The Commuting Capitalist

Parking meters reveal the secret of the Universe.

It feels like I've seen this before...

[Arlington, VA]

... Or I could be grateful I am one of the few who lives in DC but works out in the Maryland suburbs.

Looking at the endless line of white lights headed away from my apartment at 5pm, I can only be overwhelmed with gratitude on the long drive home.

Even if these assholes in front of me got their licenses out of a cereal box.

As many times as I've slipped off my shoes and sent my bag through the scanner here -- on the way to celebrate a birthday, hide out for Valentine's Week, or to not see the sights in a city full of them -- I find myself looking for a pink belt full of fake bullets.

Looking back on that day, I can see why the TSA confiscated it. Not because it was dangerous, at least to the flying public, this just-too-cute accessory on a just-too-sexy hipster. But because we were, just two days into this adventure, and they could tell.

I haven't seen that belt since that day and don't expect to. And who needs it when you're bulletproof?

I will not miss you, Beltway.

After almost 3 months of having to drive through it twice a day five days a week, I'm over it. I could cry some days.

Instead, I curse at people like I'm back in California and some Asian guy is driving against traffic after making an impromptu U-turn on the freeway. I'm not being racist towards Asian drivers, that was something I actually saw.

Opting the fuck out, people. See you when I (reluctantly) get home in a few days.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

As a long-time reader of The Commuting Capitalist, I always enjoyed the random what-the-fuckedness of the abandoned clothing scenes that were captured on a regular basis. Of course, those were in San Francisco, where such happenings might happen not exactly by happenstance.

This pair of pants was splayed on the base of a light post in a shopping center parking lot at 8 o'clock on a weekday morning. In the middle of Suburbia, USA. Missed delivery at the dry-cleaners? Unpleasantness the night before outside the liquor store? Something inexplicable involving the grocery store or the Mexican restaurant?

Whatever the reality, I find it more disturbing than what might turn up in a Polk Street gutter. Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The theme here isn't quite clear but it's what my commute has become.

I traded the noise of crackheads at all hours of the day and night for the noise of a government flight path above my head.

I traded parking tickets for getting jizzed on by horny spring trees dripping seeds all over my moon roof.

I traded spotty Internet in the ruins of dot com for one of the best connections in the country available to a non-.gov

I traded a commute through the hood for a walk to my kitchen and back.

Still, sometimes I dream I'm back there, dodging sketchy assholes on the street. I might miss them a little bit, these residual characters haunting San Francisco with their weird questions and bugged out attitudes. I traded that too; not sure what I got back yet. Too early to call.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Services are apparently what are owed to you for paying taxes in DC.

This definition can also be "mutually agreed," whatever that means.

[Somewhere in NW, DC]
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

And here I am along for the ride.

[Undisclosed location, Maryland]
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My commute is non-existent these days, and working from home is nice but it means I miss the road, the people and usually the sunrise. Not to mention the view.

Not this morning.

[20th and Constitution, DC]
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Now who on Earth could have done that?