price of NFL jerseys, based on how cheap TJ Maxx was selling them for. Turns out MLB is running the same racket.

Check out the jersey page on the Nationals website. See this?

Eighty fucking dollars for about a buck's worth of material and the Nationals logo. You know how much I paid at TJ Maxx for that same jersey? $15.

$15. No, I'm not kidding. Yes, it really is the exact same one. Remember that before you head out to Sports Authority or Nationals.com.

(Incidentally, the snob in me feels the need to point out that I'm not habitually a TJ Maxx shopper. It's not a very attractive store, the clothes mostly suck, and when I was waiting in line, the smell reminded me of my high school locker room. But it is the best place to buy Redskins or Nats jerseys, unless a wide selection is important to you.)

- Watched Mr. Baseball again. Still an awesome film. I've decided to watch as many baseball films as possible this season, since they're really the only thing that truly makes me appreciate the game. Next up: The Natural.

- Random thoughts on the Nats home opener:

1) I'd like baseball a lot more if all first innings were as exciting as this one. In pretty much every game I've gone to at RFK, no one ever scored in the first inning. Actually, wait, that's not true. I went to a game against...I think...the Mets where they scored five runs in the first inning. But that was too depressing to be exciting.

2) Wasn't the guy in the stands who caught the Braves' home run supposed to throw it back? That's what happened in Rookie of the Year. Or is that just a Chicago thing? Anyway, it makes sense to me. Or better yet, hold onto it until the opposing team takes the field, and hurl the ball at the head of one of their players. That would be a great D.C. spin on an old baseball tradition.

3) Still not wild about the racing presidents. I guess they're mainly for kids, but...still. As far as signature gimmicks go, I think we could have done better. And what's the point of having cute chicks in Nats jackets trying to get the crowd excited? If you want to have cheerleaders, have real cheerleaders. Why aren't there cheerleaders in baseball, anyway?

4) I'm not going to lie. By the fifth inning, I was getting bored. Has anyone ever thought about introducing a game clock? Cap each inning at, say, fifteen minutes? Or maybe reduce the game to seven innings?

5) As I type this, it's the bottom of the eighth, and the Nats haven't scored since the first inning. This is why the game doesn't simply need to not get rid of steroids, but actually needs to make them mandatory. If every player was juicing, the score would be, like, 26-20 right now. And there probably would have been fights.

6) The Nationals win it! The Nationals win it! Oh, my God, the Nationals win it!

Okay, "it" was only the first game of the season, not the final game of the World Series, and it was only won by one run. But since this is the first televised baseball game I've actually sat through for the entire thing, it feels significant. And what a fucking cool way for them to win. I'm going to make a bold prediction and say I think that Zimmerman kid will go far.

Long term baseball fan goals: 1) Go to at least five Nats games this season (and stay for entire thing), 2) Go to at least one minor league game, 3) Memorize list of MLB teams, 4) Memorize names and stats of key players, 5) Figure out fantasy baseball, 6) Pick a fight with a Yankees, Red Sox, or Orioles fan.

Short term baseball fan goals: 1) Go to a Nats game in April, 2) Score a run in ESPN Baseball 2K4, 3) Watch The Natural, 4) Have a pretzel.

Baseball fan goals accomplished: 1) Bought Nationals jersey, 2) Watched Nats' season opener on TV, 3) Watched Mr. Baseball.

Forget it, Jake. It's Georgetown.

I was in the Barnes & Noble in Georgetown this morning, when I noticed a dog out of the corner of my eye. No big deal, I figured, as I kept flipping through the magazine I was reading. It's probably just a seeing-eye dog.

Then it occurred to me that while hardly outside the realm of possibility, someone who needed a seeing-eye dog probably wouldn't be browsing inside a bookstore. Then when I actually glanced over at the dog and its owner, it further occurred to me that white foo-foo dogs typically aren't used as seeing-eye dogs. So it wasn't a seeing-eye dog. It was just a dog.

Who the hell brings their dog into a bookstore? Even in Georgetown?

So I was observing the two of them, wondering how long it would take until an employee noticed the dog, and politely asked the woman to leave, when I saw there was one just a few feet away, with her back turned to them. A moment later, she actually bumped right into the dog, and let out a loud, "Ow!"

It was more out of surprise than pain, but she got a really annoyed look on her face, stared right at the dog's owner, and...walked away.

As she passed me, she was muttering under her breath, but gave no indication whatsoever that the woman had done anything that would get her the boot from the store. When I walked by the woman a couple of minutes later, I heard her quietly explaining to the dog that not everyone likes dogs, I guess in case its feelings were hurt by the employee's shout of surprise.

So there you go. Apparently, you can bring your dog into the Georgetown Barnes & Noble.

Now, I used to work retail, at a store that while not on par with, say, Tiffany's, wasn't exactly Wal-Mart, either. And had someone brought her dog into the store, I not only would have kicked her ass right out of there, but I probably would have made her cry, too. Harsh? Maybe. But I can't think of many more things as disrespectful to other customers or the store's employees.

After all, had the dog from this morning relieved itself on the floor, would the owner's reaction have been:

A) Find an employee, apologize profusely, insist on cleaning it up herself, and offer to pay for any damage to the carpet?

B) Find an employee, mention the mess, apologize, and walk away?

C) Leave without saying or doing anything?

B is possible. C is far more likely. A? Not a fucking chance in hell.

If Barnes & Noble wants to accommodate the eccentric Georgetown housefraus who frequent the store, as well as their sense of entitlement, that's up to them. But I hope they keep enough in petty cash to cover the cost of replacing someone's shoes when they step in a pile of dog shit.

And if the dog happens to bite someone while in the store? Well, I hope Barnes & Noble has a lot in petty cash to cover that one.

The Baseball Diaries (Part 1)

- Goal of becoming a baseball fan off to a rocky start.

- I'd intended to join a fantasy baseball league in the hopes that having some stake in the season would help me enjoy it more. Unfortunately, years of fantasy football's relatively uncomplicated rules and scoring left me totally unprepared for what's involved. It felt like going from fourth grade math to honors physics.

I probably could have scraped by, but I didn't have as much time to research it as I thought I would. So as not to screw up the season for everyone else, I did the honorable thing and dropped out before the draft. (In case you're wondering, they had someone ready to fill in, so it's not like I screwed up the season even worse by dropping out than I would have if I'd stayed in.) Maybe next year.

- Got an email from the Nationals letting me know me that I did not win the chance to buy opening day tickets for the sold-out game. Just as well. I probably wouldn't have gone anyway. Yeah, it's history in the making, but it's also going to be a fucking madhouse. But as I am now a baseball fan, making the attempt felt like the right thing to do. The Nationals helpfully informed me that I could still go to the game if I bought a full or partial-season ticket package. Not going to happen, Nationals.

- Caught the first hour of the Red Sox/A's game on Tuesday before going to work. Geez, the Japanese dig the sport. The whole time I was watching, I just kept thinking about Mr. Baseball, which really is one of the most underrated sports movies ever made. In an inspired moment, I picked up the DVD at Wal-Mart a few years ago for $5, even though I hadn't ever seen it. I think I'll watch it again this weekend. Oh, the game? It was okay, I guess. I'm disappointed the Red Sox won.

- Did you know I had a copy of ESPN Baseball 2K4? No? Me, neither. Okay, that's not entirely true. I knew I had it, I've just barely touched it. Anyway, I popped it into the ol' PS2 and gave it a try. Normally in sports games, I always play the Washington team, but the Nationals were still the Expos when the game came out. So I played as the Indians against the Yankees. By the end of the third inning, I was losing 12-0.

Frustrated, I quit and started another game. This time I played as the Yankees (this sickened me somewhat, but I hate losing and they are the strongest team in the game) against the Brewers, which as far as I could tell, is the weakest team in the game. Success! This time, at the end of the third I was only down 5-0! But by this point, I was bored. Fortunately, I discovered that it's possible for the pitcher to bean the batter with the ball. For almost ten minutes, I did nothing but, laughing like an idiot the entire time. Virtually my entire bullpen got ejected. It was great.

- Read about the new stadium in yesterday's Express. Sadly, I realized that I was a lot more jazzed about the various eateries than I was about actually seeing a game. Probably not a good sign. But those pretzels do sound awesome.

Long term baseball fan goals: 1) Go to at least five Nats games this season (and stay for entire thing), 2) Go to at least one minor league game, 3) Memorize list of MLB teams, 4) Memorize names and stats of key players, 5) Figure out fantasy baseball, 6) Pick a fight with a Yankees, Red Sox, or Orioles fan.

Short term baseball fan goals: 1) Go to a Nats game in April, 2) Watch Mr. Baseball, 3) Score a run in ESPN Baseball 2K4, 4) Have a pretzel.

Arm hair quarterbacking

Like a lot of people, I had to read The Inheritors in junior high English class. There's a part in the beginning where the male Neanderthal tries to get a little nookie off his mate, but gets rebuffed. I guess in an attempt to alleviate any awkwardness caused by kids reading about S-E-X, our teacher launched into an obviously prepared comedy riff about how the girls wouldn't like boys from that era, as they were all smelly and gross, and the boys wouldn't like girls from that era, because they were really hairy. We all laughed. Awkwardness averted. Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, 30,000 years after the last Neanderthals died out, some boys are still smelly and gross, and some girls still have body hair issues. I'll let someone else tackle the boy problem.

I'm not sure when exactly, but at some point in our not-too-distant past, society decided that women should be relatively hair-free below the neck. Legs? Shaved. Armpits? Shaved. But for some reason, when they got to arms, society said, "You know what? We'll let that those slide."

Now, some arm hair is no big deal, and most women are perfectly fine. But for those who aren't, where it looks as though they're perpetually halfway through the process of transforming into a werewolf, it's a problem that really needs to be addressed.

I saw a girl on the Metro last night who was extremely attractive, except that her arms could have belonged to George "The Animal" Steele. The entire time I was on the train, I couldn't take my eyes off them. They were almost hypnotic. But if she went into the woods wearing a sleeveless shirt, hunters would shoot at her.

I wanted to say something to her, but society's also decided that it's rude to point out such things to total strangers. So I didn't. I just watched as she got off the train, at which point some nearby PETA members saw her and started hassling her for wearing fur. (Not really, but if they had, it would have been an understandable mistake.)

A former coworker at my last job also had arm hair issues. What made it really weird is that because her office was close to mine, I would occasionally overhear her make appointments at the salon to get a Brazilian. Why a woman would pay so much attention to an area only one person (or at most, a select few) got to see, over an area everyone got to see, is beyond me. I often thought about dropping a subtle hint along the lines of, "Say, if they have some wax left over afterwards...", but I figured that if she complained, HR would be less than understanding.

Now, I've been blogging long enough to know that when men start criticizing women's bodies, they're wading into dangerous waters. So let me make it clear that I come not to mock, but to help. If you're fine with your arms, good for you. There's a woman in my building who has a mustache. I can only assume that because she's never done anything about it, she likes it and it makes her happy. But let's not kid ourselves that it's in any way a good look. Same with excessive arm hair.

And if you're reading this and thinking, "That's bullshit. I have hairy arms, and my husband/boyfriend has never said anything to me about it," I'm afraid you're mistaken. Either he's uncomfortable bringing it up, or else he has a furry fetish. Regardless, you have a problem.

(Yeah, okay, that last part crossed the line into mockery. Sorry. Go ahead and be offended if you want.)

Look, in life, there just aren't that many physical flaws that people can easily fix. Most you can't do anything about, whatsoever. The ones you can improve on usually take some combination of time, money, and hard work. But something like getting rid of arm hair? Maximum reward for minimum effort? Come on. It's a no-brainer.

So shave 'em, wax 'em, laser 'em, whatever. But do yourself a favor and take care of those Wookies, huh?

Geekgasm

Last year, Michael Bay's Transformers came out, and it mostly sucked, and there was some grumbling among disgruntled nerds. But honestly, no one, not even the nerds, really cared that much, because in the grand scheme of things, Transformers just aren't that important. A decent toy and a pretty good cartoon, sure, but that's about it.

Not so with G.I. Joe. G.I. Joe matters, damn it.

G.I. Joe was an awesome toy, cartoon, and comic book, and a bad movie would be an affront to the childhood memories of anyone who was a kid in the 80s. And of course, by "kid," I mean "boy." Girls in the 80s completely wasted their childhood with crap like My Little Pony and Cabbage Patch Kids. You're more likely to find a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk than a woman who knows who Destro is. (But if you do find one, send her my way.)

So it's great to see this first picture of Snake Eyes, because A) It looks cool as fuck, and B) It's a sign that the filmmakers are taking the source material seriously and have respect for the characters, unlike Michael "Hey, you know what Optimus Prime needs? FLAMES!" Bay.

Fucking Michael Bay... I do love his Verizon Fios commercial, though. If he'd make more self-mocking commercials and fewer movies, we'd all be better off.

Why politics and sports don't mix

In yesterday's Express, local celebrities like The Junkies, Russ Parr, and DeShawn Stevenson, were asked to give their Final Four picks. For the most part, people seemed to take this job seriously. No one picked all number one seeds to go, which has been something of an irritating trend this year, and most of the rationales given for the picks made perfect sense.

But a couple of people did come into it with their own agendas.

Ben Olsen picked American to win the East, because he went there for one semester. Yeah, I don't get it, either. I went to my college for four years, and if they made it in the tournament, I wouldn't pick them to win the play-in game, much less, the entire region. For some strange reason, he also picked Maryland to win the South, even though they're not playing. (Oddly enough, though, despite not being in the tournament, they still have a better chance of making it to the Final Four than American does.)

Dave Alexander, owner of The Brickskeller, picked Georgetown to win the Midwest, claiming, "A complete no-brainer. Georgetown and the Brickskeller menu." The blatant homerism, I'll forgive, but the blatant grab at a free plug? Come on.

But the worst was Virginia governor Tim Kaine, who picked UNC to win their region, but said, "If they can get past a hot George Mason team, they should win the East."

Now, the day after Mason got their asses kicked by Notre Dame, this quote is twice as hilarious. But even yesterday, insinuating that George Mason was the only thing standing between UNC and the Final Four was a bit much. Yes, Mason beat them two years ago, but so what? The Wizards beat the Celtics twice this season. Does anyone think the Celtics have to "get past" the Wizards in the playoffs?

Most annoying, Kaine didn't even have the balls to stand behind his pandering to his constituents. If he's going to call Mason "hot" and imply they're a force to be reckoned with, he could at least go all the way and put them in the Final Four. But in the battle between his inner politician and his inner sports fan, the sports fan evidently won.

I suppose supporting the local team regardless of things like "odds" and "whether you actually give a damn" is one of those things you have to do as a politician, so voters can relate to you. This is why I'd make a lousy politician. I wouldn't have the time or patience to play these games. If I moved to St. Louis and eventually became mayor, and the Rams made it to the Super Bowl, and the mayor of the opposing team's city called up to make one of those stupid wagers that happen every year, I'd tell him the truth: "What the fuck do I care if the Rams win the Super Bowl? Find a fucking Rams fan and bet with him. Call me when the Redskins make it in."

Yeah, I'd lose the next election in a landslide, but at least I'd have my integrity.

Bracketology

Every year, I sit down to fill out my bracket, and every year, I think how clever and unpredictable I'll be, and that I'll have some sort of divine insight into the tournament that everyone else lacks, giving me the ability to discern odds, see patterns, and pick upsets that will not only win me the office pool, but all the great prizes being offered by various websites.

And every year, after I complete my first pass at the bracket, I'm furious to see that I've somehow managed to pick all four number one seeds to go to the Final Four.

For what it's worth, that's what Vegas thinks, too. But that can't possibly be right. How many tournaments have there been where the top seed triumphs virtually the entire way? Were I the paranoid type, I'd almost think the fix was in for select games, and certain people out there were trying to score a big payday when the Final Four ended up being all mid-majors.

So after careful contemplation, I redid my bracket and am now proud to say that I only have three one seeds going to the Final Four. North Carolina, Kansas, UCLA, and (hold onto your hats), a four seed in Pittsburgh. I know! A four! Quite the fucking limb I'm going out on.

The problem is, when you start second-guessing yourself, you end up picking upsets just for the sake of picking upsets. For some reason, I'm sorely tempted to go with seventh-seed West Virginia over UCLA in the Elite Eight. Am I doing this because I really think West Virginia has a good team and UCLA is vulnerable, or because I'm desperate not to have the exact same bracket as 90% of the country? Georgia over Xavier, Kansas State over USC, and Stanford over Texas are other upsets I'm considering.

But for now, my Final Four is North Carolina, Kansas, UCLA, and Pittsburgh. This will no doubt change, possibly multiple times, before tip-off tomorrow.

As for local schools, I have neither American or Mason making it past the first round, and Georgetown losing to USC. Sorry, D.C. No rioting in the street this year.

Responsible filmgoing

I did something this weekend I'm not particularly proud of, and in fact, am actually a bit alarmed about, as I can't help but think it's yet another indication that I'm getting older.

I'd been planning to see Doomsday ever since I first saw the trailer. I loved Neil Marshall's The Descent, and Doomsday looked like a fun throwback to 80s action movies like The Road Warrior or Escape From New York or some low-budget flick I saw on USA Up All Night (which, sadly, is how I spent a considerable number of Friday and Saturday nights when I was a teenager). Also, it features cannibalism, which is always an indication of excellence.

But by Saturday, early word of mouth was decidedly bad, and I started to have doubts. Did I really want to see the film now, or just wait for the DVD? So I did something I'd never done before. I actually checked reviews in order to make up my mind.

Now, I've read reviews before to decide whether or not to see a movie I didn't know much about. But before this weekend, I'd never, never, let reviews determine if I went to a film I'd already decided I was going to see.

Whatever happened to that laughing young daredevil who bravely ignored any and all negative buzz and went to films like Speed 2 or Battlefield Earth or House of the Dead or dozens of other really bad movies? For Christ's sake, I actually saw No Holds Barred in the theater when I was a kid. No Holds Barred. I should have gotten a Purple Heart for that one.

And were they a complete waste of time and money? Absolutely. Did each one gradually lower my IQ until I became the idiot I am today? Absolutely. But was I stronger for having seen them? Absolutely.

Yet now, here I was, reading Rotten Tomatoes, actually letting other people (not even people, really; film critics) decide for me whether or not I was going to see a movie. That's something old people do. That's something insecure, indecisive people do. What's next, am I going to start running my film choices by Arch Campbell each weekend? Beg for his approval? Oh, he'd like that, wouldn't you, Arch?

I ended up seeing Doomsday. At the time, it had a rating of 31% on Rotten Tomatoes, horrible by any real standard, but about what you'd expect for this sort of film. And it wasn't bad. It's definitely not great, but it's not bad. So does this validate my original desire to see the film, or my decision to check the reviews first? I fear I'll never know.

On the bright side, if this ranks as one of my biggest problems in life, I must be doing okay.

Terps fans suicide watch

If there's one thing that annoys me about sports fans, it's a sense of entitlement. A belief that because your team was great in the past, that somehow means that greatness can be taken for granted. That they should be immune from the lows that every sports team has to go through as a simple fact of life. That success in the regular season is just a given, and they might as well skip right to the playoffs.

Remember the first couple of years after Jordan left the Bulls? Chicago couldn't have been more shellshocked if a nuke had gone off in the city. Lakers fans were absolutely horrible a few years back, and still are to a degree, but the depressing post-Shaq era has lessened their natural proclivity towards obnoxiousness. Notre Dame fans last year? After one bad season, a good portion of the Fighting Irish Nation wanted Charlie Weis's head on a pike. Even George Mason fans were really uppity after their Final Four run, though last season certainly shut them up.

Naturally, in all of sports, Yankees fans have the most extreme sense of entitlement. But Red Sox fans are inching their way past them. It kind of makes you long for the days when Sox fans just had major persecution complexes, and went around whining about Babe Ruth and being cursed.

No, wait. That actually was more annoying.

Anyway, this brings us to the Maryland Terrapins. They sucked this year. Holy shit, did they suck. And they screwed the pooch in a major way last night against Boston College. Hey, it happens. But so far, just this morning alone, I've run into four Terps fans (two guys on the Metro, a coworker, and someone in line at Au Bon Pain) who seem ready to eat a bullet.

Why? I mean, I get the fact that the Terps won the tournament a few years ago, and after a wild night of overturning cars and setting stuff on fire, fans just assumed that the good times would never end. That's the nature of sports, that after one championship, people start throwing the words "repeat" or even "dynasty" around. But since the team has never come close to achieving that kind of success again, why are expectations so high?

I heard one of the guys on the Metro say, "Before the season, I really thought this was our year." Huh? Before the first game was played, this guy already had them winning the championship? Idiot.

It'd be nice if more sports fans were like D.C. fans. We've been so completely and systematically beaten down by the Redskins, Wizards, Capitals, and Nationals, that any sort of entitlement we might have felt at one time has been totally exorcised. At most, you might find a fan claiming that "we're due for one" or something. But that's less a case of entitlement, and more the plea of a broken human being desperate for validation that years of supporting a team haven't been in vain.

So, sorry, Terps fans, but you get no sympathy here. Just cheer your team on in the (snicker) NIT* and try to enjoy the off-season. Don't waste it starting petitions to get Gary Williams fired or launch into drunken dissertations about what the Terps "should have done" while watching the tournament at a bar. Just relax, and go into next season with no expectations whatsoever. You'll be so much happier that way.

* The NIT. Jesus Christ. Maybe the worst idea in the history of mankind. Losers don't deserve a post-season.

Neighborhood watch

As I was approaching my building last night, a guy stopped me and asked me whether or not I thought my neighborhood was safe. With lightning fast deductive reasoning, I quickly surmised he was one of two things:

1) A potential new resident performing due diligence on a neighborhood he was considering moving into.

2) A criminal warlord looking for unclaimed territory he could seize. (You know that scene in New Jack City, where Nino Brown and his gang take over the apartment building, turn it into a crack house, and threaten all the residents? For some reason, that kind of traumatized me as a teenager, even though in my entire comfortable, white, upper-middle class, suburban childhood, I'd been about as close to the projects as I had been to Narnia.)

Deciding the first possibility was the more likely one, I told him the truth. "Yes. But..."

I didn't go into any great detail. Because it really is a relatively safe neighborhood. But I didn't tell him about the time a car pulled in front of me and I got stared down by four guys who didn't seem to be able to decide whether to get out of the car, beat the shit out of me, and rob me, or shoot me from inside the car and rob my corpse. Fortunately, it was raining out, and they probably figured I wasn't worth wasting bullets on. Fighting the urge to do something obnoxious like smile and wave, I just sidestepped the car and got the hell out of there.

I didn't tell him that a couple times a month, the cops will pay a visit to the building across the street from mine. I try not to dwell on why they're there so often. I like to think that another cop lives there, and they just drop by to hang out and drink beer or play board games or whatever.

Instead, I said, "Yes. But..." and then just gave him some basic information about the neighborhood, and told him what anyone with any common sense already knows, that you need to be careful after dark.

So if he moves in (and from the expression on his face, I'm not sure he will. He was obviously hoping for a response more along the lines of, "This neighborhood? Totally safe! Why, I take a midnight stroll every single night, counting hundred dollar bills, and haven't had a single problem!"), and he gets stabbed, shot, or blown up, I might feel a twinge of guilt for not being more forthcoming.

Of course, my subconscious is already hard at work erasing his face from my memory, so if his picture eventually appears in the paper under the headline, "Man Shot By Four Suspects In Car!", I won't put two and two together.

And if by some chance he was a real-life Nino Brown, and the CMB kicks in my door and forces me to work in their drug ring, I guess I have no one to blame but myself for encouraging him to move in. God willing, Ice-T and Judd Nelson will be around to save me.

Power to the people

As I was running in Georgetown Saturday morning, I went by the protest outside of Jack Evans' home. Now, normally, I despise both protests and protesters. And it was pouring rain. But it was awesome.

Background information can be found here and here, but basically, a group of D.C. residents have the nerve to want to not be terrorized by some psycho preacher with a megaphone outside their homes every Saturday, which is oddly legal in D.C. Something or other to do with not wanting to stifle free speech, even though no one on the city council seemed overly concerned when Chief Ramsey was making a career out of it. Not until the lawsuits started rolling in, anyway.

After years of trying to get the council to do something, the residents almost got a bill passed that would limit amplified noise in residential neighborhoods. Then Jack Evans tabled it, apparently because he's one of those idiots who doesn't understand that "right to free speech" doesn't mean "right to be an obnoxious dick." Were there a bill that would formally outlaw yelling "fire" in a crowded theater, it's a safe bet Evans would kill that one, too.

Understandably annoyed, the residents took the only logical course of action possible, and stood outside his home at 7 AM Saturday and Sunday with a megaphone, protesting his decision at the highest volume allowed by law. Which, as I can attest to since I was about twenty feet away from them, is pretty fucking high.

Best of all, they actually had cops there to protect them from angry residents. You know, in case any of the pudgy attorneys, malnourished grad students, or octogenarians who populate Georgetown might try and start some shit. (I kid, but of course, you never know when a house there might be full of hungover frat boys or the odd resident actually inclined to pick a fight.) When I was there, a woman came out and briefly spoke with one of the officers. I have no idea what was said, but I like to think it was something sufficiently pompous and snooty, along the lines of, "Officer, I must insist you put a stop to this at once, and escort this riffraff back to wherever it is they come from. We simply don't do this sort of thing in Georgetown."

(Quick aside: Next time you're in the area, stroll by Evans' house at 3141 P Street, and explain to me why exactly the D.C. Council needed that raise they gave themselves last year. By Georgetown standards, it's a fucking mansion. Technically still a rowhouse, I guess. But a fucking mansion.)

Until Evans reverses his decision, these protests need to become a regular event. I guarantee that a few weeks of this, and he'll cave. He's too spineless not to. It's one thing to blow off a bunch of angry residents from across town, but his own neighbors are another matter. People don't plunk down a couple of million dollars for a home in Georgetown to be rudely awakened every Saturday and Sunday morning. Sooner or later, they're going to break out the torches and pitchforks and play the angry villagers to Evans' Dr. Frankenstein.

Plus, you know that Evans still clings to the quixotic fantasy that he might one day be mayor. So sooner or later, it'll probably occur to him that this is the sort of issue that could hurt him in his hypothetical mayoral election. (True, Marion Barry has a better chance of getting reelected mayor than he does, but no one tell Evans that.)

In a way, I almost think Evans did people a favor by prompting this reaction. We often take it for granted that politicians, especially those in D.C., will be completely useless in virtually every way possible. But when someone actually goes out of his way to screw people over, as Evans did, I believe it serves as a reminder that sometimes, politicians need to be smacked around.

This weekend's protests banged him up a little. A few more weeks of early morning megaphone sessions, and he'll be spitting blood and crying, "No Más!"

Hicks and the (Pentagon) City

There are a lot of places in and around D.C. where you don't want to be after dark, but among the worst is the Pentagon City food court. As anyone who goes there after 5 PM knows, it's ground zero for every visiting high school group looking for dinner. They're loud, they're obnoxious, and they're everywhere.

Last night's group of kids was no different, although they might as well have been from a third world country.

After stopping by the Borders across from the mall, I got to the Metro escalator just as a bus full of kids arrived. They quickly ran for the escalator and clogged it up, making it impossible to get by. So I had to ride down with them, which gave me the chance to actually observe them.

They all had thick southern accents, and one girl in front of me said, "Oh, my God, Jessica, this escalator is so huge!" (Only because of the accent, it came out, "Oh, mah God, JessiCUH, this escuhlator is so huuuge!")

First, I don't care how small of a town you come from. It's 2008. No one should be amazed by escalators. Even if your town is lacking buildings with escalators, surely, there have been enough movies and TV shows with them that you wouldn't be blown away when you actually see one in person. I've never actually seen a machine gun in person, but after seeing dozens upon dozens of action films, I doubt I'd be impressed if I did.

Second, as anyone who's ridden it knows, it isn't a huge escalator. It's of completely average size, if there is such a thing when it comes to escalators. Imagine if she'd gone to the Wheaton station. She probably would have had an aneurysm.

Once I got into the mall, the food court was filthy with kids, all clutching their meal vouchers and running from eatery to eatery. The line at Subway was especially long. From their excitement at the menu, you'd think they were dining at a four star restaurant. I've never heard anyone so jazzed at the prospect of a Subway Club.

Finally, as I headed back to the Metro with my sandwich, I had the bad timing to run into yet another wave of kids. As I did my best to weave around them, there was this one boy who was right in my way, just standing there. I was going to try and squeeze around him, when he noticed me and said really loudly, "Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry," and moved aside.

I started to give him a dirty look, because years of adult cynicism have taught me that no one actually means it when they call you "sir." So naturally, my immediate reaction was that he was being a wise ass. Then I realized he was actually sincere. Must be those southern manners you hear so much about.

"Son," I said to him, "you're never going to survive in the real world with that kind of attitude."

Okay, I didn't really. But I probably should have.

Pumping iron

About a month ago, I finally accepted the fact that glaring at my gut wouldn't make it go away, nor would saying mean things to it. No matter how nasty I was to it, it would just shrug and suggest going out to Five Guys, or remind me how awesome Z Pizza is. At lunchtime, I would suggest going to Subway, and it would say, "No. Quiznos." Every now and then, I would threaten it with a salad, but it knew I was just bluffing.

But I realized I needed to make a change, so I bit the bullet and started eating better, going running, and using the weight room. And it's been going pretty well. My endurance has improved, I'm starting to see results, and most importantly, I feel a lot better than I have in a long time.

However, as with all things in life, getting in shape would be a lot easier if people would just show the tiniest bit of consideration for others. And yes, by "others," I mostly mean "me."

- When treadmills are at a premium, people shouldn't be allowed to use them for walking. You don't need a treadmill to fucking walk. Walk outside. Walk in the hallways. Walk in circles around your apartment. But let people who want to run use the treadmills. In the very least, try power walking at a respectable speed. Don't just go for a casual stroll.

- When I took the mandatory health class in college, the instructor said that in her experience, a lot of women were afraid to lift weights for fear of getting too muscular. Maybe there's something to that, because I've seen several women in my building's weight room get on a machine, do a set of five or six reps using the lowest weight possible, sit there for ten minutes, do half a set more, and leave. At that point, you're basically lifting air. Why even bother? You're just taking up space. Buy a pair of 2 lb.dumbells and "work out" while watching Oprah.

- Why do some guys, after they finish up a set, feel the need to walk over to the mirror and examine themselves? It's not like you're going to see any real improvement after that brief workout. (Okay, I might have done this once, but that was different. I thought I saw a vein on my bicep and wanted to admire it while it lasted.)

- Under Armour sucks. Talk about false advertising. Sure, it keeps you warm, but when I put it on, my body looked nothing like this:

- This isn't really a complaint, but how is it I have yet to again run into the really attractive girl I saw my first week using the weight room, but I've seen the elderly grandmother in sweats about twenty times now?

- The C&O Canal in Georgetown is probably my favorite place to run on Saturday and Sunday mornings. But what's up with the shorts I see some men wearing? Porn stars and NBA players circa 1976 would blush at these shorts. People don't need to see that much pasty white thigh. I swear I've even seen some shorts with ruffles on them.

Maybe it's a Georgetown thing. Maybe once you achieve a certain station in life, things like modesty and masculinity go out the window. Regardless, I'm going to go ahead and declare any pair of men's shorts that don't go down to, say, a couple of inches above the knees, to be out of bounds.