Most of my free time recently has been spent on Omline, the online magazine about death and dying. We're shooting for the first issue to hit the small screens in September.
I really should think about how to make some money off this entire venture. I'm sick of the garish deviltry of advertising banners, and I've spent enough time fronting books for local-bookstore-killer Amazon.com to know that making dead presidents off the net is an elusive goal, and seldom a pretty sight/site.
Tonight I girded my automotive loins and battled rush hour traffic out to Northern Virginia for a meeting. Since starting the business and spending more time in my little home office, I've reverted dangerously back towards my former driving style: rural, courteous, and slightly skittish. This can get one killed in Washington, and it will certainly get one mocked and abused as one waits to be killed. The only successful driving tactic I have found is a mix of two parts carelessness to one part naked aggression. You must suspend any consideration for property and safety, not only for your fellow drivers, but for yourself and your own car. Making the egregious mistake of caring will quickly transform you into a quivering, simpering, mewling mess, a hazard to yourself and others. As if they cared.
To the fully seasoned Washington driver, the summer flock of tourists is both aggravating and amusing. While their utter confusion with our ways makes them into irritating obstacles (for example, they have been known to yield the right of way to those despised pedestrians), their ignorance makes them easy to exploit. If you need to merge quickly, just look for that Windstar with the Wisconsin plates, and aim right for them. It's cruel, but so are children with ants and magnifying glasses.
Anyway, this whole ugly commute was necessitated by a fundraising event in which I'm involved. I'll be putting together the website for this event, pro bono, suggesting to perplexed acquaintances that I might actually be a somewhat nice fellow deep down. The meeting was held in a building adjacent to the Pentagon City mall, a multistory megashopolis where Capitalism has reached such epic heights that Adam Smith is creaming his casket.
Following the meeting, I took a long walk around the complex. This was partly because I hadn't strolled one of my nation's might malls in quite some time, and also because I was desperately in need of an ATM machine to provide me with the money to get my car out of hock at the attached parking lot. It was after 9 PM, and America's citizens had abandoned her malls. The effect was eerie, but a little enticing. Store employees stood around chatting, or idly folding clothes. I could run up and down the escalators.
Most of my visits to such public places end in a fume of icked-out agoraphobia. Now I could walk around without the need to people-watch or defend my small personal space. It gave me the strange compulsion... to shop. I found myself peering in "the nature company" at a full-size human skeleton model, and admiring the little figures of Shiva in fake bronze. Little Motorola two-way radios glimmered in the windows and made so much sense. I realized that I hadn't bought a new CD in at least a month. I needed a new CD. I needed nachos from the food court.
Clearly, I had fallen into some kind of trance. I hastily located the ATM and got the electronic dole I needed to flee. For a moment, the mall had seemed to be all mine. I did not expect to feel the same way there for a long time to come.