Elba, Pennsylvania

It turns out Ol' Dutch was right. The economy does trickle down after all. We have all become recipients of the trickling. You see, some years ago, a brilliant group of investment bankers and financiers in Lower Manhattan invented a series of complex equations designed to capitalize on risky lending. Subsequently, some Math happened. As we have all learned, Math has consequences. For me, the consequence of Math was the inability to find gainful employment, resulting in a one-way ticket to the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

I am 28 years old.

I am a lawyer.

I now live with Mom.

Thus begins my temporary (indefinite?) exile from my transplanted home in Washington, D.C., the city I have grown to both passionately love and despise. I'm a politico. The bulk of my friends are in D.C. I can't practice law anywhere but in Maryland. Not living in D.C. is difficult for a guy whose blog is titled "The D.C. Diaries". Difficulty aside, mindful self-reflection is often thought to be the best medicine for what ails us. The enlightened response to my exile would be to settle into serenity and allow the currents of life to carry me in whatever direction they please. I could lose myself in the moment, sacrifice my worries on the altar of the Universe...

...or...

...I could harness the piss and vinegar percolating in the depths of my soul and figure out a way to break loose from my captivity.

I could be just like Napoleon.

Napoleon Bonaparte is a fascinating character study. L'empereur is also an appropriate model for me to emulate over the coming weeks and months. Napoleon, hereinafter referred to as "Nap", is perhaps the most beloved (or least reviled) malevolent dictator since Alexander the Great. The reasons for this are complicated and wreak of moral duplicity. I suspect that his relatively sympathetic portrayal in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure may have something to do with it. You can't very well take Hitler to a water park, can you?

Nap's crimes against humanity notwithstanding, the man's resolve is admirable. He had seven siblings. He spoke with a thick Corsican accent that earned him the ridicule of his French classmates. He was probably dyslexic and autopsies suggest he stood no taller than 5'2". Nonetheless, he quickly rose through the ranks of Robespierre's military and, despite turmoil and arrest, came to declare himself the Emperor of France and conquered large swaths of Europe. He was the cock of the walk, a young nobody who reached the pinnacle.

Then, there was mutiny. Forced to sign the Treaty of Fontainebleau after devastating wartime losses, Nap was exiled to Elba, a small island in the Mediterranean. As a consolation prize, however, Nap somehow retained the title of Emperor. This was no mere ceremonial title. The dude actually governed Elba, issuing regulations, developing mining and agriculture, and building a small army and navy. Though technically in exile, he didn't act it. He kept his eye on the French throne he once abdicated, and eventually returned to re-claim it.

In this respect (and this respect only), Nap is my inspiration, my muse. I am neither short nor dyslexic but, like Nap, I overcame numerous obstacles to claim my "throne" in Washington. Having been momentarily deposed, I must do as he did and spin the Math back in my favor. Nap never really learned to spell, but his teachers pegged him early on as a math whiz. In this sense, Nap was calculating. When the time was right, he escaped from exile and took back what was (completely not) rightfully his. While waiting to retake France, though, he settled for dominion over Elba.

So I begin working out my own Math to counter the Math that put me here, in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, on the outskirts of Philadelphia. While I lie in wait to escape and conquer, I can at the very least play fort and rule the City of Brotherly Love with an iron fist and an aluminum laptop. Nothing to fear, readers. I will return. In the meanwhile, you all can join me as together we build our very own Napoleonic Complex.

The W.O.N.G. Way

"Just because you can" doesn't mean that you should.

That's the mantra I want seared into your consciences. There are many things that are allowable but nevertheless should not be done for the sake of others, or for personal pride. Like consuming the equivalent of four square meals at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet, or failing to bathe before boarding a commercial airliner. There is one practice, however, that is so vile and disgusting so as to become the target of my ultimate contempt. I am speaking, of course, of aging, out-of-shape men who insist on embracing full frontal-and-behindal nudity in the men's locker room at public gyms.

This, my friend, is the W.O.N.G. Way. Wrinkly. Old. Naked. Guy.

I will not go into full detail, primarily out of a sense of propriety. But let me draw a rough...um..."picture" for those who remain blissfully in the dark. The men's locker room is many things. It is a storage facility. It is a restroom. It is a sweat lodge. And it is a changing area. Now, in the course of changing into your sweat-stained Georgetown Table Tennis shirt, navy blue socks, and snow white New Balance sneaker, there is an inevitable moment in time in which you will be temporarily in the raw. This incidental nudity is a necessary evil, and acceptable in the course of one's transformation from government analyst to graceful athlete. I am not a Never-Nude. However, such nakedness must be never be prolonged beyond a period of reasonable necessity. The men's locker room is many things, but it is not the Garden of Eden.

Unfortunately, a disproportionate number of fitness enthusiasts, including those at my branch of Washington Sports Club, display a hazardous, reckless disregard for these basic rules of social etiquette. For some inexplicable reason, they treat the locker room as a fat-friendly nudist colony, where nakedness is not merely a physical state, but a state of mind. They will lounge around in the buck, rubbing their butt-sweat all over the benches. They are also often guilty of "traveling", by literally picking up their pivot foot and milling about the place, engaging in otherwise routine activities like shaving, weighing themselves, or using the blowdryer, all with their manhood on full display. Some of them even engage in full-blown naked conversations:

MAN BOOBS: "Evening, Sam."

FRECKLED BACKSWEAT: "Jim, how are ya; how's Diane?"

MAN BOOBS: "Fine. Fine. Your kids in college now, right?"

FRECKLED BACKSWEAT: "Nah, not yet, but Steven's looking at a lacrosse scholarship...Hey, it's Randy!"

JUNGLE PELVIS: "Hey guys, is this locker room getting colder?"

This sort of perverse interaction occurs with alarming regularity. The rest of us are forced to endure it because, technically, there are no gym rules against it. We also cannot ask them to politely put some damn clothes on, because to do so would require us to come into close contact with their glistening man flesh. There is also the remote prospect that they may gang up on us on a fit of rage, which would exacerbate the atmosphere of tension further.

I am curious, however, to know at which point these late bloomers shed the ordinary sense of Puritan shame that average people carry concerning their own bodies. Perhaps they are too influenced by Greco-Roman culture; or maybe they are simply releasing decades of corked sexual frustration stemming from traumatic gym class experiences in junior high. Never mind. I'm not that curious. I just don't want to know.

Now excuse me while I change into my jean shorts for the shower.

Paperboy

And now for something completely different...

...yesterday, I warmed the cockles of reader's hearts with my own tale of snowbound horror from the Chevy Chase Pavilion on the D.C./Maryland border. Today, I would like to introduce my first "guest writer" reporting from a different perspective from the same location. His name is Aaron Brooks, a 5th-grader from Bethesda, Maryland. His family is cooped up at the Embassy Suites, presumably due to a power outage in their home.

This morning, I made a second consecutive trip to the Cafe Cino for the Embassy Suites breakfast buffet, the only place open for several blocks. While I contemplated retrieving a copy of today's New York Times from Starbucks a couple of floors beneath us, I received a surprise delivery from Mr. Brooks. It appears that Mr. Brooks had channeled his restless energies in a productive manner. Hence, the first issue of The Suite Times, a three-article accounting of the goings-on in Friendship Heights in the midst of the "Snowpocalypse."

I'd like to share this 11-year-old wunderkind's review of Clyde's Restaurant, as I can preemptively claim that I briefly knew this young man years before his first byline in Newsweek:

Clydes is primarily a dinner restaurant near the Embassy Suites Hotel in Chevy Chase. It is the talk of the town with its 2000 to 2300 customers on an average weekend night. The atmosphere is incredible, with old fashion cars, antique toy planes, beautiful paintings of ships, and detailed murals. It also has an electric train running around the room at ceiling level. It wasn't running last night when my family had dinner there; maybe because the storm closed down all the above ground means of transportation. The restaurant has a booth type interior. With the dim lights of the main eating area, it has a dramatic feel. On weekdays it gets an average customer number of 1100. The food at these places lacks some quality but overall it's good. I mean it doesn't all have to be gourmet. This restaurant is probably the best restaurant in friendship heights.

Inside this restaurant there are two bars. The main floor bar, with fancy drinks, is a place where more mature drinkers go to have a Manhattan on the rocks; whereas the bar downstairs is a place where you can enjoy watching 10 different sporting events and not stay focused on one single game. This downstairs bar is where you can scream loudly with your other college buddies. Older people don't go down there unless it is to go to the restroom. At the sports bar there is an oval shaped bar surrounded by an oval shaped booth area bordering the room. The restaurant is 8 out of 10 overall rating, probably the place you would go to have a nice family dinner.

I'm not sure which is more impressive: Aaron's command of the written word, or the fact that he knows what a Manhattan is. Nice work, Aaron. We'll see you in the Big Leagues.

Snowpocalypto

I have to say - the structural redundancy of the mall skylight is impressive. Six glass triangular panels rise and converge at a center point, each bearing the significant weight of snowpack, preventing what sunlight remains from reaching the floor of the atrium of the Chevy Chase Pavilion below.

It is the second time in a matter of days that Mother Nature has seen fit to caress the Mid-Atlantic with another doting blizzard. Last weekend, the Potomac Basin saw 30 inches. Over 300,000 homes - including my little bungalow - went hours, some even days, without heat or electricity. Streets went unplowed. In spite of its latitude, the District of Columbia remains perplexingly incompetent when it comes to handling the wintry elements. Either way, we had a slight reprieve earlier this week. This morning, though, Jack Frost returned with a bitter vegeance, promising an additional foot or so, courtesy of howling winds.

I am anxious awaiting Pat Robertson's pronouncement that this is God's punishment on the capitol for our attempt to pre-empt divine healing with universal health care.

Such theology would dovetail nicely with the parlance of this time. "Snowpocalypse" is what they are calling it, or so I hear. I have also heard "Snowmageddon" and, in a tip of the hat to the first-place Capitals, "Alexander Snovechkin". The sound you hear is the collective groans of transplanted Washingtonians from the Northeast or mountainous regions, to whom this is not the end of the world as much as it is "Wednesday". Reno may be no Calgary, but given the number of snow days I was forced to "endure" as a child, I reserve the right to roll my eyes with them.

Still, the relentless bluster is annoying, if not outright frustrating. Our lives have, for the moment, come to a screeching halt. Commerce has been slowed, knowledge has ceased, and tongues have been stilled. It may not be the end of the world, but it at least feels like our second intermission.

I have personally developed a heightened sense of cabin fever, so much so that this morning's 20 mph winds failed to deter my escape from the apartment to a nice brunch at the Embassy Suites at the Chevy Chase Pavilion. The only thing I can do to combat the stir-craziness is to scribble my thoughts furiously in my Moleskin. The Montgomery County Judicial Center has been closed since Monday morning; given the below freezing prognostications for the next several days, the snow and ice will likely linger long enough to secure me a nice little 11-day weekend. This might be delightful, but for the fact that I've already spent the last three months in a desperate scramble to find something to do. First, the hedge fund windfall relegated me to a part-time, unpaid position with my old employer. Now, the snowfall has temporarily snatched even that away from me. It's as if God and man have conspired in a villainous attempt to deprive my life of meaning.

I keep reminding myself that this, too, shall pass. But when? A blizzard, in and of itself, is nothing. I've seen worse. On top of the present malaise, though, it is insult mounted upon injury. I'm a zen dude, but even zen dudes have to engage the valve and release some steam. This is just irritating.

Yet the snow is but a metaphor for all of our collective troubles. Relentless. Unyielding. Not instantly lethal, but gradually dulling. There is little we can do but wait and pray that it doesn't bury us all. The shovels are of ill use if the snow won't play fair. For now, I'll have to settle for glancing occasionally up at the skylight, awaiting the hour when the snow will melt and the sun will return to shine heaven down upon us.

Let's hope the roof doesn't collapse before it does.

Bagging Rights

NOTE: I know many of you are eagerly awaiting my review of Sarah Palin's book, but, to be quite frank, it is taking forever. In the meanwhile, enjoy this little anecdotal eco-nugget...

Kermit the Frog really doesn't get enough credit for his genius. Put aside, for the moment, his lack of muscle tone or his weak will in allowing Ms. Piggy to romantically run rough-shod all over him. The man (er...frog) is an exceptional artiste, and he presciently hit on the zeitgeist of our generation:

It's not easy being green.

My recent experience at Rodman's provides a suitable object lesson for this problem. Rodman's is the aristocratic convenience/liquor store on Wisconsin, situated around the corner from my lavish sunlight-starved bungalow on Harrison. Consider it a rich man's Rite Aid. I regularly replenish their coffers with small purchases of various sundries: hummus, Grape-Nuts, Uniball pens, antacid, etc. Only a few things at a time. Poverty precludes large shopping sprees.

The all-East African staff are ordinarily very polite and charming, a breath of fresh air compared to the anti-joy bureaucrats at CVS. They actually smile at you, which is a bonus in D.C., where getting a service worker to acknowledge your existence is a victory itself. They ring you up, then wistfully bag your purchase and wish you a pleasant evening.

Or at least they used to.

"Would you like a bag, sir?" The female cashier tapped on the register, awaiting my response.

I glanced up from fiddling with my iPod Touch, puzzlement creeping across my face. I bought a few more items than usual, so the question sounded ill-placed and the answer obvious.

"Uh, of course, yeah, sure." I returned my attention to my New York Times app.

"It's five cents, sir."

My head snapped back up, mouth open in a gnat-swallowing position. The cashier pointed at a sticker on the countertop. Happy New Year. As of January 1, 2010, the District of Columbia now exacts a flat five-cent tax on all disposable bags at stores and restaurants. Of course, the sticker was written by Alexis de Tocqueville, and "asked" all D.C. residents to "help" the environment, echoing the spirit of enlightened self-interest. What an exciting opportunity in the spirit of civic volunteerism!

Eager to do my part, I enthusiastically grunted and shrugged. The cashier typed into the register, and $16.10 magically became $16.15. I swiped my debit card, grabbed my bag, and hustled out into the Arctic freeze. On the walk home, I quietly cursed the D.C. City Council.

I'm certainly no granola, but I think I have a pretty good ecological track record. I did spearhead the creation of the Green Campus, Clean Campus campaign in law school. I've always cut up those anachronistic plastic soda rings to prevent canardicide, and I drive a Ford Focus. The first two required some effort, while the third has come at a considerable sacrifice to my sex life. The plastic bag cost me a nickel. And, boy, did that piss me off.

It's really absurd that I feel this way. Perhaps the bag tax did nothing more than rouse my Inner Libertarian. I already have a serious beef with the meter maids who impose arbitrary tickets on innocent cars. It's not the five cents, I argued to myself. It's the principle! How much more can they take from me! My inner dialogue actually scared me as it progressively moved from pity party to Tea Party. A mild financial annoyance devolved into an expository lesson in personal liberty. Mankind is by nature free, I mused as I fumed at the plastic bag that held my soy milk hostage, but everywhere he is in chains. Somewhere, Rousseau spun in his grave as I trivialized the hell out of social contract theory.

After my rage subsided and reason re-surfaced, I came to three conclusions. The first was that I really needed to start working again. My private seminar on The Economic Philosophy of Plastic Bags was a serious waste of credit hours. Second, I realized that I had fallen prey to the Progressive's Dilemma. I am more than willing to skewer the leisure class for their objections to "paying their fair share" in income taxes to provide for the general welfare; yet, I remain hesitant to match a nickel to their thousands. Leaving marginal utility alone for the moment, this effectively renders me a hypocrite. If I am bound by the underlying American social contract to support the common good, then I must accept the burdens (a nickel or no bag) with the benefits (increased tax revenue and a marginally cleaner D.C.).

Finally, the stupid plastic bag tax has reminded me, yet again, that we, as a species, suck. Man may be by nature free, but he is also a selfish asshole. A quest may be noble in the abstract, but Prince Charming won't brave the fire-breathing dragon to save the Princess unless she shows a little leg. An oil baron won't shut down his refinery unless he sees profit in natural gas. An idealistic public interest lawyer won't give up his plastic bags unless he can save a nickel or two along the way.

So it falls to the carrot and the stick to save the Earth. I'd like to think of myself as an altruist, but who am I kidding? That's just human nature.