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.

Palintology Part I: Curiosity Kills My Better Judgment

Installment 1 of a 3-part saga...

I am doing this so you won't have to.

This is the moral justification I arm myself with in anticipation of those moments when Sense and Reason demand to know why I am reading Going Rogue: An American Life, Sarah Palin's ghost-written attempt to forge a conservative reply to Obama's The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream. Neuroscientists posit that watching too much television renders our synapses inert, transforming tender brains from complex decision engines into passive receptacles for anti-cerebral garbage. Before I considered launching into this inarguably stupid project, I figured that Palin's five-chapter quasi-memoir-of-sorts would have the same stunting impact on its readers. Its mind-altering effects could prove doubly damaging to an ex-Republican like myself, much like a single shot of whiskey would send a reformed alcoholic tumbling off the right side of the wagon.

Yet something latent in my soul demands that I determine what, exactly, makes this woman tick. After three years at a liberal law school, I grow tired of choir-preaching. I have read and heard plenty to reinforce my own "worldview", to borrow from the ex-Governor's evangelical parlance. I have purposefully avoided gazing through the looking glass at what remains of the Western conservative realm from whence I came. It is stunting my growth. It is time that I make an effort to try and comprehend the teabaggers and insurrectionists who constantly insist upon being physically present in our fair city whenever Michelle Bachmann calls upon them. Consider this an exercise in socio-political exposure therapy. I want to re-discover what, exactly, makes the 2008 Republican nominee for Vice President tick, and, more to the point, what about her drove so many Americans who otherwise appear to be stable and balanced so bat-guano crazy. This is a journey into the whimsical world of Dittoheads and Beckophiles, of Birchers and birthers alike.

So, on behalf of my progressive readers, I embark on a missionary voyage into a savage heart of darkness that would have even given Marlow pause. And on behalf of my conservative readers, all of whom probably live nestled at the foot of the Sierra Nevada (and stopped reading two paragraphs ago), I lend you a moment of my consideration.

With some caveats.

First, I have not purchased (and will not purchase) this book. In fact, I haven't even flipped open a page or even perused the flyleaf yet. I won't buy it for two reasons. Reason Number One - I do not wish to contribute to what amounts to the Palin 2012 political action committee. Ms. Palin has deceived herself into believing that she is presidential material, and I firmly believe that any penny spent on this book could potentially be spent on a campaign ad demanding Obama's birth certificate. Reason Number Two - I do not wish to be subject to a Northwest D.C. "eye-shaming" by bookstore patrons who are decidedly to my left would rather buy ethanol directly from Hugo Chavez than be caught dead with Palin's book. Upon conducting a keyword search at a monitor somewhere near the Self-Help section at Borders, the computer cheerfully announced that it was likely in the store, but that I would have to "see an associate for assistance". A-ha. A witness protection program for conservatives. They are a persecuted minority in this neighborhood. I don't know how George Will survives here. Turns out, they took down the display and relegated the book to a small segment of the best-seller shelf.

Second, I am a bit weary that by reading Going Rogue, I am effectively legitimizing the growing apparatchik that follows in Ms. Palin's wake. Liberal readers, you may think that Sarah Palin is already among the large swath of those who are famous for no reason, and you would be partially right. This book review will only provide another (albeit small) platform for the woman who is credited for single-handedly defining democracy downward. Why more attention? I can also hear my conservative readers (Dad and maybe one or two others) scoffing at yet another attempt to persecute this poor woman.

I aim to do neither. The review will serve as neither a grandstand or a guillotine. I can't imagine making much of a dent in Palin's popularity one way or another, and, in either event, I will treat her fairly. In the spirit of full disclosure, I deeply dislike her. I think she is vapid, dense, and bad for America. She is also a human being, and while I giddily malign her inability to name a major newspaper, her faux populism, and her bridge to nowhere, I won't engage in the same personal potshots about her family life deployed by crass cultural snobs. I think it is disgusting, and a profound strategic mistake, to delight in Levi Johnston's accusations that Palin called her Down's Syndrome child a "retard". It is not necessary that we enlist his "help."

And now, I turn to acknowledge the Elephant in the room. I just can't ignore it anymore. Especially when it's wearing lipstick...