Excuse Me, Is That Your Blog?

Like many businesses in this dismal economy, Metro is strapped for cash. Even with recent fare hikes and a surge in new riders due to high fuel costs, Metro’s financial situation is bleak. The deluge of tourons that descended upon our nation’s capital in January for The Obama’s inauguration, or the Cherry Blossom festival this month, may have provided a temporary boost in profits, but to survive in the long-term Metro will have to find another source of funding. I have a solution that will not only provide revenue, it will improve the quality of commuting for the half million riders in the DC area that depend on public transportation: Fine people who play their Ipods too loudly and people who wear too much cologne and/or perfume. These ignorant, inconsiderate, and quite frankly, disgusting people should be targeted with the same tenacity with which we are encouraged to report unattended bags.

Granted, the Metro brings out the worst in even the most sophisticated of men and women. We clamor and claw at one another to get on a certain train, knowing full well that another will follow approximately 2 minutes later. We curse at the oblivious tourists (and sometimes denizens) who stand in the left lane, jam the turnstiles because they can’t figure out how to put their damn fare card in the machine, and meander about aimlessly on the concourses, blocking us from the path to catch our connecting trains. But I believe that these reactions are a simple byproduct of the workaholic, competitive nature of DC residents. Once we actually board the train, we return to relative civility. We open up the Washington Post or a New York Times bestseller, and fall back into the comfort of our own invisible pods of self-absorption. Unfortunately, there are several among us who threaten the peaceful harmony that flourishes within the Metro trains, often making the atmosphere within the cars as chaotic and unpleasant as the struggle getting to the cars.

The first type of offender is the person who plays his/her Ipod at an unreasonably loud volume. They are called “personal” music devices for a reason: they are meant to be enjoyed privately without imposing on other people. One is not supposed to fire thunderous blasts of T.I. or Nickelback into the ears of other passengers. That’s right folks, as if it weren’t bad enough that I am distracted from my reading by the strident sounds from peoples’ headphones, the music is invariably in poor taste. But to be fair, and to set a good example, I believe that all Ipod/Walkman listeners should refrain from noise pollution and keep their music to themselves. It is disruptive to people trying to read, relax after a hard day at work, or even carry on a simple conversation. The other day I read the same paragraph 4 times because I could not concentrate with the shrill reverberations bursting forth from some asshole’s headphones. It was as if I had a boombox on my shoulder, but without the breakdancing. More importantly, noise pollution is pernicious to the health of others. In this respect it is similar to second-hand smoke. As a society we have agreed that if a person wants to contract lung cancer, then that is his or her right as an American citizen. But that person should not force others to bear the negative consequences of his or her unhealthy behavior. Likewise, if a person wants to render oneself deaf, he or she is entitled to do so. But that person should not destroy the hearing of others in the process. It is literally painful to bear the monstrous sounds sometimes; I can almost feel my ears bleeding. Noise pollution is a threat to peace of mind and the stability of the auditory senses.

The second type of Metro menace is the excessive cologne/perfume wearer. On what planet is it appealing to ward off a full-front assault on the olfactory system? A subtle dab of cologne, perfume, scented lotion, etc is acceptable, perhaps even attractive. But to douse oneself in a pungent substance like one bastes a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner is absolutely repulsive. It is literally nauseating, especially for people like me with allergies and asthma who have heightened sensitivity to strong, chemical-based odors. I had to leave a train last week because I was sick to my stomach, faint, and suffering a headache from one of these buffoons. It was as if the man swam 75 laps in an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with Polo. I’ve had this happen on planes and elevators before, but the air pressure and filtering systems generally eliminate the noxious effects on planes, and elevator rides are short. Neither of these mitigating factors applies to the Metro system, at least not to us poor schleps who have to travel from Takoma Park to Arlington on a regular basis. I can’t imagine how one could completely lack awareness and/or concern for the fact that he or she is inducing nausea in fellow passengers. Olfactory pollution is a serious offense, and should be punished as such.

So what is Metro to do to thwart the reckless behavior of noise and olfactory polluters? It should do the same thing the federal government does with manufacturers that pollute the air and water: Tax Them! This solution is based on the simple economic concept of externalities. A firm takes its production costs and consumer preferences into consideration when it produces goods, ideally reaching a market equilibrium in which supply equals demand. But the firm does not account for the social costs of manufacturing which harm consumers, such as pollution. Therefore the actual consumer demand, and thus the socially optimum equilibrium, is lower than the privately optimum level. To make up for this difference – the externality imposed by the firm – the government charges a tax that reflects the difference between the socially and privately optimal prices. The tax revenues are then distributed back to the consumers via improved government services or tax cuts, which compensates for the noxious pollution they have to endure. Meanwhile, the burden of the tax deters firms from producing excessive pollution. Everyone is happy and the world is a better place.

Similarly, Metro should tax noise and olfactory polluters for the social costs they impose on other passengers. The tax should be equal to the difference between the socially and privately optimal levels of sound and smell. In an ideal situation, the offenders would pay these taxes at the time they purchase their cologne, perfume, or Ipod. However there is no way to predict a priori who will “pollute” and who will use these products responsibly, and we cannot rely on polluters to self-identify. Therefore I propose that Metro fine those who wear too much cologne and perfume, and those who listen to their Ipods too loudly. The fine should be equal to the average fare per rider * the average number of riders per train during high traffic hours (Approximately 8 AM-9PM). This is the fairest way to force polluters to take into consideration the comfort and welfare of other passengers. The process I envision is simple, though it will require some upfront costs. Here is the plan:

1) Metro assigns a “pollution policeman” for every train in service during high traffic hours.
2) The pollution policeman conducts regular “rounds”, patrolling up and down the center aisle of each car to listen and smell for polluters
3) If the pollution policeman can distinctly smell cologne or perfume, or hear noise from any headphones, he or she issues a ticket to the offender and takes a photograph of the offender.
4) The offender pays the ticket within 30 days, after which the fine increases and/or penalties are imposed.
5) Metro keeps a record of offenders with photographs and payment records. If any person has not paid within the 30 day window, Metro pollution policeman are authorized to order the offender to leave the train at the next stop, and alerts all other Metro policeman to look out for the offender and prevent him or her from riding any train. The offender will not be allowed to ride any Metro train until fines are paid.
6) The offender can appeal in a process similar to the traffic court process, but only with credible witnesses that testify under oath.

Of course this plan is not perfect, and like any public policy, there will be people who try to circumvent the law. But it is the most feasible and fair way to promote responsible and considerate commuting in DC. It will require hiring dozens of new staff, but it will also generate a considerable amount of income for Metro. After an initial round of reliable enforcement, the negative behavior will decrease and Metro pollution policemen can simply serve as a deterrent to maintain order in the Metro system. Eventually, Metro will be able to cut back on the pollution police force. At that time, the economy will have improved and/or Metro will have increased ridership and pollution policeman can be reassigned to expand services. After an initial surge in revenue from fines, income will decrease and plateau once people understand that Metro is serious about enforcing the pollution laws. However, the decrease in additional income will be offset by the corresponding increase in ridership, as commuters will be more likely to ride the train knowing the atmosphere is pleasant, as well as the adjustments in staff.

We the commuters of DC, in order to form a more perfect Metro, must take back our trains and rid them of unnecessary noise and smells. I urge you to contact your city councilperson immediately, write to Metro, and melodramatically demonstrate disapproval toward auditory and olfactory polluters. YES WE CAN go to work and return home headache and nausea free!

Rarely can an event as historic as yesterday’s inauguration of Barack Obama be summed up with one word. But this one is easy: clusterfuck. Never have I been a part of such a piss-poorly managed event in my entire life.

My friends and I waited in a mile and a quarter long line on abandoned I-395. It was like a fucking George A. Romero flick. Occasionally, we were passed by ambulances, EMTs and buses full of TSA agents who apparently went nowhere and did nothing. And we were the lucky ones, because at least we got in. Thousands of legit ticket holders got screwed out of getting in, thanks to the brilliant foresight of the event planners. Seriously, would it have been hard to figure out how many people the event could hold and only print that many tickets? Or to get like, ten fucking cops posted along the streets with signs or megaphone directing the huddled masses to their cattle pens? Nobody had any clue what the christ they were doing. And incompetent leadership coupled with brain dead tourists = FAIL.

All this bullshit of course went down under the guise of “security” and, as usual, it ended up being more of a hassle than it was worth. When we finally crammed in to the gates, just in time to miss the oath of office, we walked through metal detectors and were briefly patted on the hips. Really fucking thorough. It was like one final “fuck you” from Bush as he guffawed his way out of office.

Though I have to say, it could have been worse. No one died, no one was arrested. In fact, the crowds were all very jovial from what I could tell. And the Metro may have run more efficiently yesterday than I’ve seen it run in my entire DC existence. Tourists were tourists, but most were decent. Most were courteous and respectful; they were here to witness history. Others were self-righteous yuppie douchebags glued to their iPhones, Twittering their thoughts so their douche friends back in New York or Chicago or Boston or Seattle could read them and be jealous (unlike me – I continually updated my Facebook status from my BlackBerry!). Still others were mindless morons that thought it would be a good idea to toss their babies in a backpack or a messenger bag and make them bear the cold for hours on end to see something they won’t remember. Many were devastated to find out they couldn’t drink Starbucks/eat McDonald’s/smoke/chew tobacco/be total assholes on the Metro. But again, these folks were the minority for once, and it was a lot of fun seeing America come together in DC for this thing

There are two things we can be really thankful for today. One, Barackstar is here to bring us Hope, Change, Unicorns, Cotton Candy and Ice Cream Sundays. Two, we don’t have to hear about the goddamn Whistle-stop Tour or what dress Michelle Obama is going to wear or how Obama loves basketball or what kind of dog the Obamas are getting.

Wait, who am I kidding? That shit’s never gonna let up. But at least the tourists will go home. And we can look forward to George W. Bush’s post-election antics. Do I smell “Celebrity Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?”

Y'all are crazy: A rebuttal by a crotchety old cynic, aka Sober Pundit

While Turk and El Braixan foolishly ventured into the Arctic weather and smothering throng of tourons to catch a glimpse of Obama on a jumbotron, I watched the proceedings unfold from the comfort of my friends' couch in Sherman Oaks. That's right folks, I escaped to Los Angeles to avoid the aforementioned hot mess. Or shall I say, "cold mess?" As my colleagues waited in unbearably long lines to be ceremoniously examined by security guards, or to take a piss, I relaxed in my pajamas, sipping freshly brewed coffee and making goofy faces at my friends' adorable 14-month-old son. Sure they got to experience history in the making, which is the same reason the damn fools took a cab from Arlington to the White House on Election Night to drunkenly belt the National Anthem with some fratboys from GW. But there are few things an old fart (I'm 29) like me despises more than crowds, cold weather, and lack of immediate access to a clean bathroom. Nosiree, I'd rather stay home and watch the President-elect and Chief Justice fumble the oath of office close up on a Television screen, with Wolf Blitzer and that prematurely grey homosexual man explaining everything in detail so I don't have to constantly ask, "What did he say? Who's that tramp dressed like a woman for hire?"* If'n I were unfortunate enough to be stuck in the District for this tomfoolery, I would brandish my cane at the audience assembled on the National Mall and scream, "GET OFF MY LAWN!"**

*Turns out it was Dr. Jill Biden

**GET OFF MY LAWN will premiere soon as part of an ongoing series on Excuse Me, is that your Blog? Our senior correspondent, Sober Pundit, will lament all that is wrong with "kids these days" and how their parents raised them improperly.

There are not many benefits to living in Washington D.C. The rent is astronomical. The people are tools. We don’t have representation in Congress. There are rats – flagrant rats that appear out of nowhere, demanding cheese like drug addicted homeless people. But to the city’s credit, it is very accessible. I have acquired sleeker and sexier thighs from the sheer amount of walking I do on a daily basis. I can walk to all the important places I frequent - grocery stores, bars, and my boyfriend’s house. Any place I can’t access by foot is merely a short metro ride away, at least on Monday-Friday (and where else to go on weekends but grocery stores, bars, and one’s boyfriend’s house). My perambulation serves as a source of exercise, meditation, and an act environmental conscientiousness.

Unfortunately, not everyone in the district is so keen on walking. Despite being rated as the second worst metropolitan area for traffic congestion, exorbitant fuel prices, and my previous observation that no one should need to drive in the city, there are a considerable amount of motorists on the streets of Washington D.C. And they’re all assholes.

Before living in D.C., there were only 2 times in my entire life (28 years at that point) that I was within seconds of death. One time, in early childhood, was at the aquarium in Baltimore, when I almost fell in the shark tank (they’ve since secured the area). The second time, in my adolescence, was when a hot iron almost fell on my face. Yet in just over one year of residency in the district, I’ve had countless unwelcome reminders of my mortality. Motorists in this town run me down like lions chasing gazelles on the Serengeti.

Let me make something clear: I am a prudent pedestrian. I obey traffic signals and observe crosswalks. I don’t just dart out into the middle of a busy road whenever I feel like it. I work in public health – we’re safety freaks. In spite of my caution, I frequently find myself standing like a deer in headlights, face to face with a car careening toward me like a bat out of hell. I remain there, dumfounded, reminding my would-be manslaughter that the walk signal is on, or that I’m in the middle of a clearly designated crosswalk. I hear all kinds of obscenities in return. My roommate once had a man get out of the car and shout, “What’s it gonna be lie to be right and dead?”. I’ve never had anything that drastic occur, but I wouldn’t be the least be surprised if it were to happen. Drivers in this city are egomaniacal bullies with reckless disregard for the lives of us lowly pedestrians. It’s bad enough that they refuse to acknowledge the existence of crosswalks, traffic lights, and other institutions of safety and order. But they add insult to injury by accusing ME of wrongdoing, when I’m clearly a) at the mercy of their death machines and b) a damn good upstanding citizen because I’m not polluting the air or supporting terrorist oil regimes. So put that in your exhaust pipe and smoke it, drivers.

I’m not sure what it is about D.C. in particular that makes the drivers so selfish and sadistic. I imagine it’s simply a byproduct of the general mentality of people in this city – a delusion of grandeur that they are so important that they must get where they’re going immediately, no matter whom they squish along the way. Glued to their blackberries (even while driving), they push their way around with wanton neglect for the safety of others. They can’t be bothered by crosswalks and traffic lights – they can afford high-powered attorneys to get them acquitted should they happen to commit vehicular homicide. Global warming? Terrorism? Oil dependency? These issues pale in comparison with the immediate comfort and convenience of self-anointed VIPs in the District of Columbia.

Another reason I surmise that people insist in driving in this scalable metropolis is that they are simply fat and lazy. This problem is not just endemic to the District of Columbia, it is a plague affecting our entire nation. One need look no farther than the fanny-pack clad tourists littering our Metro system (and I thank them for at least using public transit instead of renting cars) or grazing about the Pentagon City Mall to realize that America is morbidly obese. It’s a Catch 22 – they drive because they are fat, and thus they never lose weight because they don’t get off their fat asses to walk. Pretty soon they’ll all be flying around in lounge chairs with computers granting their every wish, ala Wall E. I can’t even imagine how urban planners will respond to this new traffic conundrum, but I know healthy, earth-loving pedestrians like me are going to have to look more than 2 ways when crossing the streets.

Here are the morals I’d like you to take away from this post, if you care to derive any valuable message. If you drive in D.C., take a serious inventory of your life and determine if you are driving out of necessity, ego, or laziness. If either of the later are the case, STOP DRIVING!!! You will save yourself some money, and get some much needed exercise. If you absolutely need to drive in D.C., please calm the fuck down. Put on NPR, classical music, smooth jazz – whatever it takes to reduce your unfounded angst. Observe crosswalks and traffic lights, and be patient as we pedestrians cross the street. After all, we’re saving your lives with our carbon neutrality.

And if you’re a fellow pedestrian like me, keep on shaking your ass. But watch yourself.

Well, it's official. I'm no longer a DC resident. That certainly doesn't mean I have to stop bitching, though. In fact, now that I live in Ballston, I'll have even more to bitch about (in a thinly veiled attempt to mask the fact that I'm rapidly becoming everything I hate). I'll skip all the usual "OMG NoVa IS FOR DOUCHEBAGS" stuff -- not that it's not mostly true -- and get right to the point. Rosslyn Metro station is perhaps the worst place on earth. And I say that as a person who has lived Uzbekistan (no offense to my Uzbeks bros). All that is unholy emanates from the subterranean dungeon that is Rosslyn. If I have to transfer trains here every morning and afternoon for the rest of my days in DC, then the chances of me killing someone are higher than the chances of Bristol Palin's marriage ending quickly and painfully (oh sorry, is Bristol still off limits?). And murder is only the second most likely scenario, the first being me committing seppuku.

Why? Rosslyn station never has more than one working escalator at any given time. Fools are tripping all over themselves running both ways. Once you manage to get to your transfer platform without getting trampled, then comes the arduous task of actually getting on the train. Most of the time, trains are spaced just far enough apart that every car will be packed to the brim with a sweaty, smelly clusterfuck of bodies. You will never get more than two inches of personal space. There is no air on any of the cars, either -- you'll breath only the stale exhalations of other passengers. Cars will be heated during the summer and air conditioned during the winter.

And the act of boarding the train is truly a test of one's mettle. It's where people really show what they're made of. There are two types of people at Rosslyn: the Douche Corridor (Courthouse/Clarendon/Va. Square/Ballston) folks who OMG HAVE TO GET ON THE TRAIN ASAP SO THEY CAN GET TO THE GYM EARLY ENOUGH TO FINISH CARDIO AND THEIR YOGA CLASS IN TIME TO START GETTING WASTED BY 7, and then there's the Pentagon Patriarchs whose TIME IS MUCH MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOURS and who have been SHOVING PUNKS LIKE YOU TO GET ON THE METRO FOR 30 YEARS. Either group is just as likely to spout catty, passive-aggressive shit at you if you deter their mission to board THIS FUCKING ORANGE LINE TRAIN RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Anyone who's ever tried to transfer at Rosslyn during rush hour knows exactly what I'm talking about. Unless you're one of those people, in which case you're fucking clueless.

I rode the Metro for the first week I was out here, and then I realized it was better for my health and the health of those around me if I never see that station again between the hour of 7:30-9:30am and 4:30-6:30pm. Fuck that shit. I'm taking the bus from now on. How else am I supposed to get to the gym before those Rosslyn suckers show up and take all the ellipticals?




Now that I have that off my chest, a few random notes:

1. Thanks again to The Sober Pundit for her witty and insightful political commentary and for holding down the fort while I was sans cable and internets.
2. Keep an eye out for a site revamp. We're hoping to make some pretty substantial changes to the layout soon, and we think you'll like it.
3. Buy the new Metallica album. Shameless plug, I know, but seriously... If you've ever liked any of their stuff, you owe yourself a trip to the record shop to pick up Death Magnetic. And if you don't like them, that's fine -- to each his own, but I don't want to hear it.

Turk: Washington, DC is a city about obstruction, plain and simple. Even as I try to write this post, Brian has the fucking TV turned up to 11 so I can't concentrate. For a long time, both of us have mused that virtually anything you (try to) do in DC can and will be delayed, obstructed or turned into an all-out clusterfuck. You can't just... fill in the blank. You can't just go grab some lunch on a Sunday afternoon because the fucking Red Line is single tracking. You can't just enjoy a douche-free happy hour in Dupont. And, as we found out tonight, you can't just rent a reasonable apartment.

Braixan: Indeed. The city itself is, by its very nature, a complete clusterfuck. Never in my life have I lived someplace so thoroughly overgoverned and at the same time so completely incapable of getting its act together. This coming from a native of Durham, NC, where school board meetings ending in angry gangs of parents chanting "The board is blind every time!" are considered par for the course, and where every friendly discussion of local politics is a cloak masking a dagger of race hatred. Washington, DC, a not-exactly-huge city of 580,000 people, is policed by no fewer than 114 police agencies and broken down into eight different and disparate political entities, each subdivided into its own neighborhood councils pushing each other out of the way to suckle at the Great Federal Teat--the gigantic boob in the southeast corner of town holding court over the whole abominable nightmare. As a result, you can't just own a car, can't just go to a decent school, can't just ride the Metro on the weekend and be on time to where you're going...hell, can't just live safely in a middle-class neighborhood. But you WILL be fined for eating or playing music on Metro. This is the capital of Western Civilization, after all.

Turk: Let's not forget the fact that on the rare occasion you do decide to take part in the MASSIVE BOOM in Metro ridership, you will be swarmed by unruly crowds of transient hipsters, NOVAnite d-bags and clueless tourists trying their damnedest to make some sense out of this totally confusing fucking five line transit system. But every once in a while, something catches your eye or your ear and it makes you love everything this city is. Like the dude with the giant VATICAN HIDES PEDOPHILES sign who gets on at the Brookland stop and wanders between cars each stop, happily swinging his silent, cardboard protest. Or the repeated mispronunciation of "L'Enfant" (La-FONT) by Metro drivers. Or the persistent sound of sirens somewhere in the background, whether you're sipping a latte in Georgetown or chilling out across from the Big Chair in Anacostia. These small but precious details remind you that this city is important and therefore, goddammit, so are you.

Braixan: God. I AM fucking important, aren't I? In fact, very thing that convinced me I had to live here was a bomb threat that caused the evacuation of the Library of Congress while I was working on a research paper there. I knew, right then, right there, that if this city were good enough and important enough for someone to want to attack it, then dammit, I wanted in. That varnish wore off quickly once I actually moved here and confronted the Virginia suburbs (which have scarred me for life, and which warrant a long, angry, rambling diatribe that would put Fidel Castro to shame), and then the crime and the rats and mice and other bullshit that the District of Columbia has to offer. But in spite of all the threats to my own mental and physical well-being, I've finally found that this city has begun to feel...not like home...but like a place I'm able to call my own and where I somewhat successfully made that awkward transition from college student to proper adult. No, it's not New York, and much as everyone here wants it to be, it never will be. Let's face it. This city is awful. But it has mass transit in abundance, a good nightlife, ridiculously smart people (some of whom are even worth talking to), culture, and anything else you could ask for in a large city, all compressed into a convenient 62 square miles. For a smart, single twentysomething with moxy like me, it's a better place to be than 95 percent of these United States.

Turk: Right. And even for a dumb, rustbelt-bred, single twentysomething without moxy, it's still a pretty decent place to be. I mean hey, I love my hometown but let's face it; my political science degree would be even more worthless if I had stayed in Cleveland. Besides, without DC, I'd have to make things up to bitch about. This city is like a living, breathing dartboard, and we're all just the stupid drunks shooting for the bullseye but missing, accidentally spearing our friend in the arm and then falling over as we try unsuccessfully to high-five that same friend. And I fucking love it.