D.C. Report Part One

A few hours before my flight back to the West Coast (can't wait to see ya Snoop) and a few things have come into focus.

I'm standing in a concrete tube, waiting for a Metro train, and inspiration has hit me in the face.

First, I don't think I'll ever be able to live in the east for very long. The weather here, spectacular or shitty, is laced with a humidity that leaves me moist at all times. Placing the premium I do on feeling dry and clean on my way out into a new day, the almost post-coital glow my skin develops only moments after stepping from air-conditioning so prevelant it feels like the only real oxygen left is unacceptable.

Most of you know I am prone to perspiration at the drop of a hat, so the frequency with which I have wiped sweat from my forehead or lifted my arms in an attempt to peel my shirtsleeves from my body is utterly horrendous. My friends out here try to tell me that it's all relative, and that most times it's a lot worse, and that I'll grow accustomed to it--Bollocks.

Second, I am somewhat pleased to have returned to a world where people smoke in bars. California has become a whiny, liberal bastion of minority rule, and the reek of nicotine on my clothes after a long evening through the bars has realigned my perception. No one should be so unfortunate as to have all avenues for their legalized addiction taken from them.

When did it become the goal for those with a more socially-accepted chemical apetite to be able to enjoy it in serenity? The scenario in your average bar: spilled beer, sweaty patrons, and screaming music, is not a peaceful environment, and I believe that the sooner the smokers aren't allowed to be smokers in these places, the sooner we turn down the music, open up some windows, and start using coasters.

I mean for fuck's sake, isn't the smell of stale cigarette smoke and whiskey what made this country great?