Peripatetic Blues
May. 6th, 2008 12:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"He who can take no great interest in what is small will take false interest in what is great."
- John Ruskin (English art & social critic)
As I mentioned yesterday, this is Board Week at my place of employment. So it goes that one of our biggest wigs -- a high-ranking government relations official with a well-regarded Boston-area financial services company -- missed the advance legislative update briefing via conference call last week (perhaps because his Rolls Royce was stuck in traffic) and today requested that we send him a CD recording of the proceedings.
This is no problem, as he was not the only person to miss the call; I had copied and sent a number of these recordings last week. He was, however, a bit tardy in making this request, such that if it were dropped in the mail this afternoon, there is a danger that it might not reach him until after Thursday's meeting. Fortunately, he had asked that I send the recording to the Washington D.C. office, which meant that I could ensure the prompt delivery of the package and at the same time save my employer the 75 cents in postage by walking it over myself.
This afternoon was lovely -- cloudless and 79 degrees as of noon -- and my walk was eventful, with something thought-provoking at every corner.
At 12th and H Street, while paused at a crosswalk, I noticed a large truck with the trademark "U-Shred-It" on the side. I personally have a number of boxes of stuff that I would very much like to shred, incinerate or otherwise destroy -- bills, bank statements and the like. (I don't know if this stuff really needs to be destroyed -- I'm not sure what kind of nefarious activity it could enable or inspire, but just in case there's someone out there who could steal my identity using intimate knowledge of my cell phone plan, I figure I should be extra cautious.) Unfortunately, the U-Shred-It people and their competitors will not drop by to pick up anything less than a sh!tload of boxes (roughly equivalent to "a fu&king ton"). And at the same time, it is far too much material to shred in our wimpy office shredder, which threatens to explode if you try to feed it more than four sheets per hour. So I'm stuck in this middle ground where I'm now just collecting sensitive material and running out of inobtrusive storage space. I have half a mind to find a landscaping service who can turn it into mulch.
At 11th and G Street, near the St. Patrick Catholic Church, I came upon the annual Blue Mass, the city's yearly service honoring fallen law enforcement officers and other first responders (this "blue mass" not to be confused with the early 19th century medicine or Chicago Bears lineman Aaron Gibson). It appeared to be a solemn and dignified affair, what with the officers from various constituencies in full dress and all manner of flags and banners. There was even a full contingent of Scottish bagpipers, in tams and kilts and the whole nine. Why is it that Scottish bagpipers are so common at police funerals? Isn't the stereotypical cop Irish or Italian, not Scottish? Even the Crime Dog is "McGruff", not "MacDuff."
Speaking of the Emerald Isle, on the way I stopped by a liquor store near 10th and F Street to purchase some Baileys Irish Cream -- an errand that J. had sent me on weeks ago but I kept forgetting about. Ireland's sons and daughters are renowned as epic drinkers, but Ireland itself seems to be known best for its whiskey and its Irish cream liqueur. But wait -- aren't the Irish also known for being inveterate potato-eaters and potato-growers, to the point where a potato famine caused the starvation of more than 1.5 million people who had to subsist on nothing but leftover bacon bits and chives? And isn't distillation of potato the basic ingredient for vodka? How is it that the Irish haven't produced a popular name-brand vodka? It's sort of shocking that their crop hasn't been seized by marauding scandinavians already.
For lunch, I had planned on picking up a sandwich from one of the 500 delis or sub shops along the way, until I came upon a vision at 9th and E Street: A Bruegger's bagel bakery. Now, despite my share of Jewish blood and a mother from the suburban streets of Long Island, I am not what you would call a bagel expert. My ultra-gentile friend GDA and my shiksa girlfriend, who both logged time behind a bagel counter, know their way around a shmeer better than I do. But I very much enjoy a good bagel, and I know a crappy bagel when I taste one. Sadly, I have honed that palate in my tenure here in Washington; looking for a decent bagel in this city is like panning for gold in a minefield. Bruegger's, which was the first real bagel place in my hometown of Rochester, has now taken a foothold in the Beltway region, and, apparently, downtown D.C. I was so excited that I stopped in for a Plain, Toasted and Buttered. Now, if only they branched out into doughnuts.
At 7th and Pennsylvania Avenue, I was waiting for the "walk" light when a gaggle of teenage girls came strutting past me on the sidewalk. I tried to eavesdrop on what they were saying -- I always try to eavesdrop on passing women, just in case they are saying something flattering about my butt -- but there were too many voices rattling by in that impatient teenaged cadence. In fact, I had one of those moments where I wasn't sure if they were just talking too busily or if they were in fact talking in a different language. (It sounded like it could have been German, with perhaps a Swiss dialect.) Does that happen to anyone else? Does that happen anywhere else?
Finally, twenty minutes after leaving my office, I got to my destination at 6th and Pennsylvania where I dutifully signed in at the security desk and went up to the fourth floor. I found the office -- which seemed strangely dim -- and rang the doorbell. No answer. And again. Still no answer. I knocked on the door. Nothing. I told the security guard about my dilemma and asked if he could take the package. He laughed at me. "Of course not. I can't do that," he said, as if he was only qualified to watch people sign their names into a binder.
So I went back to my office. In my effort to save my employers 75 cents, I had instead cost them a half-hour of my services -- roughly 1/4,000th of my annual salary (which happily comes to more than 75 cents). But at least I have my bagel and Irish cream to show for the trip. And a mild sunburn.
- John Ruskin (English art & social critic)
As I mentioned yesterday, this is Board Week at my place of employment. So it goes that one of our biggest wigs -- a high-ranking government relations official with a well-regarded Boston-area financial services company -- missed the advance legislative update briefing via conference call last week (perhaps because his Rolls Royce was stuck in traffic) and today requested that we send him a CD recording of the proceedings.
This is no problem, as he was not the only person to miss the call; I had copied and sent a number of these recordings last week. He was, however, a bit tardy in making this request, such that if it were dropped in the mail this afternoon, there is a danger that it might not reach him until after Thursday's meeting. Fortunately, he had asked that I send the recording to the Washington D.C. office, which meant that I could ensure the prompt delivery of the package and at the same time save my employer the 75 cents in postage by walking it over myself.
This afternoon was lovely -- cloudless and 79 degrees as of noon -- and my walk was eventful, with something thought-provoking at every corner.
At 12th and H Street, while paused at a crosswalk, I noticed a large truck with the trademark "U-Shred-It" on the side. I personally have a number of boxes of stuff that I would very much like to shred, incinerate or otherwise destroy -- bills, bank statements and the like. (I don't know if this stuff really needs to be destroyed -- I'm not sure what kind of nefarious activity it could enable or inspire, but just in case there's someone out there who could steal my identity using intimate knowledge of my cell phone plan, I figure I should be extra cautious.) Unfortunately, the U-Shred-It people and their competitors will not drop by to pick up anything less than a sh!tload of boxes (roughly equivalent to "a fu&king ton"). And at the same time, it is far too much material to shred in our wimpy office shredder, which threatens to explode if you try to feed it more than four sheets per hour. So I'm stuck in this middle ground where I'm now just collecting sensitive material and running out of inobtrusive storage space. I have half a mind to find a landscaping service who can turn it into mulch.
At 11th and G Street, near the St. Patrick Catholic Church, I came upon the annual Blue Mass, the city's yearly service honoring fallen law enforcement officers and other first responders (this "blue mass" not to be confused with the early 19th century medicine or Chicago Bears lineman Aaron Gibson). It appeared to be a solemn and dignified affair, what with the officers from various constituencies in full dress and all manner of flags and banners. There was even a full contingent of Scottish bagpipers, in tams and kilts and the whole nine. Why is it that Scottish bagpipers are so common at police funerals? Isn't the stereotypical cop Irish or Italian, not Scottish? Even the Crime Dog is "McGruff", not "MacDuff."
Speaking of the Emerald Isle, on the way I stopped by a liquor store near 10th and F Street to purchase some Baileys Irish Cream -- an errand that J. had sent me on weeks ago but I kept forgetting about. Ireland's sons and daughters are renowned as epic drinkers, but Ireland itself seems to be known best for its whiskey and its Irish cream liqueur. But wait -- aren't the Irish also known for being inveterate potato-eaters and potato-growers, to the point where a potato famine caused the starvation of more than 1.5 million people who had to subsist on nothing but leftover bacon bits and chives? And isn't distillation of potato the basic ingredient for vodka? How is it that the Irish haven't produced a popular name-brand vodka? It's sort of shocking that their crop hasn't been seized by marauding scandinavians already.
For lunch, I had planned on picking up a sandwich from one of the 500 delis or sub shops along the way, until I came upon a vision at 9th and E Street: A Bruegger's bagel bakery. Now, despite my share of Jewish blood and a mother from the suburban streets of Long Island, I am not what you would call a bagel expert. My ultra-gentile friend GDA and my shiksa girlfriend, who both logged time behind a bagel counter, know their way around a shmeer better than I do. But I very much enjoy a good bagel, and I know a crappy bagel when I taste one. Sadly, I have honed that palate in my tenure here in Washington; looking for a decent bagel in this city is like panning for gold in a minefield. Bruegger's, which was the first real bagel place in my hometown of Rochester, has now taken a foothold in the Beltway region, and, apparently, downtown D.C. I was so excited that I stopped in for a Plain, Toasted and Buttered. Now, if only they branched out into doughnuts.
At 7th and Pennsylvania Avenue, I was waiting for the "walk" light when a gaggle of teenage girls came strutting past me on the sidewalk. I tried to eavesdrop on what they were saying -- I always try to eavesdrop on passing women, just in case they are saying something flattering about my butt -- but there were too many voices rattling by in that impatient teenaged cadence. In fact, I had one of those moments where I wasn't sure if they were just talking too busily or if they were in fact talking in a different language. (It sounded like it could have been German, with perhaps a Swiss dialect.) Does that happen to anyone else? Does that happen anywhere else?
Finally, twenty minutes after leaving my office, I got to my destination at 6th and Pennsylvania where I dutifully signed in at the security desk and went up to the fourth floor. I found the office -- which seemed strangely dim -- and rang the doorbell. No answer. And again. Still no answer. I knocked on the door. Nothing. I told the security guard about my dilemma and asked if he could take the package. He laughed at me. "Of course not. I can't do that," he said, as if he was only qualified to watch people sign their names into a binder.
So I went back to my office. In my effort to save my employers 75 cents, I had instead cost them a half-hour of my services -- roughly 1/4,000th of my annual salary (which happily comes to more than 75 cents). But at least I have my bagel and Irish cream to show for the trip. And a mild sunburn.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Absolut Potato
Date: 2008-05-07 01:05 pm (UTC)Re: Absolut Potato
Date: 2008-05-07 01:15 pm (UTC)Re: Absolut Potato
Date: 2008-05-07 04:33 pm (UTC)It's actually pretty good.
- Maestro
Re: Absolut Potato
Date: 2008-05-07 04:45 pm (UTC)