From the Redwood Forests to the New York Island

Washington, DC is a fascinating place. It occupies a special niche in terms of tourism. There aren't A LOT of other American cities that can be thought of as tourist destinations simply for being a city. Just ask Baltimore. New York can. Boston. Chicago. Maybe San Francisco if you're gay. Some will read that list and think, "Really? Because I wouldn't spend my tourism dollars there. I'd rather lay on a beach/go skiing/go on a cruise/explore ancient ruins, rather than ride the subway and stare at buildings." My point exactly. Those cities don't hold any interest for large swaths of the population. But DC? DC is the embodiment of our great American tale, a monument to the greatness of our heritage. It is our secular Mecca. At some time in their lives, most Americans will make at least one trip to DC.

But living here the last few years in the shadow of so much history, both past and present, for me it's just life. I forget how exciting it is for some people to visit DC when I'm shopping for groceries or jogging past Arlington Cemetery or sitting in traffic on Route 1 on the way home from work. I drive through the National Mall where all the monuments and museums are housed regularly. But I'm on my way to some other destination, not gawking at monuments. So it's kinda nice when I have guests visit from out of town and get to be a tour guide for all the sites. This April, my mother and sister came for a visit, and I got to be a tourist for one fine weekend at the tail end of cherry blossom season.

DC tourist attractions are different for me than you might think. I already have pictures of all the monuments and have visited most of the museums, so I'm on the lookout for moving exhibits of awesome wonder: tourists. I'm fascinated by other tourists visiting from all over the country, all over the world for that matter. Because DC is such a universal attraction, I get a pretty good cultural sampling from around the U.S., and often I'm mesmerized by what I see. The thought that we come from the same country sometimes confounds me. I marvel at how different we are in our sameness. Take this young pilgrim, for example (I highly recommend clicking to enlarge all of these pictures to get a more detailed look):

Now, my mom wanted in on this pose because she, too, is a huge Guns N' Roses fan, same as Sasquatch there. But the contrast in how they express their devotion couldn't be painted with brighter imagery. He's more "Welcome to the Jungle," while mom is more "Sweet Child of Mine." Yet they share a national heritage. Same as this next darling:

I understand being a tourist. You are away from your hotel all day and it's important to find an option for carrying all the things you may need during the day, like your camera and smokes. And it is imperative that you are comfortable. However, my answer would probably be a backpack. Or a messenger bag. Or a purse, if I'm a woman. Or put them in my pockets. Many options here. I'm always amazed at how common fanny packs are on tourists. No matter how good you think you look sucking down a Camel, no amount of sex appeal gained can overcome wearing a fanny pack. Speaking of outfits that should have been spouse-checked before leaving the house, Tiff just had to get a picture with this Man's Man at the Gettysburg battlefield:

True, this was taken in Pennsylvania, but it fits the theme of cultural tourism. This guy was a mountain of a man with a shock of red hair on his head AND on his shoulders, a red-headed Shrek in the flesh. He's wearing a CSI shirt, but if he has any detective skills at all, his Crime Scene Investigation will lead him straight to a mirror. And finally, get a load of these yokels tromping around the White House lawn:

The doofus on the left is probably thinking to himself, "How do they load that house on a truck when they gots'ta move? Probably got a real nice crapper, though." This was taken right before I discovered the Secret Service's distinct lack of sense of humor. I mean, come on, streaking the portico outside the Oval Office is empirically funny. No question. Maybe if I'd worn my breakaway pants, I could have escaped. Next time.

Anyway, mom and Tiff, I luvz you ladies. Thanks for coming to see me.

So, You Come to this Trough Often?

I like to read about news of the bizarre. Most newspapers have a special section devoted to these types of stories (Reuters calls their section "Oddly Enough".) The journalists do their best to report these stories with a straight face, and most are amusing but forgettable. They require no special commentary. What I'm interested in are those stories that totally blow your mind as you read them (Meth-Stoked Threesome comes to mind, as do the romantic adventures of ShamWow!) It's almost as though you have to rub your eyes and re-read the passage to make sure you read it correctly. The earnest Joe Friday delivery by the reporters does these stories a tremendous disservice. These stories demand editorial comment.

And so I offer for your amusement the subject of today's edition of Sadly Hilarious, under the headline "Iloilo Farmer Molests, Kills Neighbor's Goat."

Yes, it seems that some undoubtedly handsome and charming 18-year old Filipino farmer stopped at a bar on his way home from the rice fields one night and proceeded to get completely blotto. Having previously caught the neighbor's goat giving him The Eye, he decided that tonight he would give the toothsome beast the night of its life. So he drained the last sweet drops of liquid courage into the tank of his swerving libido and made his way to the goat's holding pen. Apparently the goat knew how to push all the right buttons. As stoically reported in the article:

"The report quoted [the farmer] as saying he was going to gather the harvested rice when he saw the goat in a 'prone' position, and took 'interest.'

He said he strangled the goat when it tried to resist his advances.

[He] is now facing charges of malicious mischief from the police.

Clearly PETA wouldn't be amused by this story. But man, this is so full of failure, I hardly know where to start. Let's take it from the top.

First of all, there have always been men/women who have viewed the world through beer-tinted glasses on occasion. Nothing new. But if you are so hammered that seeing a GOAT in a prone position makes you stop and "take interest," you really need to lay off that bad hooch. Really.

Second, of course the goat resisted his advances. It's a goat. He/she will always be interested in other goats. No combination of eloquently slurred come-ons and Sex Panther cologne is going to overcome that elemental obstacle, big boy. Choking the goat to death for being a goat is just spiteful. Or, in Filipino legal jargon, malicious mischief.

Third, malicious mischief? That's what he gets?? Sawing the heads off parking meters is malicious mischief. Molesting and choking your neighbor's goat is something completely different. Perhaps due to the unique (I hope) nature of this case, the system doesn't have a law that would deal with such a shameful villain. Perhaps malicious mischief is a catch-all law for when cops scratch their heads and say, "Heck if I know what to call it, but something happened here that is totally effed up and deserving of punishment." Ultimately, what you call it is less important than the punishment. Some sort of restitution to the neighbor is in order. But I think being known to every girl in the village as the drunken idiot that humps and strangles goats is its own kind of prison. And he built the walls of that prison himself. Sadly, I see a lot more drinking in his future.

Boys of Summer Fade Like the Season

Rocky Mountain High
Bludgeoned by Howard's swift bat.
Farewell, Rocktober.

Paging Theo Kojak

Hair. It's a regular frustration to me. More precisely, getting it cut. Why is it so difficult to find a barber that knows how to cut men's hair? I walk into the shop and there they are, all lined up in their crepe-apron finery, hair school certificates tacked to the mirror behind them, as if that's supposed to instill some sort of confidence in their ability to sculpt a handsome coiffure. But I know better.

No, when I sit down and she asks "How you want cut," I know whatever I say next has no bearing on what I will actually get. I may as well tell her I want to look like this dapper fella up top here. Although I'm pretty sure he got exactly what he asked for, a fact that only magnifies my frustration. That kid, who probably nourishes his supple cheeks with a steady diet of Little Debbies, paint chips and gasoline fumes, walked into a barber shop somewhere in Knoxville and described that NASCAR Dreamcut to his barber, and the barber made it happen. Why can't I walk in and say, "I'd just like a trim. See how it is now? Cut it like that, but shorter." I even show her exactly how much I want cut off. Doesn't matter. She'll keep cutting until it is entirely uneven and uncombable. Is it a language barrier? Am I slurring my words? Lack of training? Lack of concern? Need for speed?

Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. The result is always the same. I leave looking like I cut it myself with a Swiss Army knife, sans mirror. I want to shave it bald every time I get home.

Some would suggest going to a real Aveda-style salon to get it done. To that I say, I am admittedly a man of certain vanities, but paying salon prices every month for a haircut is a bit left of equilibrium on my demand curve. If I were a woman getting my hair cut every 3-4 months, sure. No problem. But every 3-4 weeks gets to be a bit much. If I had the patience, I'd grow it out long so I wouldn't have to go through the trama so regularly. But I don't have that patience, so it's T-minus 3 weeks until the next trip to the butcher's. Maybe I'll just take a picture of NASCAR Toby up there with me. Couldn't get any worse.