Join the club

Today I'm welcoming two new blogs to my link list: Red Panda Zone, written by my friend Sadie, and Beat Incomplete, in which Tim attempts to blog about the song "Like A Virgin" EVERY SINGLE DAY. So far, so good. Check 'em out!

you can call me braceface

Rarely do I follow (because, rarely can I afford to follow) advice from the fashion mags, but I will take as gospel their rule on retro trends: if you wore it the first time, you're too old to wear it now. The downside of this rule is that I'm not crazy about being labeled "too old" for anything. Well, OK, I don't mind being too old to have my birthday party at McDonald's, and occasionally it can be a good excuse to get out of an unpleasant-sounding evening ("I'm too old to go to a GWAR show, but thanks for asking"), but I'm irked every time I see an ad for Gardasil and realize, I'm too old to be vaccinated against cervical cancer. Or read the subtitle on my friend Mary Ellen's column: "Career advice for twentysomethings." (God bless the person at the Post who took "advice for the under-30 crowd" off Carolyn Hax's column.)

The upside of that rule, of course, is that I have a perfectly valid reason not to fall victim to the hideous leggings virus that has infected America. (I've also spotted legwarmers on mannequins, but not on actual people. There seems to be an unspoken but ironclad stand being taken by the American public against allowing calf-enlarging tubes in cloying patterns to be forced upon us again.)

But I am making one exception, and sporting something I wore in the late '80s: braces.

A lot of things consipred to undo the painful orthodontia I was subjected to 20 years ago: my orthodontist's refusal to give me retainers because I was moving away; the sudden and inconvenient appearance of the wisdom teeth that he said would never be a problem; a bad genetic combination of wide teeth and a narrow jaw; age and time and loss of bone density and myriad other problems best described by people with DDS affixed to their names. And over the past two decades I slowly went from having straight teeth to not-so-straight teeth to an overbite and some crowding to teeth overlapping each other at weird angles to crossbites in two spots and constant headaches from TMJ caused by chewing on the right all the time.

A lot's changed since my first attempt at perfect teeth. Impressions now take about 30 seconds to set, down from 20 minutes. (I'm guessing that change was demanded by hygienists who were tired of being puked on [guilty].) The dental community woke up to the fact that wraparound bands, in addition to requiring four hours of sheer torture to apply, rotted peoples' teeth -- apparently not being able to brush anything but the tips for half a decade will do that. And some brilliant, blessed genius got the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was a less painful and obvious way to move teeth. A way that involved clear plastic trays, instead of bands and brackets and wires and rubber bands that shoot across the room when you try to talk to a cute guy.

So no, I don't have old-school braces. I have Invisalign. If you've ever had retainers, or used a night tooth-whitening system, you pretty much know how the trays (they're called aligners) look -- clear, hard plastic custom-molded to fit precisely onto my teeth. The magic is that they don't fit precisely -- they're a few millimeters off, so my teeth get pushed to fit into them. And every two weeks, after my teeth have moved enought to precisely fit into the aligner, I switch to a new one that pushes them a bit more.

I wear them all the time, except to eat. After six days, I've noticed a tiny bit of movement in my bottom teeth, along with a few unexpected benefits:
* Oral hygiene. I'm a sporadic flosser at best, and I've definitely been guilty of falling into bed exhausted without brushing my teeth. But now that popping my aligners onto unclean teeth means trapping the plaque and sugar and god knows what else on them for hours, I've become obsessive about brushing, flossing, mouthwash. And since I'm already doing all that every night, I might as well take off my makeup, too, and do a skin-care routine ...

* Weight loss. Of course I can snack. I just have to go to the bathroom, take out the aligners, clean them, eat the snack, go back to the bathroom, brush and floss, and put the aligners back in.

Needless to say, I haven't eaten between meals all week.

* Bad habits broken. For years I've tried to break my habit of picking and biting my cuticles, and worse, my lips. Nothing has worked -- until I snapped plastic trays over my teeth. I can't bite -- the trays get in the way. In six days, I'm about 90 percent cured of the habit. Invisalign: more effective than hypnosis!

In other news, today I've learned: Christmas trees were meant to be placed in their stand by two people. With an infinite amount of patience. Or one person with nine hands. Cats do not contribute anything to the process, except a pathetic meow when the tree topples onto them.

Next I'll trash a Motel 6

Saturday night, 7:30 p.m.: I mention to Cory that I'm heading to New York in the morning. She says, "You're really living the rock-star lifestyle lately."

Fast-forward 12 hours: I'm perched on a plastic chair at the Greyhound terminal that is called Union Station, but is not really in Union Station, it's about two blocks away, and they are the longest blocks in the world when the weather is bad, which it always is when I go to New York. Bloomberg should ban me from crossing any bridge onto Manhattan. I'm soaked from head to toe from the walk in the rain. I'm eating breakfast from the restaurant in the terminal, which used to be a Hardee's but at some point became a generic Greyhound cafeteria that sells a variety of food that sounds better than it actually is, and an astonishing lineup of packaged junk food. My breakfast consists of:

1) Greasy bacon and a just-barely-edible egg on a stale, greasy biscuit.

2) Lukewarm tea, from a Styrofoam cup. The cashier accidentally gave my tea to another customer, who brought it back, and the cashier threw it in the trash, and I said the tea was supposed to be mine, and she pondered the situation for a few seconds and said, "You know what? I'm going to make you a new one." That totally should be their slogan. Greyhound Food Service: We Don't Give You Food We Fished Out Of The Trash.

So I'm eating my hey-it's-food biscuit and drinking my not-from-the-garbage tea and hoping my jeans dry very soon and I remember Cory's comment, and I laugh and laugh. Out loud.

Which, in a Greyhound terminal, looks not out of place in the slightest.

Requiem for my curls

Of all the odd things that have ever happened to me -- and there've been quite a few -- one of the strangest happened in the aftermath of an ill-advised super-short haircut. I hated it instantly, and avoided mirrors until it started growing back.

At long last it was long enough to risk a trim, and not having learned my lesson about hasty hair decisions, I went to a mall salon whose only virtue was being close to the place I was housesitting. The stylist chatted away about the great lunch she'd just had, which included two margaritas.

So when she said "You have naturally curly hair!" I thought it was just the tequila talking.
Cause I wouldn't have spent a big chunk of the '80s with spiral-perm tubes piled on my head like Medusa's snakes if I had natural curls.

But a few weeks later, I couldn't deny it: she may have been drunk, and unable to cut straight, but she was right about the curls -- and all this happened just as every third woman in the country started wearing The Rachel.

So for a decade now, I've been plagued by curls that really aren't. There's a handful of ringlets, in odd spots, but most of my tresses are just ill-defined kinks and frizz. And that was BEFORE I moved from bone-dry Colorado to humidity-drenched D.C., where I found myself with two equally unfashionable options: spend an hour flat-ironing my hair every day, only to have my efforts mostly undone as soon as I stepped outside, or look like Roseanne Roseannadanna.

I'm sure you can guess which one I chose.

And then: light at the end of the tunnel. I met my friend Rachel for dinner during a downpour. I showed up looking like a Fraggle. Rachel showed up with sleek, shiny, perfectly straight hair -- exactly the way mine looked every day. For five seconds.

Her secret? Japanese straightening.

I've had my hair straightened before, and it never really took. If possible, it looked worse. But this is different -- special chemicals, not just perm solution, and at the step in a perm where the stylist puts in rollers, in Japanese straightening, the stylist straightens the hair with a tiny ceramic iron, in tiny sections, rather than just combing the solution through.

As you might guess, this is not cheap. Was it worth it to be rid of my curls? Oh yeah, you betcha.

Four hours and a few hundred dollars later, I'm back to being a straight-haired girl. It's been a week now, and I can't say enough how much I love my hair. It's super-soft, and shiny, and looks like I spent hours in a stylist's chair on a movie set, when really all I did was wash and comb it. I've spent maybe five minutes styling it all week. And it lasts until the hair grows back in, so I'm in the clear for a year.

Whoever invented this: arigato!

Uneasy lies the head that wears the plastic crown

Like straight-leg jeans and red wine, Halloween is something I usually like more in the abstract. I love the IDEA of dressing up in a clever yet sexy costume and going to parties with spiked cider and good candy (no hard, bland peanut butter things in orange and black waxed paper), but the cleverest costume I've ever had was devil horns with a blue dress -- an idea I stole from someone else -- and the party thing depends on someone actually HAVING said party.

So I usually find myself marking All Hallow's Eve by buying way too much good candy and hoping in vain for trick or treaters.

Tuesday, Melissa brought in a handful of 40-cent plastic tiaras, so half the women in the newsroom spent the day with tiaras shoved at odd angles into our hair. I really enjoyed mine, because the added height solved the problem of people not being able to see if I'm at my desk, and who hasn't wanted to be a princess?

I went out for a walk at lunch and quickly noticed I was getting a lot of second glances. At first I thought, these boots were TOTALLY worth $150. Then I remembered I was wearing a Barbie-Corvette-pink plastic tiara.

I suppose in other cities, this would be unremarkable. In New York, it's probably the least weird thing happening on any street at any given moment. In San Francisco, they're everyday attire (for the men, anyway). But D.C. is not really a city given to whimsy.

If you ever find yourself in that situation, tell yourself this: Tiaras are not for shrinking violets. You can't wear one while looking at the sidewalk and shrinking into your coat. Throw your shoulders back, look the world in the eye and work it.

Otherwise, you'll look ridiculous.

My laugh for the day

The brilliant Fuggers at Go Fug Yourself, whose level of snarkiness I can only pray to someday attain, have outdone themselves:

http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/go_fug_yourself/2006/11/the_fug_house.html

Yes, you're in the right place

I got bored with the black. Redesign time!

The obligatory Mark Foley post

I've been issued a summons by the blogosphere PD for failing to write about the October Surprise of the century. It's apparently required by law for everyone with a blog. So:

First off, the disclaimers: what Foley did was a horrible abuse of trust and power, and my deepest sympathies go out to his victims (and they are victims, whether they think they are or not).

The media has been all over this story, and rightfully so (note to my colleagues: THIS is our role in society. Not Jen-Brad-Angie, or round-the-clock coverage of missing girls who happen to be pretty, white and wealthy, or water-skiing squirrels. We're the watchdogs, and we bring people like Foley into the harsh light of truth and demand accountability, when we're not distracted by Anna Nicole Smith.) But the cynic in me has to ask an uncomfortable question:

Would the story be getting so much play if the pages had been girls?

Obviously, I can't speak for any of the many people at any publication who make news decisions. I can only observe that I heard a few comments, the first day, along the lines of "Oh, I didn't realize the page was male," said in a way that implied "Whoa, this is way bigger than I thought."

Next question: Would the GOP have reacted the same way if the pages had been girls?

And: would the Washington Times have turned so fiercely on Hastert, demanding his resigntation, if the pages had been girls? This is, after all, a paper whose editor in chief once lamented that Bob Packwood had been forced to resign, when all he did was "kissed a couple of women who might have otherwise gone unkissed."

On the one hand, it's strictly an academic point. The pages weren't girls, and plenty of lawmakers from both parties have been forced out -- either by Congress or by their constituents -- for inappropriate sexual conduct. But it goes to a deeper question about the values of the people who brought Foley's behavior to light and the people who forced him out.

If those people feel Foley was wrong because he was taking advantage of an underage person -- any person -- who was in a clearly subordinate position to him, then bravo. You exposed a pedophile and took him down.

But if those people's biggest problem with Foley's conduct is that it involved people of the same sex, that's not only homophobic. It's also misogynistic, because if it's somehow worse that boys were involved, then it has to be better if it had been girls. That's the way rating scales work.

Pedophilia is pedophilia, and rape is rape. There's no sliding scale that traumatizes female victims less.

To the comment boards!

Elitists R Us

One aftereffect of my Big Adventure this summer -- along with my obsession with using chopsticks -- arrived in the mail a few weeks ago. Seems my trans-Pacific flights had piqued the interest of Northwest Airlines' frequent-flier gods, who bumped me up to Silver Elite status.

My membership in frequent-flier clubs has always been a bit of a reach -- I don't fly that often, and most of my Northwest miles came from a promotion cooked up by marketing execs on a coke bender, wherein you could get 40,000 miles if you switched your long distance plan to Sprint. (Shortly after I signed up, the promotion came to the attention of sober officials at Northwest, who promptly ended it, because who gives out that kind of miles?) But since there are no sporadic-flier clubs, I do the FF thing. (Technically, due to some courtesy title confusion, my mom does the FF thing. But I digress.)

So it came about that I'm spending a sunny but cold Saturday afternoon in Minneapolis, sipping premium tea and noshing snickerdoodles in front of a fireplace, nestled into a leather chair chronicling my adventures in high society courtesy of free Wi-Fi. Yes, I have gained access to the WorldClubs lounge. No longer must I walk past these frosted-glass doors with their "Members Only" signs and wonder how the other half lives. I'm living it.

(I was going to write "in front of a roaring fire," until I realized that a: that's a tired cliche, and b: it's not roaring at all. It's either a gas fire enclosed in what looks like a flat-panel TV screen, or it's a flat-panel TV screen showing an endless video loop of a fire.)

And I got bumped to first class for my flight to Rapid City.

Oh, but there's always a catch, and here it is: my Silver Elite status -- the preboarding privileges, the free upgrades to first class, the lounge access -- is only good until February, unless I make two more flights before the end of the year.

Denver for Thanksgiving will be one. The other? I don't care. I'll fly anywhere. I'll fly to Baltimore, for pete's sake, and take MARC back home. (According to DCist, United at one time really did operate a scheduled flight between D.C. and Baltimore. Why on earth anyone would spend an hour in a security line instead of driving 35 miles is a mystery. Maybe they were trying to get elite qualifying segments.)

All I know is, I MUST figure out how to keep my Silver Elite card. I'm never going back!

Literally and figuratively, my workplace is falling apart

Literally: An unknown substance (water? urine? liquid nitrogen?) gushed through the library ceiling, frying a computer and two printers and forcing the librarians to evacuate. On the upside, some quick-thinking soul rescued the editorial fax machine, which stopped working in, oh, I'll be generous and say mid-2002.

Figuratively: For years I've been plotting to usurp my boss. And suddenly, it happened, although I don't think him taking a job in a different office qualifies as a coup on my part. I exchanged many, many e-mails with co-workers about what would be different with me in charge. And then, two weird things happened.

One, I found myself in charge. And I started freaking out. There's no one to backstop me now. The difference between order and chaos, success and failure, is me. Some moments, I feel ready. Other moments, I long for a job that involves nothing more complicated than filing.

Two, I made an astonishing discovery. After clashing with my boss repeatedly on every conceivable topic, I thought I'd be thrilled to see him go. But no: I realized he'd become my nemesis. And I need a nemesis. What would Holmes be without Moriarty? Superman without Lex Luthor? Seinfeld without Newman? How could this have happened? (Chuck Klosterman explains the nemesis thing far more eloquently here.)

Or, to botch another analogy, he's the Benson to my Stabler. And if you think I have that analogy backward, on account of genders, you don't know my bawling-over-"Beaches" boss. That might be the better analogy. We disagreed, often and sometimes volatilely, over tactics, ideologies, etc., but we made each other better. And I find myself kinda missing him. Unlike Benson, whom I don't miss at the moment.

(And, like Stabler, I'd really enjoy grabbing a few people by the lapels and shoving them into walls when talking just doesn't do the trick. Unlike Stabler, I'm fazed by the possibility of civil litigation.)

P.S. You think I'm joking about the urine thing? I wish I were. Sewage has leaked through our ceiling several times. Also used water from an improperly sealed shower. Yes, there's a shower on the floor above ours. No, I don't know why.

Nice try, dude

Stopped by the Ghetto Giant on the way home from work last night (it's a crummy, neglected store, hence the nickname; near, but different from, the Bang-Bang Giant, which had a recent shooting). I got in a line where the woman in front was just finishing paying; behind her was a woman with a teenage girl. I got behind them.

A guy carrying takeout containers came up behind me and said "Excuse me" (not polite excuse me, but you-made-me-miss-my-train-you-left-side-escalator-standing-jerk excuse me) and got in front of me. I assumed he was with the woman and the girl, and they'd decided once they got in line to get takeout and he ran back for it. So I let him through.

Then he tried to go around the woman. (Note: I would NOT have messed with this woman. Her motto probably is "large and in charge.") She put her hands on her hips, blocked him and said, with much sassy head-bobbing, "I don't THINK so."

Me: Is he with you?

Her: HELL no.

I gave him the shrug/upturned palms/raised eyebrows that are the international symbol for "What the hell?", and pointed behind me.

Shamed -- and rightfully so -- he slunk away to a different line. With no cutting, this time.

finally! photos!

It's by no means all my trip photos (I've gotta spring for the premium flickr site), but here are a few Australia pics to whet your appetite:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/16115534@N00/

update on trip photos

I FINALLY uploaded my photos into my laptop, and I have some great ones, including a shot of the Sydney Opera House that's postcard-worthy.

I totally intended to put them all in Flickr, caption them, e-mail them to people, etc. I did!

Cross my heart, my DSL has been down all week. As soon as Verizon gets the problem fixed, photos are my first priority.

perspective, thanks to a packed train

Lately I've been frustrated at work -- I feel like I'm carrying the whole paper on my shoulders some days. I'm constantly fixing misspelled headlines, glaring factual errors, horrid cutline writing, and a whole lot of Journalism 101 stuff that the editors I supervise should be catching, or not committing in the first place. Plus I'm stumbling onto duplicated stories, outdated stories, etc., mostly through dumb luck, and I start my week writing corrections for the problems that occured on my days off. I feel like I'm juggling a thousand balls and if I drop one, they'll all come tumbling down. I should be able to hand these balls off to the copy editors, but not only can a lot of them not juggle, but they're throwing more balls into the mix.

Anyway.

This morning, I was struggling to stay upright on a lurching, crowded train when I realized -- courtesy of a waft of cheap whiskey -- that the guy standing next to me was drunk. And from the looks of his nose (Karl Malden had nothing on this guy), being soused at 9 a.m. is probably an everyday occurence for him.

Perspective point one: I may have to remind my desk way too often to use spellcheck, but at least I don't supervise anyone who routinely shows up to work staggering drunk.

Perspective point two, courtesy of Stacy: I have my up and down days, but at least I don't hate my job so much that the only way to get through the day is to consume a box of Boone's Farm for breakfast.

If the neighbors want animals ...

... I have ground bees, they're welcome to those.

I'd never heard of ground bees, until Friday, when an exterminator came to tackle my ant problem. He informed me that a huge nest of angry yellow jackets is living in underground tunnels next to my back porch.

Suddenly, living at Hardy Barracks seems like a fun option.

Idiot neighbors abound

Clearing up some misconceptions on my part: the puppy turned out to be a) female and b) barking all the time because she was tied on a four-foot leash and largely ignored. I made friends with her by petting her. She seemed starved for attention, and I had a new friend.

Until two Saturdays ago.

I got up early and started mowing the lawn, and as I did I made two unpleasant discoveries. First, the neighbors' idea of what to do with the puppy on a 90-degree day was to tie her to the side steps, on the aforementioned way-too-short leash. They did give her food and water, thank goodness, but once the sun moved overhead, she wasn't in the shade anymore and couldn't get to shade. She just lay sadly on the porch, panting.

The second discovery was that their defenseless-animal-acquiring spree hadn't ended with the puppy -- they also got a kitten. You can imagine my joy.

Around 11 a.m. I watered my new azaleas, and offered the puppy a drink from the hose -- she shrank back in terror as though she thought I would hit her with it. I'll take Very Bad Signs for $200, Alex.

Around 1 p.m. I decided I would call the Humane Society if the puppy was still outside. I looked out to confirm that she was (and she was), and as I watched, one of the kids opened the door and the kitten made a break for it, probably realizing its life was heading downhill fast. The kid chased the kitten, grabbed it by the neck -- not the scruff of the neck, but underneath, in a choke hold, and threw it into the house. The poor cat flew about seven feet.

I was on the phone within seconds.

A few minutes after that I went to get something out of my car, and the other kid was preparing to walk the puppy on the four-foot leash. I'm no dog expert, but even I know that's not going to work. The puppy lit up when she saw me, and lunged for me, tail wagging. It broke my heart to walk back into my house and leave her there.

And that was the last time I saw her, or the kitten. I called a few days ago for an update and they told me the neighbors had surrendered both animals.

I was surprised -- that seems a bit drastic -- but apparently, faced with the choice of caring for the animals or giving them up, they chose to give them up.

The whole episode really pisses me off. Why get the animals in the first place? Animal control officer has got to be one of the most frustrating jobs there is. People adopt animals for stupid reasons, they refuse to take basic care of them, and they give them up for stupid reasons.

The scary thing is, a lot of those people also have kids.

Speaking of people who shouldn't have kids, Stacy has started a brilliant project to chronicle the misadventures of her neighbor, who recently (and frighteningly) became a father. Check out http://idiotneighbor.blogspot.com, which is way more fun than this post.

8 a.m., EDT

My next-door neighbors got a puppy while I was gone. He's a cute little thing, black, appears to be mixed breed. His hobbies include barking as well as barking, and in his spare time he enjoys barking.

If there's a master list somewhere of People Who Need A Dog Like They Need A Hole In The Head, surely these neighbors are near the top.

And on the other side of my house, Mr. King and I have a difference of opinion on the correct time of day to use a weed-whacker, with me being firmly in the Not At 7 a.m. camp.

Delayed reaction, or Russell Crowe is my neighbor

I wrote this while I was in Sydney, but never got around to posting it. I'm too lazy to write anything today, so I'll just toss you some leftovers:

When I was about 8, my parents announced their intention to spend their tax refund on a trip to Australia to see my mom’s longtime pen pal, Sandy, who lives in Melbourne. I was day-before-my-birthday-look-at-all-those-presents excited for it.

Then I came home one day to find our hideous striped sofa replaced by a hideous loveseat-recliner combo, and, to add insult to aesthetic injury, that the tax refund had been spent on the rust-and-orange horror.

I’ve been bitter about it ever since.

This week, I’m exorcising that childhood demon, as well as crossing off number 3 on my all-time Places To Visit list.

Upon arriving in Australia, my first action was that of any traveler setting foot in a land she’d waited two decades to see: laundry.

See, it turns out, there’s a few drawbacks to life in the lap of luxury – namely, you can’t do anything for yourself. Want to quickly spot-iron a shirt? You can’t! Housekeeping will be happy to take care of that for you, ma’am. (For $10.) Coin-op laundry is for the hoi polloi at Super 8. So the hoi polloi arrived in Sydney with no clean pants.

That chore out of the way, surely I headed into the outback or something, right? Uh, no, actually, I took a nap. Red-eye flights are great if you can sleep on planes. I can’t. Especially after eating a meal that was half a notch above MRE quality and that made me violently ill sometime in the netherworld of plane-night. A flight attendant gave me two red caplets in a blister pack with kanji and the word “forte.” That means “strong” in French, but Koreans have a habit of attaching random Western words to their advertising (the slogan for a popular Samsung cell phone is “Digital exciting”). Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, I took the pills, and they did help. Sort of.

Reason number 876 I’m glad I’m not a celebrity is that I tend to fall apart when I travel. Not mentally, but appearance-wise, I start out dressing for comfort and minimal stripping at security, and steadily deteriorate from there, getting grubbier and stringier-haired until I arrive looking like I slept in a dumpster. I’d be a regular fixture on worst-dressed and “don’t” lists.

My point is that I arrived in Sydney disheveled, exhausted, cold and nauseated, and Down Under was starting to feel like more of a hassle than an adventure. So: shower; sleep; get maintenance guy to fix heat in room. He’s the one who told me about Russell Crowe.

I took Lonely Planet’s advice and paid a little more for a room with a harbor view, and it was 100 percent worth it. As I write this, I’m looking out over downtown Sydney, and the harbor, and even in winter it’s breathtaking. Directly across from me is Finger Wharf, and at the end of the wharf is an apartment building whose penthouse is home to Gladiator Man himself. (And lest you think the maintenance guy was pulling my leg, LP also mentions this fact, as did this morning’s Sun-Herald, which breathlessly reported that Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan had tea there last week.) The penthouse is almost level with my room. I could make obscene gestures to him, but I’m not gonna. He probably couldn’t throw a cell phone (or mobile, as Aussies call them) this far, but I’m not taking any chances.

Wow, this post is really starting to ramble. Last topic, I promise.

I had an excellent dinner at the café adjoining the historic State Theater, and my stomach finally settled down. And then I watched “An Inconvenient Truth” at the Sydney Film Festival.

Holy. Cow. If you don’t get sick to your stomach seeing the disappearance of Lake Chad, or the rapid melting of Greenland, or the horrific projections of rising sea levels and subsequent flooding, then you’re … Bush, I guess.

Watch it. I’m serious. And remember it next time you vote.

It was interesting to watch a movie that inherently is about American politics surrounded by non-Americans. Hundreds of people packed the theater; I couldn’t tell how much that had to do with their interest in seeing a documentary starring an increasingly jowly former U.S. vice president, and how much had to do with it being a film festival selection, but I can’t imagine any showing at the Landmark E Street drawing that crowd. The Aussies laughed heartily when Gore took a jab at the current administration, and roared in angry disapproval when he mentioned that only two advanced nations haven’t signed the Kyoto Protocol – that would be, of course, the U.S. and Australia. Everyone heartily applauded the movie, and exited griping about John Howard.

Russell Crowe, Al Gore and bad airplane food, all in one post – where else but TFA are you gonna get that?

You guys ever hear of this thing called soccer?

Sydney is CRAZY today over football, as they call it. Last night, Australia's team scored its first World Cup victory in 32 years by beating Japan. Crazy thing is, that doesn't even send them to the second round of the playoffs -- I think they still have to play Brazil to move on, or hope Brazil ties or loses to another team. I don't really understand the terminology I've been hearing all around me today.

Last night I wanted to find a good place to watch the match, which started at 11 p.m. (of course, what better time to start a sporting event?), so I took the bus into the city and ended up at Circular Quay (pronounced key), which is sort of equivalent in DC to Union Station. Actually, it's probably equivalent in every U.S. city to Union Station -- they all seem to have one. Anyway, some firm had set up a giant TV screen and about 3,000 people jammed a square to watch the game. I watched for a while, but nothing happened, and I thought, see, this confirms what Americans think -- this is the second-most boring sport in the world. (Cricket being the first.)

Also it's winter here, and though the days have been warm, it gets darn cold after the sun goes down. So I went home.

Turns out, after I left, Japan scored, and then Australia scored three goals in the last 8 minutes to win. I'm kicking myself now for having left, and missed the crazy celebrating downtown, but who knew soccer could be interesting?

Today is my last day in Sydney -- I'm so sad! I've been trying to cram in as much as possible, both to get a good feel for the city and to write a travel article on how to see Sydney in two days. This morning I took the train to Bondi Beach, which surprisingly was only two stops away. The weather was gorgeous -- it must have been 70 degrees, but I don't know because I can never remember how to convert C to F. I rolled up my pant legs, waded in the surf and asked a hunky lifeguard to take my picture. Just as he did, a huge wave came up behind me and soaked me from the waist down. I sunned myself on some nearby rocks like a lizard for a while, trying to dry off, and realized going to the beach first thing had been a mistake -- I didn't want to leave. I finally dragged myself away, still looking like I'd declined to use the public toilets and paid a heavy price, but my pants eventually dried. After about 6 hours.

I had a vague plan to go to the zoo today, but since most of my time in Melbourne will be about animals -- I'm going to the aquarium and to an island where you can pet kangaroos, see koalas and watch a penguin parade -- I instead took a ferry across Sydney Harbor to a harborside shopping/dining/deck complex and just soaked up the sun. Yesterday was my big tourist day -- I went to the Opera House, took a bus tour of the city, etc. I'll write about all that later. Oh yeah, and I have a couple of posts I put on my laptop but haven't been able to get online to post yet -- Sydney isn't quite down with the WiFi revolution yet. (I don't have my laptop with me now, or I'd post them.)

Also today I picked up the gorgeous opal ring I bought yesterday. I'll post a picture, when I can recharge my camera battery.

I gotta plug my camera for a minute. It has a weird super-futuristic battery that makes the camera very small but also very expensive. I was reluctant, but the guy at the store talked me into it, and now I'm so glad. My last camera needed new AA batteries about every other day. I've been using this one for four weeks and the battery just started dying today. Fujifim Finepix. I highly recommend it.

Australians seem to have latched onto America's worst music. Everyplace I've gone, they've been playing '80s pop -- even the Queen Victoria Building, a super-upscale, sedate shopping center, had "Thriller" on its Muzak today. And there's no thought to matching song theme with store theme -- I ate in a steakhouse tonight that was playing disco. Huh?

Last night, for dinner, I wandered into a place advertising kangaroo pizza. Awesome! I was way psyched to try it, but they bait-switched me -- the pizza was gone, so instead I had panfried dory (the kind of fish Ellen DeGeneres voiced in "Finding Nemo). It was delish, but still I'm sad about the kangaroo pizza.

My Internet cafe hour is almost up, so I'll try to resume the blog tomorrow ...

Day 12: Hooray for happy accidents

My arrival in Korea was not auspicious -- I was supposed to be staying at the military-owned Dragon Hill Lodge, but despite three conversations in D.C. that went like "Are you sure I have lodging in Korea?" "Yes, definitely," they didn't have a reservation for me.

Tragically, the mixup has forced me to stay instead at the five-star Grand Hyatt Seoul. I'm in no mood to cast blame right now, mostly because I'm lounging in a fluffy robe and slippers on the pristine white down comforter blanketing the most comfortable bed ever.

I am never coming home, btw.

I've spent the past two days touring bases in Korea -- cool for me, but not too exciting for anybody reading this. Tomorrow, though, I get to tour the DMZ. So I should have more to write tomorrow. If I bother to get out of bed.

Day 11: Now live from Korea

First off I have to issue a clarification -- I spoke too soon regarding chopsticks. I tried to use them Monday at lunch with a Navy commander and failed miserably. (After boasting to everyone at the table that I'd mastered them.) And then I got to Korea yesterday, where they use thin metal chopsticks that cause hand cramps.

Before I start on Korea, I have to backtrack to Tokyo because I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT TO MENTION THE TOKYO ROCKABILLY CLUB!! Of all the craziness at Yoyogi Park, these guys were my favorite.

Picture: a half-dozen Japanese guys, with pompadours, sunglasses and outfits swiped from the T-birds' dressing room on the "Grease" set, strutting their coolest greaser moves as Japanese rockabilly blares from a very bad boombox. They also did some American songs, including a re-creation of the "Greased Lightning" dance number.

And they do this every Sunday.

You can see why I'm stunned I forgot to mention it. And why I totally want to live in Tokyo now.

Day 8: I've mastered chopsticks!

My inability to use chopsticks (hashi) has been a source of great amusement to my co-workers here. People kept trying to explain, and while I understood what they said, I couldn't put it into practice. It was like driving a stick shift -- I knew on paper how to do it, but the execution was disastrous.

And then, yesterday, we stopped for tapas and drinks, and suddenly I got them in the right position and everything people had told me just clicked. Bring on the sticky rice!

That triumph was just one small piece of an amazing day. Stacy, Sid, Geoffrey and a New Zealander named Mark took me to Yoyogi Park, where the goth teens and the harajuku girls hang out on Sundays. I'm hoping to have better Internet access in Korea, so I can post photos, because words simply cannot do justice to the bizarreness that is Yoyogi Park on a Sunday. People were roller-skating, playing soccer and frisbee, praticing martial arts, and walking little dogs. (Everyone here has little dogs.) Also they have a bunch of bands playing, all set up about 50 feet apart, so it's hard to tell what music is coming from what band. Some of them were quite good, especially the group wearing yellow Tony Orlando and Dawn costumes. And we passed an Australian guy who apparently had been bribed/cajoled/forced into singing with a Japanese band and was begging passing English-speakers to take over for him. (We left him in his misery.)

Then we had the aforementioned tapas and drinks. I got shochu (a kind of flavorless alcohol, kind of like vodka) in passionfruit juice. Yummy! I'm not accustomed to being drunk at 3 p.m., but hey, it's vacation, right?! (sort of)

Next up: Kiddy Land, a five-story tower of the strangest toys imaginable. Yes, I got some souvenirs. :)

After an hour or so of that, Mark was hungry again, so we headed to Shibuya for Indian food. And then Sid took me to Loft, a super-cool department store (thanks for the tip, Sharon!) where I bought the most awesome clock ever which absolutely will not fit in my luggage. I guess I'll just mail it to myself.

Mark's an interesting guy. He's lived in Japan for eight years, but has learned about as much Japanese as I have. He re-enlisted in the Australian military last year, and somehow left them with the impression he was fluent. So now he has a year to learn Japanese. He's taking lessons from Sarah, who I'll write about later (I have a lot to catch y'all up on!)

I'm off to Yokosuka Naval Base today ... I'll try to post tonight.

Totally lost track of days now

Hey blogosphere! Sorry I haven't posted in a while; too busy having crazy adventures.

I'm off to sample Japanese Denny's, and then to a baseball game, but I'll catch you up on the past couple of days tonight. Promise.

I haven't had a chance to upload my photos yet; it didn't occur to me not everyplace has Wi-Fi. I should have guessed that a place that has the word "Barracks" in its name wouldn't, though.

Day, um, 4? -- I could get used to this

This morning I enjoyed a traditional Japanese breakfast of ... Burger King.

Let me back up and explain ... one of the points of my trip (believe it or not, I really am here to work) is to see some of the bases we cover. So last night I rode with Stacy to Yokota Air Base, and got a first-hand look at her atrocious commute (housing for married DOD cvilians is at Yokota, about a 90-minute drive from our office). Geoffrey grilled steaks for dinner, and it almost felt like we were back at their former apartment in Arlington. Except for the crazy Japanese show on the TV.

I was put up in another DOD-owned hotel, Kanto Lodge. Unlike Hardy Barracks, which has a free continental breakfast, Kanto didn't offer food, so I had to forage on the base. At first I was supremely annoyed -- I didn't fly 15 hours to eat crummy American food -- but then I told myself that since I never eat BK at home, I could consider it foreign and exotic.

In the morning, Stacy took me on a tour of the base, which really is a self-contained small city, and then I met the base's public affairs officer.

I wasn't really sure what I was supposed to do -- I never meet people for work! Two days of meetings, that I understood perfectly. But it went fine (I think).

Irony: back home, I have to get up at 6 for work, and it takes a tremendous amount of willpower -- I'm always still tired and craving more sleep. Today, when I could have slept until noon, I was wide awake at 5:45, just like I have been every day so far.

It doesn't help that the sun comes up insanely early in Japan. I woke up at 4:45 my first night and it was broad daylight out.

So, I don't really have any adventures to report, but it was nice to relax last night. And to go to bed before midnight.

So much for sleep

I absolutely planned to go to bed after dinner last night -- until I found out it was also karaoke night.

Now, you just cannot go to Tokyo and not do karaoke. It's illegal. Or should be. So, even though I was about to fall face-first on the (very clean) pavement, I lumbered to the karaoke place. This was just like "Lost In Translation" -- you rent a room for 2 hours, and you get your own machine with thousands of songs, and all you can drink.

This was the source of much of my pre-trip stress -- what song would I sing? And would I horrify everyone with my lack of singing ability?

The second worry was a bit ameliorated on my first night here, when Tim asked anxiously "Are you a good singer?", and was visibly relieved when I said no. The first worry was exacerbated by the excessive songbook, and by the promise that Tony would stun us all with his rendition of "My Way."

The upshot: Tony did stun us (dude can flat-out sing); Sid did the Hammer dance; and my musical muse -- at least for the night -- was:

(I cannot escape this woman)

Britney.

Yeah, that's right. Stacy and I rocked "Toxic." You got a problem with that?

And did I go to bed after that? Oh no. Instead we headed to expat bar Geronimo, which is something like a rite of passage for Americans in Tokyo (at least Americans affiliated with Stripes). We were greeted by a paper sign on the door that said "Due to recent events, all professional rugby players are banned from Geronimo." (Now that sounds like a fun night. Too bad I missed it.)

Geronimo wasn't the coolest bar in the universe, but it does have a great view of Tokyo, and a wall of plaques with the names of people who've drunk a huge number of shots (I variously heard 17 and 19) in one sitting. Many of them are former Stripes employees.

Still not done ... we stopped at McDonald's on the way back to Hardy Barracks.

So at 1 a.m., I finally slept.

My new Japanese word of the day: juhachi-ban. It means "number 18", but it also means your karaoke song. I've gotta find a better juhachi-ban.

Day 2.75 -- jet lagged now

I am going to collapse.

But first I'm going out with all my Far East colleagues for a night of izikaya and all you can drink.

Day 2.5 -- still no jet lag!

Yesterday was a blast -- I had no work to do here, so Sam took me sight-seeing. We went to a shrine in Akasuka where you buy a fortune based on your age for 100 yen (about a dollar). Mine was good, but Sam's, not so much -- the last line was "Marriage and employment must be stopped." There are wires nearby where you tie bad fortunes, to wish them away, so Sam tied his. I kept mine. (I'll post photos on Flickr tomorrow.)

Then we went to investigate the orange Eiffel Tower, which is called Tokyo Tower (clever!). It's actually a very organized (and kitschy) tourist attraction -- for 700 yen you can take an elevator to the top (if you've ever ridden up the actual Eiffel Tower, you'd be amazed at how smooth and non-scary this ride is). There's an observation deck, where I got a sense of just how crowded Tokyo really is -- in many spots there's not a visible patch of ground, just an insanely dense and chaotic mass of buildings going every which way, as though they just built wherever they could find square footage. I wasn't able to see Mount Fuji -- too overcast -- but I did get a good look at the city.

Halfway down the tower are five floors of attractions, including a minor amusement park with rides for kids; a wax museum (admission was extra, so we skipped it); a Guinness Book of Records museum (bizarre, and we saw a kid getting his picture taken holding the shoe of the world's tallest man. The shoe was about two feet long. The best part was the ads, which were only in Japanese, so we were left to try to guess why the pictured items were record holders -- longest-eared dog? largest sport coat? gorilla with a TV where its face should be? -- because we also skipped that); a cool-looking restaurant with low tables and surrounded by curtains of rice strings; and a cafe that looked like a diner in the States.

We passed up the diner for a crepe stand outside -- the crepes were HUGE and yummy. I got ice cream and blueberry sauce, but if I'd been so inclined I could have gotten tuna with pizza sauce or scrambled eggs and curry. But I was not so inclined.

By the time we got back to Hardy Barracks the reporters were starting to arrive from all over Japan and Korea, and a bunch of us went to dinner at a place called Pizzakaya (if you read the last post, you learned the Japanese word izikaya; this is a play on words. It's really just a very good pizza place). We skipped the Japanese favorite of corn and mayonnaise and had more American choices like pepperoni and four cheese. Awesome pizza. Then we went to a tiny bar called The Cavern, which had framboise (yay!) and really does look like a cavern inside, minus the stalactites and stalagmites. The place could hold about 20 people. It was really laid-back and a good time.

Went to bed around midnight; woke up at 6. I'm amazed I'm functioning. We'll see how well I hold up in the day of meetings that is before me.

My Japanese word for the day: sumimasen (excuse me).

Konichiwa from Tokyo

I'm really here! It doesn't quite seem real yet ... or maybe that's just the jet lag talking.

The 15-hour flight was not the worst I've ever taken -- that would be the 10-hour flight from Frankfurt to Chicago with a broken tailbone -- and the food (remember food on planes?) wasn't half bad. And just around the time I started to think "I have to get off this plane, or I'm gonna pull a Jack Bauer," I saw on the little "you are here" screen that the plane was approaching the northernmost islands, so I didn't have to hijack it.

It probably won't surprise anyone to learn that the Japanese run the world's most efficient airport. Narita is spotless, the escalators and moving sidewalks are space-age smooth, I cleared quarantine, immigration and customs in 10 minutes, and my luggage was already on the carousel when I got to it. Airport managers of the world, take note ...

I walked out of the airport expecting to see something out of "Lost In Translation." But Narita is about 40 miles from downtown Tokyo, and the surrounding area looks nothing like Tokyo. Lined with trees and noise-abatement walls, the Kanto Expressway looks for all the world like any highway in Virginia -- except everyone's driving on the left. Then we drove through an industrial area containing the headquarters of nearly every electronic and automobile I've owned. We also passed two random, ginormous Ferris wheels (one, I was told, is the world's largest) and the Eiffel Tower (it's a radio tower, but it looks just like the one in Paris. Except it's orange.)

And then we were downtown, and that really does look like Tokyo. (Because, duh, it is.) I was surprised to see how many signs are in English -- it's very trendy here to use English, so it's pretty easy to figure out what most businesses are. (The fluency of the sign writers, however, varies wildly. One colleague saw a T-shirt that said "You broke my arm." My new mission in Tokyo is to find and purchase that shirt.)

I unpacked, did a little B&E of Stripes' Tokyo office -- which was empty -- and realized I had no idea where my co-workers were or how to contact them (my cell doesn't work here, and I'm quickly realizing how addicted to it I am), so I wandered back toward Hardy Barracks (a military owned housing/lodging/crash pad for drunken troops where I'm staying, and which conveniently is across a parking lot from the Tokyo office, so for the next 10 days I have a 15-second commute) thinking "I have nothing to do." Followed by, "You're in Tokyo. There are 10 million things to do on this block."

And then co-workers Tim and Sam spotted me, and rescued me from an evening of wandering around Tokyo lost.

Our plan was to eat dinner at a Brazilian restaurant, but the 90-minute wait deterred us, so instead we went to a place called Tangu, whose orange vinyl booths reminded me of a 70s-era generic IHOP. It's actually an izikaya -- a diner-like place that serves small plates of Japanese food. (Like tapas, but Japanese.) They thoughtfully provided an English menu with many (hopefully) inexact translations -- we passed on the "nuggets of chicken gristle," "big eyes tuna sashimi," "abdomen meat of bonito" and "delicately fried squid liver and all." What we did have: gozya (potstickers), shrimp with mayonnaise sauce, fried rice with crab meat, white asparagus, yakitori (chicken on skewers), and other things I couldn't begin to spell or describe. Tons of fun. Then we went to a bar in Shibuya called BYG, that boasts an amazing selection of music on vinyl and CD, and takes requests. I discovered umeshu -- plum wine that goes down nice and sweet. (This morning I discovered my head was stapled to the pillow.) We drank til midnight, telling stories about other nights of drinking (most of which ended in injuries).

And then I slept -- for the first time in 37 hours.

This is the thanks I get?

Before I leave, I've gotta clear one thing up.

Last week, I put myself on the line to defend the increasing indefensible Britney Spears. I probably was the only person in the blogosphere even remotely on her side in the wake of Babygate Part XXIV.

And what do I get in return?

This.

Your honor, I can no longer provide an adequate defense. I hereby withdraw.

Sayonara!

There are only so many calamities that one can have in the tiny, congressional representation-deprived, not-quite-diamond that is the District of Columbia. So I'm taking my act on the road -- to Japan, South Korea and Australia -- where language barriers, currency conversion and jet lag no doubt will ensure that hilarity will ensue. And if those don't do the trick, there's always karaoke.

I'll be posting as often as I can, and uploading my photos on Flickr; links to come.

Living up to low expectations

In a recent post, Stacy described me as "the calamity-prone goddess of D.C."

Yesterday I went out of my way to prove her right. At least the calamity part.

When I opened my front door last night, I heard a motor running. I thought at first my neighbor was mowing, but it got louder as I moved into the house. I followed the sound upstairs, slightly alarmed but mostly curious as to what the heck it could be.

As I climbed the stairs, I noticed it was a lot warmer upstairs than downstairs. Not just in a "heat rises" kind of way, but about 20 degrees warmer.

I followed the noise into the bathroom, where I discovered that the hook that so neatly held my hair dryer on the side of the vanity had fallen off, and improbably, somehow the hair dryer had gotten switched on as it plummeted to the floor.

I guess it had been on for hours, because it was about 90 degrees in the bathroom.

What I learned yesterday -- you can heat your house with hair dryers! Provided you don't mind the electric bills and the very real possibility of finding your home replaced by a pile of ashes.

I learn something new every day; it's not necessarily useful.

It's not blue

This morning, a guy in a suit offered me his seat on the train. (In five years of daily commuting, this has never happened.)

Maybe he's just old-school. Or maybe he's on board with John Kelly's attempt to return chivalry to Metro.

But, considering I was mistaken for an expectant mother last week while buying a shower gift at Babies 'R Expensive, I'm gonna dig out my "8-Minute Abs" video the minute I get home.

Sympathy for the she-devil

I never thought I'd find myself saying this, but ... I kinda feel sorry for Britney Spears right now.

Brit's back in the tabloids for nearly dropping Sean Preston while trying to fight her way through crowds of paparazzi in New York, her latest would-be-comical-if-it-didn't-involve-a-baby mishap.

I'm not even about to defend her for driving with the baby on her lap ... or not knowing how to use a car seat ... or marrying a loser ... or her entire career. (Although Nickel Creek's cover of "Toxic" is wicked cool.)

But ... as a fellow klutz, I can see myself being in this position. Not the being-chased-by-photogs part, but I manage to fall quite a bit on my own, even when not surrounded by a crazed mob. And if I was holding a baby during one of my clumsy spells, yeah, I can see potential catastrophe.

(Mental picture: Sharon reading this post in horror, yelling, "And I let that woman hold Harper! Never again!")

Being a trifle clumsy doesn't make her a bad mom.

Being pregnant again by KFed, however, does.

An open letter to people at my gym

Dear people who use/hang out at my gym:

1) Why do you work out in street clothes? I don't get it. It's not that you're wearing T-shirts and shorts that could do double duty as workout clothes; half of you are in sweaters and Timberlands. Were you just wandering through the mall and decided "Eh, I didn't really find anything I wanted at Old Navy, I guess I'll hit the gym to make my trip worthwhile"? The other day, I saw a woman wearing:
* extremely low-rise capri jeans
* five belts (none of which helped to hold up the jeans)
* at least 30 bracelets
* a tank top
* kitten-heel sandals
* granny panties that came up six inches above the top of her jeans

I wanted to ask her the two obvious questions:
a) Why would you wear that to run on a treadmill?
b) Why would you wear that?

I'm not saying you've gotta be in head-to-toe Foot Locker. I'm just saying it's a little weird to lift weights in a dress shirt and tie, is all.

2) As hangouts go, the gym is kinda lame, don't you agree? Everybody's all sweaty and looks bad, the lighting is garish, and at $45 a month, the cover's kinda steep. So if all you want to do is hook up, maybe the food court would be more fun. The seats there are more comfortable than the leg extension machines you're slouched on, and you won't get in fights every two minutes when people kick you off the equipment. No, really. I mean it. Leave. Now.

3) It's ludicruous that the gym doesn't provide towels, I hear ya, but pop in Target and buy a hand towel, would you? Having to wipe pools of your sweat off the equipment is just nasty.

And a few words for the management:
1) Buy some more increment weights. There's, what, two five-pound weights in the whole gym? And they're always in some bizarrely obscure spot -- yesterday I found them stacked like Jenga pieces on a scale. If tiny Bowie Athletic Club can afford increment weights for each machine, surely a huge fitness chain whose name rhymes with 'rallies' can spring for some.

2) Do something about #2 and #3 above. You maybe wouldn't have to lock people into decade-long contracts if they actually liked the gym.

3) What the heck do the trainers do? I've never seen them actually training anybody. I have seen them ignore people using equipment the wrong way, refusing to follow basic gym etiquette and overexerting themselves to the point of collapse. Worth mentioning, no?

I bring this up because I have a confession -- I cheated on you, Bally's. It started out innocently enough -- I was running an errand in Greenbelt and yes, we had a date that night, but there was a huge accident on Route 1 and since you close ridiculously early, I couldn't get there on time. So I went to Beltway Plaza, thinking the gym there was a Bally's, but no, it was Gold's Gym. (Maybe it used to be Bally's? I could have sworn it was a Bally's, but I was pretty emphatically proved wrong.) But I really wanted to work out. I needed it, Bally's, and you couldn't give it to me, so I got it from someone else. (Actually, I said to the guy at the desk, "Look, here's the situation -- I'm an idiot. I thought this was my gym. Can I get a one-day pass?")

And, oh, Gold's gave me what I wanted. There must have been 10 trainers on the floor, just talking to people and encouraging them (yes, believe it or not, just regular people who pay the membership fee. Talking to them!). It's actually open useful hours. And oh yeah, they have towels.

And so I sneaked in an illicit week at Gold's, thrilled by the clandestine nature of it all. The trainers showed me machines you never told me existed. (And for some reason, I burn more calories on their treadmills than on yours.)

I'm back, of course, because my free pass expired. But my eyes have been opened. I know I can do better. And once my crazy-long contract is up, you better believe I will.

You talkin' to ME? Well, are you?

Thanks to the brilliance that is Stacy, I've enabled the comments feature so that anyone can comment, not just people with Blogger accounts. Cause how elitist is that?

So, bring it.

Finally, a little something for the shoplifters

I hit H&M tonight after work; no reason, really, except that my gym plans were put on hold after I fell this morning while walking across F Street and hurt my ankle. I wasn't too injured to shop, though. And while standing in line for the fitting room (a very long line -- might I suggest not blocking half your fitting room doors with racks of rejected try-ons?) I noticed one of those absurd things that I so enjoy finding.

When you go into the fitting room, the attendant hangs a color-coded tag on the door to indicate how many items you have. Completely normal, but here's the weird thing -- the white tags have the number 0 on them.

Zero.

"Um, items? I didn't have any. I just, uh, came in to sit down for a minute. Cause it's kind of hot in here, specially when you're wearing five shirts and three pairs of pants."

Much as I love Gallery Place at 2 a.m. ...

DCist is beta testing possibly the best-ever use of text messaging (aside from whiling away the time in church). LastCall promises info on D.C. weather, movie times and concert listings, and lets you make restaurant reservations through Open Table -- all very cool. But I'm most excited about the feature that tells you Metro times. You just text METRO [NAME OF STATION], and you get the next train times, in both directions, from any station.

Oh, the possibilities! No more skidding, breathlessly, onto the platform only to see taillights fading into the tunnel! No more sinking of my heart as my bleary eyes take in the words "4 Rd Glenmont 17"! No more three-level sprint between the platforms at Fort Totten in a transit "Deal Or No Deal" (7 minutes til the next Red Line train? I'll take my chances on what's on the lower-level platform, Howie. Sorry, the Green Line train just left. Now let's watch as our contestant sprints up the escalator, weaves around plodders on the main level, and does another escaltor sprint before her 7 minutes are up!)

202-299-7949: it's already programmed into my phone.

Stupid cell phone tricks

I was walking down the escalator at Metro Center today when my phone rang. I'm not one of those people who stomps around D.C. with my phone glued to my ear, but I guessed -- correctly, it turns out -- that it was Debra answering the question I'd just left a message asking her, so I fished my phone out of my purse and promptly fumbled it. In an unbelievable sequence of events, the phone bounced down three steps, hit its edge on the edge of a step, flipped itself open, cartwheeled down two more steps and landed on its back, with the display screen cheerfully counting away the call time.

Damage: none, except maybe to Debra's ear.

LG camera phones are built Ford tough.

And I'm sure this story is being told at the dinner tables tonight of everyone who watched me chase the phone down the escalator.