Pre-script: at the very bottom of these articles, I include links to other writing, typically film and book reviews. This week, I finally finished Hannah Arendt’s The Human Condition which has influenced my last month or so of writing - you can find the link to that review below. I’ve thought about posting some of my longer reviews here if I’m low on material for a week…
Tuesday (the day I'm writing this), I rode my bike to the office. I left my apartment around 6am and rode through town. The weather this morning was perfect; cold enough to bite a little, to wake me up, but not so cold that it hurts to breathe.
I pass a McDonald's where there are always a bunch of cops, lights strobing, getting their morning coffee. Just after and until the White House is the riskiest part of the trip. You would be surprised how many people step into a bike lane without looking, even at 6am, even in the dark. It feels like every day some big truck tries to spread me out across the street, though not this morning. I ride by the White House along Pennsylvania Avenue, which is empty except for two Secret Service officers and a few other sleepy public servants.
The moon is beautiful this morning, so I deviate slightly and ride up the hill to the Washington Monument and take some pictures with my phone. One looked like this:
I grew up between a junkyard and a cow farm, then next to a dog food factory and a headlight factory. Life is strange.
I don't always ride my bike to work, it's a routine that broke during remote work and winter, despite riding in the rain and the snow and the ice when I lived in Chicago. It was a routine, one I'd like to establish again. Some folks confuse routine and discipline, but for me routine is laziness. Or, at least, it gives me something to latch onto when I feel unmoored.
If someone wakes up every day and rides their bike to work or takes a run, you might call that discipline. If someone wakes up every morning and goes to McDonald's for three hotcakes and a hash brown, you would probably not call that discipline. But they may both be routine.
A true routine I have is my Sunday morning. I wake up around 6, if I'm not already awake (sadly, I always am) and shower. I drift around my apartment getting my book or books for the day, my Claritin, my sunglasses, tissues, and then I pet my cat for a bit. My cat, Ripley, looks like this:
Around 7:40 I'll leave my apartment and start walking. In the spring the walk is beautiful, particularly when I get to Swann St. Eventually the ginkgo trees there will sprout a little yellow fruit, which is lovely to see and wretched to smell. I check one of my favorite Little Free Libraries here and sometimes deposit books as well.
I get to Ted's Bulletin around 8am or just after. A pedestrian choice, sure, but I am a pedestrian. I'm one of a cadre of regulars on Sunday morning. They are:
A woman always sitting on the far stool working on a laptop and drinking mimosas.
A guy around my age who always chats up the bartender and the manager. I only recently spoke to him and learned his name, strange since by virtue of sitting 5 feet from him weekly for the past year I have overheard about his work, family, friends. For a year, I have wondered if it would be rude to say he looks a little like Stephen Merchant.
An older, grumpy, guy who is often prickly and sometimes rude.
Lately, two drunkish firemen. They are loud and still having drinks, and I'm occasionally touched by their sharing of insecurities with each other, talking through friendships and life. They seem good-hearted.
The bartenders know me. I'll drink my first cup of coffee, black, and read my book. I used to read the New York Times Book Review, but my unread pile began overflowing. So now my pile of NYTimes issues is overflowing. I usually finish the first cup slowly and order my food around 8:30. My order deviates sometimes, but I never look at the menu. I always order one of these:
Most often: Two eggs, over medium, hash brown, and optional English muffin, optional bacon. Pepper on the eggs, rarely Chalula.
If very hungry: French toast, two eggs over medium, hash brown, optional bacon.
If I had too much wine the night before, or if I have no appetite: Overnight oats (somehow, these cost the same as the French toast).
If it is my birthday, or I'm celebrating something (or maybe, mourning something): Cinnamon roll as 'big as yer head' and likely several mimosas. The cinnamon rolls look like this:
Mimosas are a rare treat, but never impossible.
The restaurant is a reliable source for Scenes. This past Sunday, while drinking my first cup of coffee, the Grumpy Man came in and sat a few down from me. His food eventually arrives, but he gets a phone call. He gets up to take the call, but he walks over to the end of the bar, where Mimosa Lady is. He seems to lean so closely to her, reaching over her, to grab the pepper. I watch her eyes stab him from their corners, and she frowns at him the whole time. He is oblivious. He walks off, and she catches my eyes, because I am cackling quietly at this oddity I've witnessed. She gives the universal, 'what the fuck' hand signal and expression as she says quietly to me, "Am I trippin'?" "No you are not," I’m still laughing. She, the bartender, and I all have a little side conversation about this very strange man who is often rude.
Though, this is not the most out of bounds I've seen someone be at the restaurant. Several weeks ago, maybe I was sitting on the same stool, a man was sitting next to me having some drinks. A bartender came in to start his shift and he stood behind the bar and tucked his shirt in. The man started with, "Hey, I know it's not my place, but..."
Folks, if you ever begin a sentence with "I know it's not my place" my advice to you is to end the sentence without going on.
The man told the bartender he should do that in the bathroom or in private. I did not think the bartender sliding the back of his shirt into his pants was really that big of a deal. Others may disagree, and I guess I could understand. The man goes on, however, "it looks like you just rolled out of bed and came in." The bartender is clearly managing his response, and starts to walk off. Customer resumes, calling after him that his vest's rear clasp isn't fastened, and offers to fasten it for him. This part was strange.
As the bartender walks off, the customer asks rather loudly, "am I wrong?" I look at him, and he asks again, "Am I wrong?" I say plainly, "Yep."
"I'm wrong!?"
"Yes," I say.
When the bartender comes back, the customer 'apologizes' by saying, "hey man I'm sorry, this guy says I'm wrong." For what it's worth, it does seem half genuine. I think the guy probably should have put the Irish Coffee down. He went outside to suck down a cigarette. The other guy my age, the regular, tells me he's glad I said something.
Anyway, I'll eat my food while I eat and finish my coffee. Usually, I have 3 or 4 cups. I pay and then walk down the street to a café off the major road and down a side street. The baristas here all know me, and my order almost never changes: large vanilla oatmilk latte (truly reppin' the gays), hot or iced depending on the temperature of the café and outside.
I'll drink my coffee usually in off seat by the window, which lets me look at the dogs that get tied up on the benches outside. Surprisingly, the café is rarely good for scenes with strangers.
I did go into a different café downtown (Coffee Republic) because I needed to kill some time after work before another event. I was reading my book (Shame, by Annie Ernaux) but got up to use the bathroom. When I came back, a little girl was sitting at the other side of the table (which was two tables pushed together, so, not exactly the same table, but enough so to give me pause). Presumably, her parents sat behind her at a table for two. I sat down and went back to reading while she talked in my direction to her parents about her new Elphaba doll, which she was excited about. She was displeased that her dad did not remember Glinda's name. She had a blue icee with no lid. Perhaps you know what happened.
Back to Sunday. Usually I'm at the café until 10:45 or 11, at which point I either walk home or go to the park nearby to walk laps. At 11 each Sunday, I have a call with my Mom. We talk about our work week, things we've watched or (moreso in my case) read. These usually last an hour but have lasted as many as three in the recent past. If I go home during these, I clean up my apartment while talking. After the call, I'll usually finish cleaning up.
From there, the routine is ended. What happens after is anyone's guess. Though it will probably involve wine and a book, or film development/processing, or tinkering with something at my workbench and 3D printer.
There are so many other scenes, though. When I first started this writing, I thought I would talk more about them.
For example, last week I went out after work with two coworkers, our first stop was a sports bar. We sat outside; I had rum punch, and we all split a bucket of beers. We were discussing my Bathroom article, which one of them had been reading. Her feedback, like the feedback of another friend of mine: "men are strange." She left to use the bathroom and returned excited, "Thomas! I think you'll like the bathrooms!"
I sucked down the last of my first rum punch and went to find out for myself. My joy was less than full. It was entirely urinals and one stall. I stepped up to a urinal and started working my math problems and stared at the TV overhead while two men, apparent strangers, were in the room. One finished his business and joined the other at the sink. I am not embellishing this conversation:
"You just take a piss?"
"I sure did."
"That shits electric, yo."
"Oh when you've had a few drinks? For sure."
They then started talking sports which to me always sounds like the parents in the Peanuts talking. I simply could not believe it. When I left the bathroom, they had fully stopped on the stairs back down to keep talking about some game where a ball is tossed around. Perfect strangers. You cannot imagine the delight in which I partook sharing this story with my colleagues.
Another scene, Sunday the 16th. I'm walking home from the café and have gone through the park for some reason, despite it being out of my way. This means I'm approaching 18th st and then heading South. In front of what used to be the Christian Science Reading Room, a homeless man that I see frequently stands in front of me and asks me for money. I say I'm sorry, that I don't have anything. He doesn't let me finish, he yells at me loudly, "kill yourself!"
A lot of things pass through my mind to say. None of them are angry or anything like that, just sad. I didn’t say anything, I just looked down. I have dedicated my entire adult life to working to end homelessness. I cannot tell you how big of a hypocrite and fraud I feel when I don't have anything to offer. Still, what does that guy have to show for my work? What does anyone? I don't blame him. But he did catch me on a bad day, and I felt bad the rest of the day thinking about it.
It's quite a thing to say to someone. It does stick in your ear.
Another interaction with someone that I don't know, but I suspect, was experiencing homelessness: I was crossing 13th St near the Blick and the camera shop, heading west. A guy came up to me while I waited for the signal to change and asked where I was from. I took my headphone out, "huh?"
"Where you from!?" He is in a good nature.
"Illinois."
"Oh! You made it to the championship!"
"What?"
"[Sports!]"
"Sorry, I don't follow any of that."
He immediately lost interest and crossed 13th without waiting for the signal to change.
Last Friday, I went to an author event at a local book store. I'd read (and, unfortunately, loathed) the book and was not sure why I was even attending. Something to do to get out of the apartment, I guess.
I was frustrated to find the author a perfectly nice and pleasant person, who clearly put a lot of work and thought into her book. Okay, not frustrated. Mostly confused. I was frustrated with the moderator, who confused character names, spent much of his question-asking-time recounting the plot at length. I was befuddled to hear how funny he thought the book was, when I don't think it got even a rueful smirk out of me.
To make matters worse, the moderator started reading a sentence. I knew it immediately. I have it flagged in my copy of the book. I will not transpose the sentence, but I'll tell you my margin note: "Good god." It is without a doubt my least favorite sentence in the book, and that includes the one with 39 words (two of them needlessly the same on either side of a clause offset by commas) and six commas.
After the event, I stood in line to have my book signed and chatted with some folks from the book club, all of whom were enjoying the book and were still in the first part. When I met the author, I hoped she did not see my tabs and flip open to one of them where I'd scrawled "wtf" or "good god" in the margin. We had a pleasant encounter, where I mentioned I grew up not far from where the book's protagonist is from, and also had moved to Chicago. She asked me if I liked Chicago or DC more, and I confessed that I love Chicago and miss it often. We had a nice moment over that, and she signed my book as such.
Frankly, the encounter was so nice that I walked home feeling bad about the review I'd posted. I felt so guilty that as soon as I got into my apartment, I opened my laptop and put a note on my review saying what a nice person she seemed and how the talk was very nice, and perhaps the book was just not for me in that moment. I didn't edit my original review or change the rating, because I felt like that'd be dishonest. What am I going to do, pretend I loved it?
One final scene. I am taking pictures downtown—this is months ago—and I look up and see window washers. I think this has great potential and I point my camera straight up. My camera knocks my hat off, and I grab it and hold it in my mouth while I take the picture.
A guy and his daughter stop me to ask for directions: "Excuse me, do you know where the Smithsonian is?"
It is a grave error to ask me for directions. But at least I am friendly (I hope).
"Which one? There are a couple of them."
"Oh, uh, you know, the one main one, the one here in DC."
"Well, I think there are something like 17 of them here."
I can see that they are not sure what they are looking for, "do you mean the one with the space stuff?"
"Yeah!"
By some cosmic miracle, I am in such a place in the city, and know where that place is in relation to the museum, that I can give exact directions. This has never happened before and is unlikely to ever happen again so long as I live.
All involved part in a great mood.
The picture is totally mediocre. It looks like this:
That's all I've got this week! Routine and some scenes around town. Hopefully nothing too, too, heavy.
Other Reading/Watching/Writing
3/22/25 - Documentary review, KOKO: A TALKING GORILLA (2.5/5)
3/23/25 - Book review, The Human Condition by Hannah Arendt (4/5, quite a long review)
Book review, Home on Earth: Recipes for Healthy Houses by BLDUS, photographs by Ty Cole (4/5)
3/24/25 - Book review, Collaborative Cities: Mapping Solutions to Wicked Problems by S. Goldsmith, K. M. Coleman, and R. Florida (4/5)
Book review, Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux, tr. Tanya Leslie (5/5)
3/25/25 - Film review, CLUE (4/5, rewatch)
3/26/25 - Film review, INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE (5/5, rewatch)