Hope floats

"Make no mistake. Change isn't easy. It won't be happen overnight. There will be setbacks and false starts."
- Barack Obama, Election Night 2008 in Chicago

Well, it was inevitable that both Barack and I would hit a bumpy road during our DC adventure. While he stews about health care, I lament the demise of my ancient laptop. Chicago loses an Olympic bid, and I lose a sense of normalcy as I lead the life of a vampire at the VOA.

There are some high points, though. He wins a Nobel Peace Prize, and I am anointed "Professor Skrzypinski" by aspiring journos. The Obamas are decorating the White House with contemporary art, while I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel on Craigslist for a purple couch.

Let me be clear. The past year has -- in a word, humbled -- us. But this town hasn't let us down yet. We're both looking to fundamentally change the status quo here in Washington. It could still happen -- I have hope.

Meet Virginia

Ever since I moved to Alexandria a little over a month ago, my friends like to give me crap that I often refer to Virginny as the "Dirty South."

"Northern Virginia's considered to be the Mid-Atlantic!" Stephanie exclaimed.

"DC is NOT the south," Steve retorted. He should know -- he was a Tar Heel for many years before he made the move up "north."

Meanwhile, I still cling on to the notion that the Mason-Dixon line defines the border between north and south.

As I walk down my street to catch the Metro on a daily basis, these are the sights I encounter. If this doesn't scream "Dirty South," then I don't know what does:

A dead end, indeed.


It's time for the Dukes of Hazzard!

A little kindness can go a long way...

There's something about Depeche Mode that makes me feel "Little 15" all over again.

I've been to nearly a dozen of their live shows in the past 15 years, and I still shriek for Dave Gahan like he's the second coming of Christ. Never to fear -- I am an equal-opportunity screamer for Martin Gore and Fletch, too. My Atlantic City experience proved that. I even traveled to Estonia to pay tribute to the boys of Basildon.

Even though I'm way beyond adolescence, their angst-filled tunes still resonate with me. Most particularly these two new gems. I'm still trying to figure out how to get them both on my iPod, but for now, this will suffice:

Riding on the Metro...

As I'm quickly discovering, rides on the Metro during sweltering DC weekends in August is quite an odyssey. And a good place to meet some eligible bachelors in the process.

Bachelor #1 is a sweet, older gentlemen trying to make his way to the Pentagon. He was harmless -- until I thought for a moment that he was leaning in to give me a smooch on the Orange Line hurtling toward Rosslyn.

But wait -- it gets better. I'm in tow with my ancient laptop, and it's kinda heavy after a while. I decide to take a seat at L'Enfant Plaza. It's 11:30ish.

Bachelor #2 is a 20-something guy is dozing off next to me. He wakes up, smiles at me, and then says: "Hey, I'm really exhausted...is it OK that I lean on your shoulder?"

I was flabbergasted, but he looked beyond knackered. Before I can say "uh...sorry," he extends his hand, introduces himself as Micah, and then proceeds to crash. On my shoulder.

He looks like a cuddly little Ewok, so I didn't have the heart to push him aside. Besides, the Metro benches are like slabs of stone. He was simply trying to get comfortable.

The train to Huntington cruises in around midnight. Micah, the gentleman that he is, ambles onto the train before me, saves me a seat, and then literally snuggles next to me. I'm officially now his body pillow. He then proclaims I am "trustworthy," and asks me to wake him up at Crystal City.

I poke him like crazy around Crystal City. He attempts to stumble off the train, and he's like "I hope I see you again!"

I check up on both on Craigslist DC's "Missed Connections." They're not there. They must be still lurking around on the Metro, trying to find their way home.

Dog days of summer...

The humidity has returned to Washington, and so have I.

After a long, strange Melrose Place-esque hiatus in Orlando this past summer, it was time to come back to the District, just as every politician fled for their hometowns. A new state, apartment, job(s) and a continuation of my 2009 life awaited.

Eight months away from the Big A, and it's weird to admit that I've grown accustomed to Southern charms like being called "ma'am," drinking sweet tea instead of soda and being offered a seat on the Metro.

Alas, here in the Dirty South, I am often a victim of "hootin-hollerin' season," as I am greeted with horn honking and catcalls by a bunch of "muchachos" as I make my way toward the Metro. It's not something I encountered often in my native New York. While the Noo Yawker in me scoffs at the whistling, I am secretly kind of amused.

I know I still possess a New York edge at times, but I also find I'm softening a bit. However, these days I'm also wilting, just like a bunch of pooches I also see along my Metro stroll. Day in, day out, three pomeranian pups lazily nap in the shade. That's how a proper Southern summer should be spent.

There will be no turning back...

One of the best feelings in the world is when you truly forget about a kick-ass tune, and then it pops up on your iPod. A world is rediscovered. A memory is recaptured.

Annie's gem Pavement Cracks resonated with me in 2004, when I was still wandering the world, looking for a place to call home. Fast forward to five years later -- I'm still seeking that comfort zone. I think I might have finally found it, but yet...I'm still waiting for it all to come miraculously together. Today's mission at L'Enfant Plaza is one step closer. However, since my future employer will be a branch of the federal government, I still must wait another two months or so for the pieces to fall into place.

The rain continues to piss down, while my hair continues to frizz up. Someday, the past eight months will finally make sense.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy...

Now that the spring monsoons have passed, the District is gearin' up for a hot summer ahead.