What A Wonderful World

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					                         What A Wonderful World
Have you ever had one of those days? No I’m not talking about a bad day, or a rainy day,
or few merely undesirable circumstances when one’s emotional state was less than elated
euphoria. What I am asking is have you ever had a day whereby your whole existence is
one continuous seemingly infinite procession of really bad shit and just when you start to
tell yourself; “OK Well at least things can’t get any worse,” they become even more
miserable, faster than one could yell “TREASON” at Robert Hanson.

It all started with Bally’s Total Fitness calling me at a very early AM hour, I think it may
have been 8:00 or quarter after, apparently I am a few weeks late in paying my bill and
Bally’s thought this matter so urgent that they had to wake me up with an automated
recorded message instructing me to pay my bill. Never mind that here in Northern
Virginia the Bally’s conditions are so bad that the Fairfax County Health Department is
constantly closing the whirlpool or that a lot of the equip ment remains unfixed and idle
for eternity, Bally’s wakes me up to remind me to pay on time, the oxymoronical nature
of there “customer service” not withstanding. I have almost returned to sleep when the
phone rings and I run to it hoping it is one of the Congressional offices, which I have
recently interviewed with, it is my dream to return to working in Congress and make a
difference while I can. I answer hello and the person on the other end is saying something
in Spanish very fast, I tell him “Por favor Englais Senior” to which he replies “No
Englais Habla Espanol” When I prove incapable of conversing in Spanish the caller
becomes indignant and starts shouting at me in Spanish. Having made an honest effort to
try and understand him I give up and reply “YOU ARE IN AMERICA NOW HOMBRE.

Hoping for some good news I anxiously connect to the internet in the futile hope that
maybe one of the 40 prospective employers I’d stayed up all night tailoring my cover
letters and faxing resumes to might have e mailed me back suggesting a job interview. To
my chagrin there is a bunch of personal messages but only 2 job related e mails from
prospective employers, and even those two are just canned automated responses
stipulating that the position for which I applied has already been filled but of course they
will keep my resume in their “magical mirage” of files in case another position should
arise for which they may pass me over again in the future.

Well OK I am starting to feel a little bummed but no big deal cause I have had lots of
mornings start this horribly before so it takes a bunch of bad events to transcend my
normally desensitized demeanor. I first check on commodities prices to see how light
sweet crude futures are trading on the NYMEX and to my horror; they are down almost
$2 dollars a barrel for August contracts. Afraid that Iraq is going to resume pumping 3.5
million barrels a day I check Bloomberg energy news which confirms my fear.
Apparently the Russians successfully blocked a new UN security counsel sanctions
resolution and so Iraq will soon resume their crude production. Fearing the impact of the
collapse in crude prices on the oil services sector I check my brokerage account and sure
enough my beloved little oil drilling stocks have eroded faster than Congressman
Condit’s credibility inside the beltway. This wouldn’t normally be such an unfortunate
occurrence were it not for the fact that my stocks have fallen so much that I am
apparently in a margin call for $15,000 dollars and I may have to soon sell some stocks
way before it is time. After a few more illegal aliens calling with wrong numbers I
answer all of my personal e- mails and then send out more resumes and cover letters
applying for jobs the next 5 hours with out pausing for anything.

Sometime after 2:00 my lovely roommate and best friend Anna peaks her naturally curly
hair through my office door and enters with a stack of mail for me. Let’s see, I have half
dozen bills, junk mail galore, most of which is addressed to previous residents, and 4
separate professional looking letters, each of which is addressed to me. Out of those 4
letters, they all share one ominously dark common denominator; R – E – J – E – C – T – I
– O – N! What’s worse than all these rejections is that given all the individual effort
made to acquire these positions, the language contained in all four letters is so strikingly
similar and impersonal. “There was an unusually large number o f qualified applicants
and we chose a candidate whose qualifications best fit out needs at this time. We will
keep your resume “on file” should another position become available in the future, which
we feel best matches your qualifications. It does not matter whether the letter is from a
Senate office, a House office, a trade association or even a big law firm, the language of
the letter and it’s message sadly, all remains the same.

Being a bit depressed by the start of my day I tell myself “Hey it can’t get any worse, and
at least I am not living in Chechnya or the Gaza Strip” and I pack up my workout clothes
and head off to Bally’s for a high intensity workout. I figure after I jog 5 miles and do sit-
ups and weightlifting for 2 hours, I will feel as if I were on top of the world, and again
posses the positive attitude needed to prolong my futile job search for another day. I
open my car door and just as I turn the ignition key, the damn thing won’t start. It makes
this faint fleeting quail like sound and dies. Maybe a mallard hunter could make use of
the next sound my car makes as I hear some kind of quacking crank sound and she dies
again. After three of four attempts to start my car I realize the futility of this endeavor and
retire back to my residence.

The plan had been to workout for two hours, and then shower and change into dress
clothes before driving straight to Capitol Hill in time for dinner at 7:00 PM. Now it looks
like I won’t be driving anywhere with a dead car battery so I decide to stay at home for a
little while and then take the metro in to Capitol South where I meet my date later this

I take refuge in the world of international affairs, and after connecting to the Internet, I
read through a quick scan of the Cairo Times, Arabic news and Jerusalem Post, all of
which are running differing accounts of the same sad story; apparently the IDF has
assassinated three Palestinians in an attack helicopter ambush. Bad enough that these
three guys were killed, I fear the reciprocal reaction, these deaths may cause other
Palestinian militants to abandon the ceasefire, and start killing Israeli’s again.
 I scan through my mail once again and discover something that I had missed previously,
a hand written note from Congresswoman Patsy Mink instructing me to call her office
and schedule an interview to meet with her personally. Now this would be great news
were it not for the fact that I already had my interview with the Congresswoman the
previous week, during which she continuously reminded me that she had sent me this
damn letter, and that I had not called her to arrange the interview etc… The woman all
but implicitly implied that I was an unorganized idiot and had received the letter, but was
so mentally challenged that I did not grasp the importance of her letter and instead lost it.
And now at long last, our good old US Postal Service finally delivers this letter to me,
from Washington eight miles to my residence in Falls Church, over 10 days after the
Congresswoman sent it to me. I am certain that had I received this letter in a timely
fashion I would currently be a legislative assistant to the Congresswoman and would not
have the time to write this depressing story about how everything that could have gone
wrong and then some did so in one day.

A quick workout at the health club of my residence, quick shower, and I am off to catch
the metro orange line train to Capitol South. Unfortunately the first two trains do not even
stop for passengers, and instead whisk on by, leaving us all stra nded and confused,
huddled around like war torn refugees. After sweltering in the muggiest of all humidity
for 30 minutes the third east bound orange line train mercifully stops and lets all of us on.
Once inside the train we are packed in tighter than those brave South Vietnamese jammed
in on the last airlift out of Saigon before the VC took control.

Although I have never been in such cramped claustrophobic conditions previously, I am
reassured in the knowledge that the woman I am to meet soon, well she is the prettiest
damn thing I have met in quite some time in DC, plus I met her when I was sober and on
a scale of 1 to 10 she is at least an 11. As the train draws nearer to my destination I think
back to my last previous three platonic death dates and hope that history does not repeat
itself again. First there was Jenny, a sweet and pretty little thing, hot stick chick just the
way I like’m but she was just so insecure and emotionally unstable it was like constantly
walking on eggshells whenever I was with her or even when we would exchange e mails.
Then I think of Ginny; With her double PhD’s and mid 30’s she was a real smart, mature,
successful, and fun person to be around, plus not only was she hot but she loved foreign
affairs as much as I do and she could have been my first Asian. But after taking her out
for dinner and drinks she did not even possess the inclination for a goodnight kiss, and
then she never even called after telling me she would do so.

 Then there was Miss Parker, a girl from Brown who thought she wasn’t good enough
cause her co-worker’s went to more prestigious Ivy League colleges. I took her to a
Kennedy center concert and then my favorite Italian restaurant where the woman who
ripped my heart into a trillion pieces used to always take me back in the good old days, it
seemed like only yesterday before she became a distant embittered and sad memory. Miss
Parker at least admitted she was using me for a free dinner and then after dinner of
course, no drinks cause she is TIRED. She asks me to walk with her all the way from
Union Station to Eastern Market, and then in the end SHE BECOMES MORE TIRED.
Not even a thank you for dinner, no kiss not even a hug or a handshake or a ride to my
car, since I had just gone totally out of my way to walk her to a demographically
undesirable neighborhood. The moral of this experience is beware of Ivy League girls
who proclaim that they are tired!

 I snap out of this trancelike flashback just as the train conductor says CAPITOL
SOUTH. I am walking up the escalator stairs staring at my watch and I am only 10
minutes late, plus I have gotten this girl red carnations as well so just maybe this evening
will get off to a good start. When I first see my date standing atop the stairs she is even
more beautiful than I have remembered her, and she has the most perfect teeth smile I
have seen since the 84 Olympics at Sarajevo. I hand her the flowers and she says ohh
thanks, I suggest that we should cross the street here and she proceeds to walk in the
wrong direction, after getting her to walk to right way to the nice restaurant I am taking
her, she tells me with a level of enthusiasm which would make Al Gore seem exciting,
that she is TIRED. As we arrive at the restaurant I try to gently hold the door open for her
and she sort of cuts ahead of me and opens it herself, when we get to the top floor I rush
ahead and hold the door open for her and she walks through lifelessly as if she were Sean
Penn in “Dead Man Walking.” The manager of the restaurant recognizes me and ask s me
where have I been? That she has not seen me lately and wonders why? I tell her I’ve been
out of town and ask for my special private smoking room with the best view as well.
Unimpressed by my VIP treatment, my date lounges for her chair, as if terrified that I
may have been thinking of pulling it out for her.

Before we have even ordered our food my date manages to tell me that she is from
Harvard, easily offended, very militantly pro Native American, and the best part of all,
that she does not believe in any gender constructs. Now knowing that she was a TIRED
chick FROM AN IVY LEAGUE COLLEGE, an easily offended militant Indian feminist
who thinks all gender differences are socially conditioned constructs, I should have just
left right now, specially since she upgraded our date from a lunch to a dinner and I know
damn sure I’ll be stuck with the bill, but I try to stick it out. I ask her about life growing
up on the reservation and she tells me bitterly how she was unaccepted by her own people
and that the whites were much better to her than fellow Indians on the reservation who
regarded her as an inferior half breed. I ask her why she has so much contempt for the
whites if they treated you better than your own people and she launches into some
soliloquy rant about how the white man did this and that and how “my people” are
basically the worse thing since Genghis’ Kahn redefined humanity. Well I knew this date
was blown anyways, from the second I met her at the escalator and she told me she was
tired so I ask her about the Native American conception of human rights in the 1800’s,
about Indians owning slaves, barbaric cruelty and worse treatment of each other than the
white man who persecuted them, but she would have none of it. She adamantly insists
that the Indians were forced to war against each other, solely because of the greedy white
man’s westward expansion. She insists to have earned her degree at Harvard researching
this, as if that were irrefutably empirical proof of her flawed premise.

Now I wanted to tell her that her fellow Marxist and Harvard professor Colonel West
says the same kind of historical revisionism when he falsely claims that Africans were
treating each other just fine until the evil slave trading whites came to Africa, but at this
point I am content to just eat my food faster, and let her babble on mercilessly. The
restaurant’s manager can sense that I would rather be out with Mao Zae Dong at this
point, just from looking into my eyes, and she brings over the check, Ethel comments that
I left too much for a tip, that 25% is too much and when I ask her what she normally
leaves she says 10% God knows why but I ask her to drinks and she says she is tired and
has to go home. When I jokingly tease her in a lighthearted manner about 60 minutes and
that’s it? We really painted the town red didn’t we? She tells me that I am lucky to be
having dinner with her at all and I should have said well maybe if you were a little more
narcacisticly in love with yourself, you might have proved some of your bullshit feminist
equality by paying for half the check. But no, I am too much of a civilized sap and I don’t
even smoke cause she starts telling me how horrible her Asthma is. Looking into her
beautiful face as she tells me why the second amendment doesn’t really mean people
have a right to own a gun, I imagine a big balloon and the second she says another word
it just pops all at once. Funny how one can posses so much desirable on the surface and
yet so many non-endearing qualities lie just beneath that same deceptive exterior.

I walk her to the metro and as I see her safely to it’s entrance she says bye, I respond
“you are welcome for dinner” to which she coldly replies “thanks” as she sticks her fare
card in the green arrow of the turnstile I sarcastically shout “DON’T MENTION IT.”
And that is the last I shall ever see of Miss Ethel. Good Lord I really would rather have
taken Mao Zae Dong out for a night on the town, at least then I could have asked him
how he can so easily justify the murder of 20 million of his fellow countrymen. I’ve
always wanted to ask Chairman Mao that question and I am fairly certain he would make
for much more interesting conversation than my previous dinner companion.

I know I really should have cut my losses and called it a night but I figure “Hey things
can’t get any worse” and besides it’s only 8:15 and I still have at least three hours until
the metro stops running. Feeling more desperate and disparate than ever before I head for
the Hawke N Dove cause Monday night is intern night with domestic beer specials at the
Dove and I would rather enjoy renewing my old friendship with instant gratification. I am
just about to order a pitcher of Sam Adams when it dawns on me that there are like very
few chicks here, and it’s mostly men drinking cheap beer on expense accounts, and the
women well there sure as hell aint many here.

 I proceed to my favorite bar in Washington, POLITICKI. On Thursdays this place is
hopping with $1 buds and more chicks than Clinton and Condit can count, but this
Monday evening a quick scan of 3 floors only produces my bartender friends, so I chug a
green shot of God knows what (Ted’s Specialty for me) and proceed down Pennsylvania
to Capitol Lounge. I have just said hi to my big bald bouncer buddy when a ghost visits
me from my friend’s past. A woman with red hair who shall remain nameless had
previously experienced most congenial relations a certain friend of mine, and now
whenever she sees me she asks me have I seen him. OK my friend here aint exactly Mr.
Monogamy, but this woman is borderline psycho stalker and “bros before ho’s” as the old
saying goes. I quickly spin around and exit the lounge but she has spotted me and as she
comes to me I say; “ No I have not seen him, I think his Senator has him in his home state
for a few weeks.

With that I light up a Brazilian cigarette, I never can convince my bouncer buddy to take
up smoking, though it is not for lack of trying, as Sebastian would gladly verify. I walk
back up Pennsylvania Avenue dejected and disgusted for the second time tonight
wondering what will it take to break me of this most disastrous dry streak. Why am I so
effective at helping friends transcend these situations but stuck in a Dave Kingman like
slump where my own existence is concerned? Well since I don’t have conversations with
myself this question and others like it all fade harmlessly into the abyss as I board an
orange line train headed west bound, back to the safe tranquil suburbs of northern
Virginia, or so I thought at the time.

After several stops westbound on the orange line train it dawns on me what a truly
disastrous and most pathetic day has just transpired. I am of the opinion that I should just
go home and cut my losses when it occurs to me that I am almost 26 years old, single in
DC, wearing my contacts with a Bruce Willis buzz cut and it is in precisely this condition
historically which women have found me most attractive. So I jump out of the train at the
last possible second and exit from the Foggy Bottom metro stop. I figure at the very least
there is this bar called “Froggy Bottom” near the State Department and 3 years ago when
I was an intern I used to go there to drink cheap beer and meet chicks from GW
University. At this point I am just looking forward to drinking a few pitchers of fresh
brew when I arrive in the seedy basement of this bar and observe that the guy to girl ratio
is at least 10 to 1. Quite literally there are about 10 guys and only one doll so I order a
pitcher of Sierra Nevada and put my Altoids and Rothman’s on the table and begin my
solo consumption.

I am halfway into my first beer when an older black man with a hat and graying beard
appears and is warmly received by the entire inebriated proletariat. He steps toward me,
orders and rum and coke and I politely move the ashtray closer for his convenience. He
thanks me and introduces himself as James. Not one for segway Mr. James tells me
within 30 seconds about a time he was in ambush patrol in NAM and three of his buddies
got shot right in front of him. He tells me in amazement that one night on ambush patrol a
completely naked VC female appeared in the moonlight and everyone in his Platoon just
froze right away. Before anyone could do anything, she had pulled an AK-47 from
behind her back and shot three of his friend’s dead. When they returned fire on the
woman, bullets passed through her body at close range and took out a little pinky toe of
the tiny infant that the woman had been carrying on her back. This baby ended up being
adopted by one of the soldiers whose best friend had been killed by its mother, and
apparently, grew up in America to live happily ever after. After listening to a few more
amazing stories from the front line James tells me to quit calling him Sir because he
worked for a living. I explain to him that as a Southerner it was drilled into me as a sign
of respect and he tells me that as a Texan he appreciated my respectfulness. Well at this
point I am not sure if James is crazy or wise or both, but when I tell him how difficult it is
being a white man in America he asks me to say more. I explain how I worked in
Congress for two years and now I have been rejected for over 20 jobs in the last several
months and that if this so called “white skin privilege thing” exists, it damn sure aint
done shit for me!

He appears to admire my candor and starts to introduce me to everyone else in the bar as
a “great American” and future Congressman. James impresses upon me the need to
follow my heart and never give up, no matter what cause now “see they are testing you,
and they know that you had what it took to get hired in Congress, now that you’ve had a
hard run of it and nothing goin your way, this is your test, and you gotta show them what
your made of, hang in there, keep fightin, and you will be back up in Congress where you
belong.” I am unsure at this point who exactly the conspiratorial “they” are but I feel I am
sure of at least one thing, that this benevolent and complex vet is both crazy and wise at
the same time.

I buy Mr. James a pitcher and wonder whether or not he is homeless. He tells me that he
is an alcoholic and is very active volunteering as a mentor as he is retired and likes to
help people. When I ask him what his definition of an alcoholic is he replies, “ somebody
who get drunk 2 or 3 times a month.” I say, “James, Sir than what the hell does that make
me?” He says “well son that is a question which you gotta ask yoself” As one who
admittedly enjoys being drunk at least once or twice a week I wondered does this man
have a grasp on reality? Or perhaps maybe his perceptions are crystal clear and I am the
one who needs to be asking himself some tough sole searching questions. As much as I
am enjoying the esoteric, chain smoking, hard drinking, and patriotic nature of our
conversation I suddenly notice some attractive young blondes sitting in a booth directly
to my left. I ask James if he would mind if I spoke to one of the young ladies for a few
minutes, to which he enthusiastically responds;” Hell naw Scotty go git her!”

For some unknown reason I introduce myself in a slow southern draw, and the first
blonde on my right invites me to sit next to her, the bartender hands me my pitcher and I
fill up her cup. She thanks me and I ask her if she is a GW student, she tells me she has
graduated and 5 minutes later I am talking in an Irish accent and I lean in to kiss her. A
most passionate kiss, which ends abruptly when one of her girlfriends approaches out
table and asks so who is this mystery make out man? She tells him that I am “some cute
Irish guy” whom she just met and I say “No I’m not from Ireland darlin.” She says what
about your accent?” to which I respond in my best Tone Loc impression; “Well damn
baby if I said I had it going on, cause we doing the wild thing, would think I’m tone loc
baby?” She gives me a look reminiscent of Ralph Nader wanting to return a product
which is not what he thought he was buying and a few minutes later when I ask for her
phone number she replies; “Sorry I can’t see you I have a boyfriend.” To which I reply,
“Oh I get it now darlin, only Irish men can chat you up and make ya forget about your
man. Such loyalty and devotion in a women is rare enough indeed. Top O the Morning to
Ya, I’m gonna river dance me way to the metro station.” And with that I said good bye to
James, who had been watching the whole thing from afar, and ran straight to the metro
station, only when I arrived there was a rather large black man smoking a cigar who
gleefully informed me that the last train just left 2 minutes a go, you just missed it. Well I
could despair or waste money, I don’t have the $40 for a cab ride to northern Virginia,
but the bar should be open till 2:00 and then the metro opens up at 5:40 so it’s back to the

Mr. James recognizes me instantaneously, and he says, “don’t worry Scotty I’ll look out
for you” and with that I headed back to the bar for one last pitcher. James tells everyone
in the room that I am great with impressions so of course the first one I do is an Irishman,
followed by Tone Loc, and then my favorite Hulk Hogan. Folks suddenly applaud and
then James and I sit down to drink my pitcher of beer. He tells me I am the funniest
person he has met since Bill Murray and have the most people skills and political
potential of anyone since he first met Bill Clinton, when he was running for governor on
the 70’s. I tell him thanks but I am neither Canadian or corrupt but I think I get his point.
We finish our beer and head out of the bar, departing before the bouncers descend to do
there plebian duties. James and I have the most humorous conversation near the George
Washington university hospital, and when I point out that our fellow inebriated bar
patrons are looking at us as if we were gay, this makes the moment even more humorous.

We walk to a park and smoke some of my English Dunhills and within a few moments
we are encountered by some transients who ask us for smokes, I give each one an English
dunhill on the condition that they take a moment to first sniff and savor this wonderful
tobacco because this is the best tasting cigarette in the world and I want you all to enjoy
it. 5 minutes later when they all predictably ask me for more cigarettes, I remind them of
the second condition, which was that they had to promise to stop asking me for cigarettes.
After they realize that this overdressed white boy aint givin out no mo freebies, the
transient train leaves the station, or at least this park. A short time later we are joined by
an exhausted looking Mexican fellow who falls asleep on the grass. James and I sit in the
grass and ask him if hi is OK. He responds that he has traveled all the way here from
Jalisco province, crossed the border to try and find work so he can send some money to
his wife and family back in Mexico. I feel badly for him so when he asks me for a
cigarette I say yes of course amigo, of course. Having apparently gravely misread my
generosity, after finishing the Dunhill he then asks me for a blowjob. I politely say hell
no amigo, I do not bat for the Yankees, only the home team. As James and I walk away
from him, he shouts after me that he is not gay, he only wants a blowjob. James and I
head for the hills, faster than my fellow democrats finally deserted Clinton during the
March Rich pardon scandals.

Having exhausted my English cigarette supply on freeloading strangers I buy another
pack of Dunhills at a gas station for $4.75 cents. What I am amazed by is that apparently
it costs the exact same price for a pack of Marlboros or Newports but nobody notices or
cares that these Dunhills always price for 3 or 4 dollars more than domestic American
brands. Well its nice to know that if I ever miss the metro again and live with the other
half for a homeless evening on the street in DC, I can take comfort and find solace in the
best tasting immaculate, imported English cigarettes in the world at domestic prices.

James and I end up discussing the state of race relations in America with a black attorney
who is filling up his Mercedes with 93-octane gasoline. I remark that he sounds whiter
than me, and that I am a “prejudiced white man.” The lawyer tells us that he gets that
allot, because of his profession he has to speak proper English and so his own people
accuse him of being “a white sellout” just because is successful at his job. I ask him how
can we break the stigma of cultural pathologies which plague the black community, such
as looking upon success and achievement as being only “for white sellouts.” The young
attorney stares into me for a moment with a solemn face, and then bursts out laughing
and says it will never happen, but you know “for a prejudiced white man you sure been
around a lot of black folks.” I ask him how does he know this to be certain and he tells
me that I am honest and naturally at ease around black people, and that is how he knows I
down with black people. “Well I get that a lot, it’s just that I am naturally comfortable
with ALL PEOPLE no matter who they are black, gay, foreigners and even illegal aliens,
as long as they don’t want ask be to give them a blowjob.” With this James bursts into
hysterical laughter and explains to the Yuppie lawyer fellow that I am the closest thing to
Clinton that he has ever seen.

We say goodbye to the lawyer guy and proceed to the parking lot where we sit on the
front hood of a temporarily decommissioned vehicle talking about philosophy and
foreign policy while chain smoking filter less Lucky Strikes and drinking Cocoa Cola.
I wonder why this fellow is hanging out with me unless he too is homeless, when I ask
him where is his residence he points to some diagonal location and says it’s about a mile
down there. At which point it dawns on me that he is either really lying or just a lonely
old man who finds me funny and enjoyable to hang out with.

James tells me that there is only one hour left till I can take the metro train back to the
“safe white suburbs of Northern Virginia” and I reply that I am rather enjoying our
evening hanging out and am not really routing for the time to fly. Sometimes you can
learn a lot more about people and life if you take the road less traveled, and replies well
that is damn sure what you are doing tonight Scotty, damn sure!

We begin to walk to Dupont Circle metro and there begins to break a little inkling of light
above to towering downtown buildings where some commuters are probably headed, but
just now starting to wake up, and contemplating their morning traffic jam crawl at a
snail’s pace, moving slower than a Kenn Starr investigation.

James and I arrive at Dupont Circle Park with little fanfare, as those poor folks who are
camped out have formed some sort of circle far away from us in the center of the park. I
remark to James to its amazing how anyone can sleep in the middle of all of this, and he
replies Scotty if you had half as much crack as those folks did, you would be passed out
like a light too. I say no offense James, but let’s not test out your hypothesis.

James and I agree that Ho Chi Minh probably would have won a free and fair election
had corrupt Diem kept his promise and allowed them to take place, but we still think that
the bad guys won Vietnam, and that the one cardinal sin which the political left has never
atoned for in this nation is the horribly shameful treatment of the very same soldier’s the
anti-war people claimed they were trying to protect all along.
Just when he has asked me to do more impression’s and I am in the middle of Digital
Undergrounds “Humpty Dance” a black man approaches out of nowhere and says Hi to
James. James introduces me to “Tony” whom I gather is the local black market
entrepreneur / drug dealer and this is confirmed within a few minutes when Tony asks me
if I want to buy $50 worth of weed but I politely decline this offer. Tony the drug dealer,
James and I go back to my humorous standup routine and after a little while I figure why
not by some pot. I mean I enjoy it once in a while and my two best sources of it, I will
never let back in my life again, so it’s not like I have the chance very often, what the hell

 I think all of this to myself and figure why not have a little silver lining from an
otherwise most miserable day. Well sure enough Tony the drug dealer is amendable, and
even offers to get rid of a $100 bag of weed so he can go home and call it a night. I am
elated thinking that I will be able to entertain for at least a year now with a cannabis
supply this big, good grief that is a whole lot of weed for one who only does it once in a
great while. About this time a gigantic gay Indian appears and tries to sell me a $10 hit of
crack, I tell him that I gave up crack for lent but when he reminds me that lent is over I
confess that I don’t mess with that shit cause I want to live long enough to dye from
smoking, the old fashioned way, when men weren’t afraid to get cancer.

So Tony the drug dealer and I agree that I will by him a carton of newports in exchange
for $100 worth of Marijuana. At the last minute he tries to get me to by 2 cartons even
though we had previously agreed on one, and it should have been precisely at this
moment when I should have been suspicious and remembered my many previous and
disastrious experiences trusting black men, all of which end up with me as Charlie Brown
and them as Lucy pulling the football. So I come out with a carton of newports and he
first says, “I said two” to which I respond, “We agreed one and my checking account
would have bounced if I had charged two.” He instructs me to wait over by the bench and
I hand him a carton of Newports. First I think, what am I stupid? I just trusted a black
man with over $40 in merchandise and I’m gonna have to beat his punk ass just to get it
back. Then as he walks back to me, I begin to think, “Oh wow I am such a horribly racist
person, here I stereotyped this nice black drug dealer and see I was wrong, he is coming
right back to me and hey wait a minute.” I ask Tony where is he going and he pauses,
looks me right in the eye and responds, “I’ll be right back.” As he slowly walks around
Dupont Circle I ask the gigantic gay Indian on my left; “Tell me I am going to see him
again with my weed.” And he responds, oh yeah, there goes Tony right now, he is right
there…. I look around for Mr. James and realize that he is longer with us. Did he slip way
with Tony or just get tired of waiting for me to charge the cigarnoooooooo that fucker
slipped away with Tony I just know it. No Mr. James, No Tony, no anybody except for
silent gigantic gay crack head Indian. It is suddenly more intensely silent than the
unanimous laryngitis, which could be heard emanating from feminist camps d uring Paula
Jones, Lewinsky, Kathleen Willey and Juanita Broderick, damn it is just deafening!!!

After about one minute I am overcome with the certainty that I have just had another
brother pull the football out from under me once again. DAMN!!! I knew I should not
have trusted a black man again I just fucking knew it. Equality my ass you just can’t trust
those fuckers cause they will screw you faster than Gary Condit on meet the interns

I run after him so fast that Carl Lewis would have been passed, damn no sign of Tony
anywhere. Thinking quickly I ask the gigantic gay crack head Indian to be my ghetto tour
guide and take me to wherever Tony is, just help me find him I ask, I would be most
appreciative and I really need your help. The gigantic gay crack head Indian guy tells me
that they will go after his ass if he takes me to them and I say what’s right is right and
that punkmotherfucker just messed with the wrong suburban white boy tonight. Still
reminding me that he would be in great danger by trying to help me find Tony, I tell the
GGCI that I’ll give him $5 bucks if we find Tony, in a heartbeat he says, “follow me” and
the search is on.

The GGCI says he thinks he knows where Tony would be and as we run down the less
affluent streets of DC he says to me how come you want to go after Tony? I tell him
cause what’s right is right and his gonna give me my shit or I will fuck him up! The
GGCI says that he is “very proud of me.” When I ask for what he says that Tony rips off
“white boys from Virginia” all the time, that he has been doing it for years and that they
usually get scared and never have gone after him. I say fuck that! This guy picked the
wrong cracker to fuck with cause this is PERSONAL!

We approach our first cluster of street dealers and the GGCI advises me not to say
anything, so I am quiet at first but when the brothers start asking the GGCI why he is so
curious and “who is the white boy” I respond “This white boy just got ganked by Tony
for $42.96 and he just picked the wrong cracker to fuck with cause I will find his punk
ass if it is the last thing I ever fucking do.” The Negro drug dealers stop bothering GGCI
and tell me I have balls, I say no shit would I be here in the hood if I didn’t have brass

I addressee the drug dealers in a more calm demeanor now, and they assure me that they
will personally tell Tony when they see him that “that crazy cracker came looking for
him and he aint gonna let up till he get justice.” They say are you really crazy enough to
come out here from your nice suburban place in Virginia over $40.00? I look at all the
black drug dealers man to man, then I smile and say “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE!!!”

My ghetto tour guide informs me that many of those drug dealers probably don’t like
Tony any more than I do since he has probably tried to screw them over before to. I guess
one key difference between ghetto thug drug dealers and Merryl Lynch financial analysts
is that when Merrill’s analysts screw you out of your money, they get a promotion when
a black drug dealer does it he gets thrown in jail, shot, or worse; a crazy white boy named
Scott comes looking for JUSTICE!!!

We duck through some kind of run down projects, down and alley, past some building
which would make Beirut look like an empowerment zone, and then to a playground,
where there are about a dozen or so black women sitting on a swing set smoking crack at
7:00 AM in the morning. GGCI says have any of you seen Tony, and out of nowhere two
other black drug dealers emerge and they say they have not seen in a long time and would
we like to buy some shit from them. After I patiently explain to them that this fucker
screwed me out of $42.96 cents and that I am going to come down on his ass like
Michael Douglas in falling down, their only response is “but what about right now” to
which I reply “Right now I am going to find his punk ass and get Justice, and that is the
only RIGHT NOW which I am gonna deal with!

 GGCI and I make are way into the playground and I am suddenly mobbed my legions of
black female crack heads for money, smokes, or god knows what else. I explain to them
about Tony and there only response is “dat between him and you, we aint got nothing do
with it.” “I say haah that’s where you are wrong! See I don’t make it out here into the
community very often but when I do I don’t screw nobody over see, and this Tony, that’s
what he did to me, and I kind of take it personal cause he is assuming just cause I’m a
white boy from the suburbs, that I am gonna let his punkass screw me out of my money
and not do what I gotta do to get justice.” What you guys can do for me is when you see
his punkass tell him the crazy cracker he screwed out of $40.00 is gonna find him, and
aint gonna stop till he gets his shit straight. One of the crack head women shouts out till
you get JUSTICE! I said; you damn right, and with that I passed out some great tasting
English dunhills to people who must be so high on crack that a Monarch or GPC cigarette
would have tasted the same.

GGCI compliments me on the “standup job” I did talking to the “crack head sisters” and
asks me how the $@#$@# did I pull that off, I tell him that we aint found Tony so I aint
pulled nothing off yet.

We search through more horrible neighborhoods so backwards, dangerous, and generally
disastrous that some of my liberal friends should seriously have their heads examined for
refusing to practice “white flight” to the suburbs. How any one can live like this? Fences
ripped? Big ass attack dogs, broken glass, pipes and needles in the street, gang graffiti
everywhere, people with no respect for their own existence much less anyone else’s. I
fear I have just experienced an up close glimpse of the failed policies of The Great
Society program, in reality a great leap backward.

After going through every godawefull street, crack house, playground, pimp, crack heads,
and street dealer in a near 5 mile area I tell my “Gigantic Gay Crack-Head Indian Ghetto
Tourgide” that he is relieved of his duties for the evening, and ask him just out of
curiosity, how did he get mixed up with crack, and where does he live, he says he lives in
a nice home in Rockville, MD and that he just comes in for the clubs and then stays cause
it is just some shit to do. I said my god man, you have nice place to live in Rockville, and
you are a ghetto commuter just for the fuck of it? He said “that’s it exactly man just for
the fuck of it!”

I buy him breakfast at McDonald’s cause of course he’s spent all his money on crack and
give him a few dollars so he can take the train home. GGCI sure earned his breakfast and
now he can get home back to his safe suburban neighborhood as well. I stare into the
faceless lifeless anonymous abyss on the red line of morning commuters going to there
jobs, and these people look like they have all overdosed on sedatives so much that the life
is drained from there faces. It was as if a trainload of zombies had escaped from a
Frankenstein movie and I am the Bella Lagosie of the night, about to go to bed now that
the sun is light.

Once back at my apartment complex I have forgotten my security access code to gain
entry into my building and so I climb the wall fence rail and pull myself up and over,
then slide open the glass door on my balcony with the ease of an undetected cat burglar.
After the night I’ve had this is a piece of cake. Well at least now, things can’t get any
worse… WRONG… I brush my teeth and then make the mistake of checking my voice
mailbox messages. There is another automated reminder from Bally’s, two female chiefs
of staffs from members of Congress called, telling me they have my resume and not to
call them, that they will call me if they wish to interview me, and a margin call from
Ameritrade for $15,000.

I retire to my room, turn on CNN, and change out of my dress clothes into boxers and a
tank top. I’ve just snuggled into bed and lit one last cigarette when I hear that Palestinians
have shot and killed three Israeli settlers, sometime while I was exploring the less
traveled path of DC’s urban communities. Looks like my earlier fears about the
breakdown of the ceasefire have come to fruition. I extinguish my cigarette, pull the
covers over my head, and hide underneath my pillow. As I drift to sleep the last words
which I hear are those of Slobodan Milosevic, defiantly refusing to recognize the
authority of a Judge in the Hague War Crimes Tribunal. And I say to myself, “What A
Wonderful World!”

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