Starbucks ignorance

I have been a terrible blogger, so I will ease back into the habit with a poorly-developed thought:  is it possible that my deliberate ignorance about how to order at Starbucks is actually obnoxious?  I have long found it bizarre that people will order a "Venti skinny vanilla nonfat mocha latte, no water, extra foam" or something, all at once like it's one word they learned at Starbucks indoctrination camp.  So, in what I have I think subconsciously considered an effort to show I am not a Starbucks cyborg, I tend to say "Tea," and then they ask, "What size?" and I say "Medium," and they say "What kind?" and I say "Green."  But I realized the other day that this is just a PIA for the person who has to ask me all those questions, and I am probably smart enough to figure out what all the appropriate words are and say them at the same time. 

Diet Coke breakup haiku

I went to the dentist for a second opinion after my the last guy used an alleged "tooth-density measurer" (bearing a suspicious resemblance to the buzzing mechanism you use when playing Operation) to tell me I needed seven (7!) fillings.

Well, the new guy said I need seven (7) fillings. He looked at my X-rays (whose old-school technology I trust) and said, "You drink a lot of soda. It's rotting your teeth. You have to stop."

Yes, I drink a lot of soda. OK, Mr. Confident-Sounding Dentist, I will stop. But not without lamenting my loss with haiku:

Caffeinated fizz
Perfect bagel companion
Light of my morning

O Carbonation,
Why must you be acidic
And thus rot my teeth?

First candy, now this
I will not give up TV
So don't even ask

Unsweetened iced tea,
Maybe you could fill the void
Left by Diet Coke

Who am I kidding
Nothing compares to D.C.
Adieu, sweet beverage

Iron Man is too relevant to be escapist

I found Iron Man really uncomfortable to watch, despite Robert Downey Jr., not because of the standard preposterous superhero-movie ridiculousness, but because of the war. Parts of the movie are set in Afghanistan, and it perfectly captured the American-movie portrayal of war, which, I think, means it also perfectly captured the American understanding of actual war.

Meaning: you can identify the bad guys because they are always glowering with narrowed eyes and half-shadowed faces, or else yelling angrily in foreign languages, and they have darker skin than the not-bad-guy foreigners.

Also: if the bad guys are in possession of a boatload of American-made weapons, it's not because the United States supplied them arms in the '80s when we considered them "freedom fighters"; instead it means that [SLIGHT SPOILER ALERT] some other bad guy sold them to them in a super-nefarious scheme whose revelation will be a shock, shock! to our hero, because even when he was just a soulless playboy millionaire weapons dealer he certainly never sold weapons to bad guys, because he loved his country.

And: if the bad guys are attacking innocent civilians in a village somewhere, it is all over the American news because this happens so rarely, and our hero will set it right.

And of course: our hero will be able to set it right because of advanced American military technology, which allows him to identify and take out the bad guys with pinpoint accuracy while leaving the innocent civilians unharmed and grateful.

I didn't even have enough energy leftover to get indignant about Gwyneth Paltrow being Robert Downey Jr.'s lovelorn, chaste, not-a-hottie-until-she-takes-her-hair-out-of-the-bun assistant. Sigh.

Ashley and Jamie-Lynn: abstinence not working out so good

Ashlee Simpson is apparently joining Jamie-Lynn Spears in the exclusive club of Premaritally Pregnant Younger Siblings of Famous Pop Stars Who Were Formerly Famous Virgins.  This should really be the last nail in the coffin of abstinence-only education. 

DC is as cool as London circa 1990

When I was 13 we went to London for a semester, and while I was very peeved that my parents were making me leave Iowa (such is the mysterious mind of a 13-year-old), I was extremely excited to visit a key London attraction, the Hard Rock Cafe. You had to wait in line for hours to get in, and a Coke cost about forty dollars, but it was worth it: as I sat there, marvelling at Led Zeppelin's guitar or Madonna's bra or some such like displayed over my table, cradling my new Hard Rock t-shirt (black, with the logo in pink, purple, and teal), I felt myself effortlessly morphing into a cosmopolitan, worldly individual.

So last night I was going to meet a friend in downtown DC, and what did I see but a HARD ROCK CAFE IN DC. It was as though I came home and found Skid Row in my living room: it requires a realignment of my understanding of the world. Is it possible that the things I thought were awesome in 1990 are now . . . not cool? Or did my life become ultra-glamorous when I wasn't paying attention?

More optimistic non-chart

My last post was a smidge depressing. (Don't worry, Mom and Dad!) So people don't go taking away my belts and hiding the knives:

In: Sing for Obama!
Five Minutes Ago: Brief-writing for clients
Out: Talking to myself

In: Gardening
Five Minutes Ago: Decorating
Out: Makeovers

In: Relief
Five Minutes Ago: Anxiety
Out: Boredom

Tragic non-chart o' unreasonable work schedule

In: Work taking over life
Five Minutes Ago: Looking for "life's work"
Out: School

In: Missing the daylight
Five Minutes Ago: Missing the cherry blossoms
Out: Missing TV

In: Take-out Taxi
Five Minutes Ago: Frozen pizza
Out: Eating dinner with other people

Sing for Obama!

Next Sunday, April 6, my friends' band Northeast Corridor is throwing the first-ever live-band karaoke Obama fundraiser. It should be highly awesome. All you have to do to participate in this historic event is RSVP here, then show up at Solly's U Street Tavern (1942 11th St NW) at 7:30 with $20 and a desire to sing Blondie (or some such like--their repertoire is quite impressive) in front of a live band, or to mock others who are doing so, if that's more your thing. See yous there.

Hillary Bristow

The first season of Alias was awesome. Jennifer Garner constantly went on dangerous spy missions while wearing preposterous outfits, and had touching emotional breakdowns in the presence of her hottie CIA handler, showing that living a double life was draining, but worth it because the fate of the world was at stake.

The early part of Hillary Clinton's campaign was also pretty great. Hillary constantly traveled while talking about about important policy issues, and once let her voice crack with emotion in front of some ladies from New Hampshire, showing that being a candidate was draining, but worth it because the fate of the world was at stake.

But now the Hillary campaign is on Season 5. The storylines that were compelling early on have been beaten to death to the point that they barely even make sense. Hillary landed in Bosnia with Sinbad while a big red ball designed by a 15th-century inventor threatened to explode in the air, ushering in Armageddon? Whatever. Hillary suspects that her opponent, who previously seemed like a good guy, has been replaced by an evil, bigoted clone? Snooooore.

Note to future TV shows/campaigns: get out while we still like you.

Final car haikus (sniff)

It's all over between me and the Geo. This bittersweet occasion calls for a buttload of haiku:

Good night, sweet Geo!
We've had good years together.
This one, not so much.

Your alternator
Died in '99, '06,
And again now. Christ.

Also, your muffler:
Always about to fall off.
What's that all about?

But I always liked
Your distinctive growl, and the
Two missing hubcaps.

Out there in the street
Without your tapes, maps, bike rack
You look so lonely.

I hope you don't mind
Being donated, not sold
Hope they don't melt you.

"Linked to Prostitution Ring"

Is being "linked" to a prostitution "ring" somehow less objectionable than just hiring a prostitute?  Perhaps it's the new "experimenting with drugs." 

In another random thought, PLEASE do not tell me how The Wire ended.  As with Harry Potter, here I am making an exception to my general spoiled-rotten policy and trying to maintain my blissful ignorance until I watch it my own self (which will not be for many months, probably, as we're still on Season 4.) 

Carolyn Hax loves me!

Today I am enjoying a little anonymous fame (Oxymoron? Shouldn't that word mean "stupid pimple products"?)

I am an avid reader of Carolyn Hax's advice columns and chats, and the other week I wrote in to the chat--not with my own problem, because, of course, I don't have any problems,* but with advice for somebody else--and today it got published in the PAPER! The original guy-with-the-problem was awkward and didn't know how to talk to women, and I wrote:

It might also be helpful to try not thinking of himself as part of a group of "awkward guys" who are trying to approach a separate, mysterious group called "women." If he can think of women as people who might also feel awkward, it might help him get over his problems in knowing how to talk to them.

Carolyn responded: "Well said, and I'll nudge it further along by taking a few words away -- if he can just think of women as people. Female friends, male friends, old friends, young friends -- diversity of people and purpose can really help in this case."

So, I'm too wordy but I have basically sound ideas. Niiiiiiiice. I will bask in this for hours.

*Or rather, my problem--"I work too much"--is boring. I was once more interesting--8 years ago, I wrote to Carolyn about how my crazy roommate had gotten another roommate to replace me, months before I was planning to move out, without asking me, and let this stranger sleep in my bed while I was gone, without asking me, and then after a few weeks had turned on the other girl and kicked her out, putting me in the middle since I had become friendly with the other girl. I believe Carolyn said "Your roommate is crazy, get out ASAP" which was very affirming. Looking back on this, I am happy to have my current boring problems.

Reminder: Prince Harry is mine

I totally called him back in October. Lord, I'm wise.

US Mint flips DC the bird

For 10 years, DC did not have its own commemorative quarter, because we're this weird entity that is not really a state and which does not have Congressional representation, even though the residents do have to pay federal income taxes.

Congress finally passed a law allowing DC (and various US territories) to have their own quarters. But now, for the first time in the whole commemorative-quarter era, the US Mint has officially rejected all of DC's proposals for its quarter design. Why? Because they all involved the phrase "Taxation without Representation," which is too "controversial" because it refers to the fact that DC is a weird entity that is not really a state and does not have Congressional representation, even though the residents do have to pay federal income taxes.

ROGUE SPY SATELLITE ATTACKS EARTH!

The headline "U.S. Plans to Shoot Down Broken Spy Satellite" is medium-interesting. The first half of the article--broken spy satellite carrying hazardous fuel will crash into earth soon, U.S. plans to shoot it down--sounds like it was pieced together from the same remnants of Cold War narrative they used to make Armageddon and Deep Impact. So, also medium-interesting.

But then you get to the end:

Michael Krepon, co-founder of the Henry L. Stimson Center, said today that the "stated rationale for this shoot-down is simply not credible. "

"There has to be another reason behind this," he said. "In the history of the space age, there has not been a single human being who has been harmed by man-made objects falling from space."

Much larger spacecraft, including Skylab, have fallen to Earth without injuries to people on the ground.

Some other reason like IT'S A VIGILANTE SPY SATELLITE COMING TO KILL US ALL? Like the world is going to end early next month when this "school-bus-sized" machine which has decided it would rather be in Bladerunner than Armageddon, thank you very much, and which let us know about our doom on Valentine's Day because it doesn't like manufactured holidays, enters the atmosphere and "reprograms" us into its little spy-satellite minions?

Just remember that you heard it here first. Maybe the little guy will like me for getting him free publicity.

Don't get the Congressional steroid hearings

These hearings about steroids and baseball are fairly enticing, what with the lying, bloody gauze, betrayal, somebody blaming his wife for taking the steroids (!), thick-necked men in suits--but I utterly fail to get why Congress is concerning itself with this. It seems like a Terri Schiavo kind of deal--surely there is some other forum for resolving these issues, no? Baseball is our national past-time, etc., but so is gawking at Britney Spears, and they're not holding hearings on that, are they? (Those I would definitely watch, though.)

Love and flying cars

Let's say I refuse to buy a car because I'm waiting for a car that can fly.* If you advised me that this is not the Jetsons and that I should look for a car that actually exists, would you be telling me to give up my high ideals and "settle" for a less-than-perfect car? No, you would just be informing me of reality.

That is what is so irksome about this article in the Atlantic Monthly, "Marry Him! The case for settling for Mr. Good Enough." I've been obsessed with this "settling" idea for several months, since my intrepid friend Sara Lipka told me she was going to interivew Lori Gottlieb, the author. (Sara did a great job with the interview, and extracted such interesting and humanizing details as the fact that Lori, who is a 40something single mom, is worried her mother will tell her "I told you so.") The article's thesis is that single women--mostly women over 30--should "settle" for men who do not meet their "high expectations" because it's better to have a stable partner who can contribute money to your household and help you raise your children than to be alone when you're in your 30s or 40s, as Lori herself is.

Lori says she knows women are going to write in to accuse her of being part of the "feminist backlash," but it doesn't seem particularly feminist to me to call a desire for a Stepford man "high standards." The issue is that the whole "settling" paradigm addresses the wrong part of the problem: you're not lowering your standards by deciding to look for a partner amongst existing human beings rather than imaginary ones. As Carolyn Hax would tell you, if you're waiting for an all-encompassing, life-changing, spine-tingling, love-at-first-site soulmate kind of thing like Bush had with Putin with a person who's tall, athletic, environmentally aware, has straight teeth, loves Grey's Anatomy, hates Coldplay, and can hold a tune, you can join me on the Waiting for a Flying Car bench for an indefinite interval.

*My desire for a flying car is only partly why I have not yet gotten rid of my '95 Geo.

Julie Meyers Halloween pictures surface

As you might recall from my brush with quasi-infamy last fall, I happened to run into the same blackface-costumed dude to whom Julie Myers had, earlier that evening, awarded the "Most Original" Halloween costume at a DHS costume party. My friends could only find a blurry picture, and Myers, in true Bush administration fashion, ordered the official DHS pictures deleted as soon as it occurred to her that maybe she had oopsied. Congress, lacking dramatic photographic evidence, confirmed her in December.

Now DHS has produced the pictures (with the dude's face redacted) in response to a FOIA request from CNN. Julie says she didn't lie to Congress when she said the pictures were unavailable, it just took 3 months for DHS to forensically recover them.

I note a couple of things we can learn from this story:

1. If it takes our Department of Homeland Security 3 months to recover files from a camera memory card, the kind of thing that I feel confident an electronic discovery firm could do for a law firm in a couple of days, we are all totally screwed, homeland security-wise.
2. LAWYER DORK ALERT Congress should look into "spoliation"--the idea that if somebody destroys evidence on purpose, you should infer it's really really bad for them, and maybe, for instance, not confirm them as head of Immigrations and Customs Enforcement.
3. Haha, I was totally right that it was the same guy!
4. Somebody should check the memory card on the camcorder they used for those waterboarding tapes.

Curse you, Vicks-scented Puffs!

I'm a little bit sick (although I WILL be better in time for Mardi Gras, never fear), so I went to CVS to buy Puffs.  Only when I got back to my desk and blew my nose did I realize they are VICKS-SCENTED PUFFS.  What in GOD'S NAME was someone thinking?  Blowing your nose is bad enough, but with this development you get a big whiff of Eau de Medicinal Chemicals (minus any actual medicine, says the Puffs website) the remnants of which stays on your hands and upper lip area indefinitely, making you feel and smell like one of those consumptive child actors from the upsetting '80s Vicks ads where a mother rubs Vick's on her son's chest in an excessively sensual fashion. 

Nooo!

Hasbro and Mattel are trying to quash my attempts to become an awesome Scrabble player by making Facebook take down its fake-Scrabble application, Scrabulous .

Surely there is some mutually agreeable way to fix this? Like, say, Scrabble lets Scrabulous use its name in exchange for a small fee or some free ad space, with the realization that a Facebook member playing 5 simultaneous games of Scrabulous (me, for instance) is only going to become more fond of Scrabble, to buy Scrabble dictionaries, and to spread the gospel of Scrabble far and wide?

Spears family and There Will Be Blood: separated at birth?

I saw There Will Be Blood on Friday, and while it was very gorgeous to look at and had an interesting score, by the end I thought it devolved into such a pile of overwrought disaster that it had ceased to be compelling.

In other words, it was very similar to the Spears family. Like a Daniel Day-Lewis character, Britney was the epitome of a certain brand of American ambition and success--and, like the TWBB, she was pretty to look at and listen to ("Toxic" was poetry, and don't try to tell me otherwise). The stage mother and the sweet-faced kid sister were great supporting characters. When Britney entered the Period of Skankiness--the 48-hour marriage, the backup dancer babydaddy, the Irish twins, the going into public bathrooms without her shoes on--it seemed to just add to the complexity, and drew us in farther.

But then sometime around the head-shaving incident, the whole thing started to unravel. In There Will Be Blood, SPOILER ALERT, the same thing happened approximately when D D-L caused a scene in a restaurant by getting huffy about slow service, putting his napkin over his face, and threatening to slit someone's throat. Once you've started down that path, it's a steep downward slide from fascinating into banal awfulness. The psychiatric committment, the pregnant 16-year-old sister whose boyfriend is demanding a paternity test--they might as well just SPOILER ALERT kill all the other characters in the movie and be done with it. Yes, yes, America is built on unbelievable depravity, I get it. I'd rather see Juno.

I am one with the inchoate urges of the electorate

I have always been a big critic of the Undecided Voter, those blank-faced avatars the news shows get to watch the Presidential debates and mutter blankly about how they're still not sure. How the hell can you NOT BE SURE, and how can your decision turn on something like which guy made better jokes at the debate?, I am always screaming at them.

So it took me by surprise that I have totally become that dude for the Democratic primaries. Until the Iowa caucuses I was on board with Obama--not rabidly so, because excessive sincere enthusiasm makes me nervous, but pretty decidedly. While watching the coverage of the caucuses that night, though, I found myself defending Hillary when people said things like that it would be more ground-breaking to have a black President than a female one. Also, I admit, I was impressed by the near-crying incident--I dont know if it was fake or not, but if it was, what a performance!

Then after she lost in Iowa, I found myself feeling slightly disappointed that the race might be over so fast, and also kind of bad for her for all the piling-on. I think she's too conservative, but I found all the coverage about how voters don't want to return to "the Clinton years" really annoying because I don't think people mean "Bill Clinton pretended to be a pinko but passed some hideously retrograde legislation and nominated medium-to-conservative judges," they mean "We had to hear about Monica Lewinsky all the time." Which, get over it, plus I'm sure Hillary will not bring Monica with her to the White House. Would my change of heart have been enough to make me vote for her if I lived in New Hampshire instead of a disenfranchised non-state? Who can say?

Now that she's back in the running, though, I am swinging back away from her. She is still too conservative, after all.

So, my sympathy for the dumb voter has increased, but hopefully that will go away soon.

Resolved!

I had been maintaining that I was too old for Facebook and that being on Friendster and LinkedIn was plenty of networking for me, thanks, but today I signed up for it furtherance of New Year's Eve resolution #1 (Become better at Scrabble), because my friend J informs me that you can play it on there. In a shocking turn of events, I discovered that MY DAD IS ALREADY ON FACEBOOK. This is a paradigm-altering event, like the emergence of TomKat from the primordial ooze. I have not yet finalized them, but Resolutions # 2+ will have to address my failure to keep up with my dad's level of coolness.

Oops, she did it

Britney Spears' 16-year-old sister, Jamie Lynn, is pregnant. I think the Spears family is engaged in a grand, albeit probably unintentional, scheme to push celebrity news right up to, and then past, the line between titillating and depressing.

TomKat: I Kinda Called It

It was just this March when I predicted that TomKat was entering a period of image rehabilitation which would end in their seeming like another harmless Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Save the unflattering genius-hat for somebody else, though, because I thought it would take years and lots of charitable works. It turns out, all it took was a couple of months, a baby in Burberry outfits, and an "it" haircut.

One must admit, very cute baby and hair.

Krazee-Eyez Killah

Tonight Mr. T&A was trying to figure out which of his eyes is dominant so as to improve his skills at trap shooting,* as follows: you point your finger at a distant object, then close one eye at a time. Your finger is supposed to keep pointing at the object when one of your eyes is closed, and presto, the open one is the dominant one.

I tried it too, not wanting to neglect my trap shooting game. I pointed at a sign outside the window, but which of the two images of my finger was I supposed to be focusing on? So I asked Mr. T&A, "Which finger are you pointing with?"

So, it turns out Mr. T&A does not see two images of his finger when he points at something far away. A marathon of Googling ensued, and for about 15 minutes I thought (1) I have had double vision my entire life and never realized it, (2) maybe that concussion in second grade was worse than I thought, and (3) probably this is why I'm bad at sports.

However, the tide turned when I found this, explaining that "We all (those of us with 2 healthy eyes) have a type of diplopia called physiologic diplopia. To demonstrate this phenomenon, hold a pencil vertically about 6 inches from your face and look directly at it. Then, hold your thumb out directly behind it at arm’s length. As you maintain focus on the pencil, you will see two thumbs. This is normal." Normal! That's me! But when Mr. T&A tried it, focusing on the pencil gave him a headache. Now I think (1) Mr. T&A's eyesight is even worse than he thought, (2) my brain is fine. Fine!, and (3) yet again there is no excuse for how bad I am at sports.

But just to check, can you confirm for me that I am not the one with the crazy eyes? When you point your finger at something far away and focus on the far-away thing, do you see two of your finger, or just one?

*Trap shooting is fun! You can do it at the PG County Trap & Skeet Center. You get to yell "Pull!" and a clay pigeon flies out of this machine, and you shoot it with a shotgun. No pigeons were harmed in the creation of this blog post.

Non-chart: Optimism edition

Not sure why I'm feeling so bloggy today after weeks of radio silence, but there you are. Here's a non-chart (you're supposed to pretend like it's in a 3x3 chart, see):

In: Enjoying the weather
Five Minutes Ago: Worrying about global warming
Out: Snow days

In: Obama in '08!
Five Minutes Ago: Kerry in '04!
Out: Bush

In: Friends with babies
Five Minutes Ago: Friends with kittens
Out: Friends with driver's licenses

Catalog tipping point

Even though I know that the flood of catalogs that arrives before Christmas is like a million dead trees in my mailbox, I secretly don't mind them that much, because I like the pretty pictures.  But I just hit catalog overload, and have sworn to start asking them not to send them to me anymore, and here's why:  Hidden Message Collar Stays from Red Envelope.  "Why settle for tucking love notes into his lunch or suitcase when you can deliver a message of love from a much closer range? Our 12 silver-plated collar stays feature 12 different reasons why you love him messaged right into the stay. So, each morning, you can send him off looking sharp while letting him know "you're so handsome" or "you make me laugh" and "you have a big heart." The sentiment will remain with him through the day, but only he will know."

Maybe it's not too late to start hand-making presents for Christmas.

Julie Myers, blackface, Halloween, and me

Julie Myers, the head of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, has gotten in a wee spot of trouble for giving a costume award to a Halloween guest at her party whose costume entailed a striped prison outfit, dredlocks and blackface. (The award was for "originality.")

I had a weird and legitimately ironic encounter with the THE SAME GUY! (Or another guy in an identical costume.) We attended a friend's Halloween/birthday party at the Mansion on O Street, a bizarre bed & breakfast/restaurant/club apparently decorated by somebody's crazy/fabulous aunt, which featured a Halloween buffet dinner involving lots and lots of olives, a make-your-own PB&J stand, and zillions of cakes. I wore a costume consisting of my wedding dress, my pink fake-fur hat with ear flaps, and stamps and mailing labels affixed to my person, hence: Russian mail-order bride. (Pretty good given that I came up with it at midnight the night before, no?)

As we were about to leave, this very tall guy in a striped prison costume approached me and said his friends wanted to see my costume. I went and talked to his friends, who had accents of some Russian/Eastern European type, so I got nervous and kind of apologetic about the "Russian" element of my costume, and said I hoped it was not offensive. I was apparently so nervous that I did not notice that the GUY WHO HAD APPROACHED ME WAS IN BLACKFACE. Mr. T&A pointed it out to me after the fact.

Is it reasonable to think that this is the same guy? Or is it more likely that multiple people chose to wear blackface, dreadlocks and a prison outfit to Halloween parties in DC? What are the chances that I should apologize to a dude in blackface for the potential offensiveness of MY Halloween costume?

Update: A friend found the above picture showing the guy in question in the background. When Mr. T&A asked our friends if anybody remembered the guy in blackface at the party, everyone did, so it seems that my not noticing was aberrational. Also, in my defense, I am pretty sure I would have noticed if I had been, for instance, examining his costume so as to judge it.

Critical Mass, where's my car?

My lack of blogging for the last 50 years is a symptom of my having been working way too much. Par example, and because my brain feels fried and cannot think of anything else interesting to write about, I shall tell you what happened last Friday. I'd been at work since about 7:30 a.m., and it was one of those excessively intense days such that by the time I left at 7 p.m. I felt like I'd been there for 3 days. I got on my bike and started riding home, feeling glad to be outside and engaging in some amount of physical activity.

At about 16th and W Streets, I saw a clump of what appeared to be Critical Mass bikers. I'd never seen this in DC before, so I was intruiged, and since I was on a bike I felt I was in a good position to investigate further. I biked closer, very casual-like, and observed that the "self-organized, non-commercial and non-competitive" group was blocking, not 16th Street but W Street, which is like the Minuteman Project going near the Mexico border and then blocking passage between two neighborhoods in Laredo. They were also yelling things like "Fuck you cars for being ... cars!" Genius.

The "fuck you cars" comment then sent me on a quick mental detour, as such: I have a car. I like my car. Where's my car? I drove my car to work this morning.

So, thanks for that, anyway, Critical Mass. I turned around, biked back to work and into the parking garage, put the bike on the bike rack, and drove home. By the time I got back to 16th and W there were no more bikers.