Histrionics

I am so inconsistent. So totally inconsistent. I write, I don't write, I write, I don't write. And I'm never on time for anything and I overreact to everything.

Phew. Now that we've gotten that out of the way.

I know, I know. When the boys on the playground in fourth grade would harass me, my mother said to ignore it. When my brother would slowly pick away at my insecurities in tenth grade, creating the rawest, most-exposed wound possible, my mother said to ignore it. When I hear about something that has been said about me behind my back by a friend, or an ex-friend, or an ex-boyfriend now, my mother says to ignore it.

"Because if you react you will be giving them a greater sense of satisfaction than if you let it go. They are just looking to get a rise out of you."

I know, mom, I know. But they said something, and it made me...grrrr...ummmm... angry, and... mad!... and they should, well they should KNOW that what they did/said/thought/ridiculed wasn't nice, and so I have to TELL them!

So -- I can't help myself. Call me histrionic, or melodramatic, or irrational, or impulsive (and believe me, I have been called all of these things) I am going to respond to some of the recent additions from our friend Sandwich Repair Man. Because, well, because I just don't have the willpower not to.

BUT FIRST.

A brief update about life in DC:

1. Rove, shmove. What DC is really all thinking about is the butter sized panda bear squirming and keening over in Woodley Park.

2. Okay, yeah, and speaking of Rove this analysis, and this breakdown -- which is long, but gives a sort of "he said-he said-she said-he said- and then she said" account of the media, finally winding it all down with a nod at everyone's favorite log cabin dweller, Andrew Sullivan -- are worth reading.

Sullivan is an interesting guy who frequently has interesting things to say, whether or not you agree with him. Several years ago he stepped into the theatre world here, apparently playing a Benedick that was not actually smitten with his Beatrice, instead taken with Claudio and his other gents. I didn't see it but I read a few scathing reviews. That's not in the script. Throw around all the conservative rhetoric you want, but don't fuck up one of Shakespeare's better plays. (and actually, that is the director's fault, not his own). Sure, some of Shakespeare's characters can be interpreted as gay, but frequently it's a choice that just becomes a red herring. That trend drives me a little bit nuts.

3. But I digress. It is hot and humid here in DC. Worse yesterday, perhaps a bit better today.

4. Yesterday when I tried to get off the metro at Silver Spring, I discovered I owed .15 cents in exit fare. I had a five, a nickel, and ten pennies. If I used the five in the machine I would have gotten $4.85 back in change. So I went up to the guy and smiled sweetly saying, "Sir, I have my fifteen cents right here, but the machine doesn't seem to accept my pennies. Can I give you the money and my card, and you can let me out?" "We don't take pennies" "But that's what I have. It is still money. How am I supposed to get out?" "We don't take pennies" "Sir, do you want me to wait here all day, hoping someone drops a dime?" "We don't take pennies" "Well, do you have a dime I can trade these ten pennies in for?" "I don't want pennies"

Arrrggggghhhhhhhhhhh!

He suggested that I wait there, asking people if they had a dime, so that I could eventually get out of Silver Spring Metro purgatory (which is worse than purgatory, indeed leaning on the side of hell). Thankfully, the Metro guy upstairs working on the track was my first attempt at panhandling and was the generous sort. He wouldn't even take my ten pennies. He gave me a dime, and I said righteously "Well, you are a whole lot better example of Metro kindness than your colleague downstairs! He wanted me to stay in here trapped all day! He was mean! He doesn't like pennies! He doesn't like pennies! Why doesn't he like pennies? Why doesn't he like ME?" As I rambled on the guy clearly started wondering why if he'd given me the dime I was still there spouting off, so I headed back down and gave the other guy a really, really dirty look as I went through the turnstile.

5. At the same Metro stop two days ago, a man was putting money on his card and very casually playing the harmonica during the whole transaction. There was no comment on the fact that he was playing the harmonica. He got his card, went through the turnstile, rode up the escalator, and all the while, kept playing his harmonica. It made me look twice, then again, then smile.

6. I am listening to: a lot of Elliot Smith, Franz Ferdinand, Liz Phair, Kings of Convenience, and in yet another attempt to get into hip-hop because all the cool kids are doing it -- the Black Eyed Peas (are they still calling it hip-hop these days?).