notes comments on Days 83-92: Washington, DC

"Days 83-92: Washington, DC": comment by Raymond Whiteside

Sun, 13 Jul 2008 13:23:34 PDT

I have heard Washington D.C. described in many ways, but Neapolitan, that is a first, but in all honesty, it is a fair and just evaluation of our Nation’s Capitol. Come back again sometime and give it another try, there is a lot to see and lots to do.
Respectfully yours,
Raymond Whiteside
http://raymondwhiteside.com/
raymond.whiteside@yahoo.com

"Days 83-92: Washington, DC": comment by Buster-O

Sat, 30 Jul 2005 16:27:18 PDT

Happy to see you’re still on the quest (walkabout).

I’ve often wondered how much of a difference there is between Washington D.C. and XXXX . Washington is poverty stricken and many parts are falling apart. But I don’t think it is as safe or has as much character.

By the way, thought you might want to know, still no DBA replacement!

"Days 83-92: Washington, DC": comment by Gardner McKay

Fri, 29 Jul 2005 19:48:26 PDT

I’ll have to remember that if I run against her in the next election.

“Heather Wilson receives Hustler magazine at her office.”

"Days 83-92: Washington, DC" by erik

Tue, 7 Jun 2005 20:10:00 PDT

If every city of the world was a flavor of icecream, I would describe Washington, DC as Neopolitan. It’s rather unextraordinary yet dependable, plain but accomodating, and if you have discerning taste, you chomp the hell out of that chocolate section, and leave the strawberry and vanilla for someone else. Leah and Carrie helped me do just that.

days 83-92

I sat in the waiting room of Heather Wilson’s congressional office in the Canon building, on Capitol Hill, surrounded by emblems of Our Great Nation, Our Fantastic State of New Mexico, and Our Pretty Respectable 1st Congressional District. Chile ristras adorned the necks of solemn busts, holding testament to both New Mexico’s proud history and its singular culinary vision: One Spice to Rule Them All.

Next to me stood a table held up by two muscular legs, complete with jeans and cowboy boots. Trumpets blared in the distance.

The receptionist at the front desk stood up, pulled a magazine about three inches out of its postal envelope, and addressed the rest of the office.

“Who ordered Hustler?” she asked.

A head poked up from behind a monitor across the room. It swivelled, first to her, then to the buxom blonde peaking out of the manila envelope, then to me.

“Uh, yeah, about that,” the man behind the monitor carefully replied, “Larry Flynt sends a copy of each issue to all the congressional offices on the hill. It’s sort of a political statement, I guess.”

He looked at me and broke a small smile. I smiled back, doing my best to appear like I was not mentally recording every moment of this.

“Just put it in the periodicals cabinet in the back.” he said. “And Christina…”

“Yes?”

“Uh… probably a little more subtlety would be appreciated in the future.”