Is it really Saturday?

Despite being a tad nippy outside, it's a rather a stunning Saturday here in the District. The sun is shining and the cherry blossoms are beginning to emerge. As the werewolf drove into work this morning, he was briefly mesmerized by the wonderful spectrum of color provided by the throngs of kites be flown on the national mall. He regrets not being able to snap a picture, as it made for a fantastic visual. He was also infinitely amused by the ragged looked human derelict on a beat-up old bicycle who had an 1980s era battery operated ghetto-blaster strapped to the frame, blaring some sort of heinous rap, as he wove in and out of semi-gridlocked traffic. The werewolf appreciates humanity in the raw on occasion.

 Although still busy, this week was far more sedate than his first week in DC. The werewolf was able to be semi-social on one occasion this week. He was reintroduced to an understated and agreeable pub near Dupont Circle known at The Darlington. Not too snobby, nor too dingy, reasonably priced, with an acceptable variety of spirits, it has the making of a venue where the werewolf can imagine himself holding court on occasion. It was an interesting night, because the werewolf discovered a new spring appropriate beer, Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat; crisp, refreshing, with a hint of fruit, it is very easy to drink by the pitcher. It’s similar to Blue Moon, but doesn’t feel as heavy. The lascivious vixen from a fortnight yore also serendipitously entered stage left for a portion of the evening. Since it was a weeknight, and work was on the agenda early the next morning, no tomfoolery ensued. However, the werewolf will never complain when a pretty young fox enjoy his tipsy musings at agreeable venues.

 It’s a Saturday afternoon, and there a dozen better places to be sniffing around than being online, so the werewolf is off to capture what is left of this weekend.

A week in review

The werewolf apologies for being a truant blogger. So much has happened this past week. The transition from having an abundance of free-time to managing a scarcity of it has adversely impacted his blogging. Much to his eternal dismay. It's about half past eleven on a Friday night, and the werewolf finally has enough time to try and pound out an overdue post.

The weekend looks to be as chaotic as this past week was. Tomorrow morning, in true Kosavarian refugee style, the werewolf packs up his meager possessions into the Saab-story, and moves from downtown DC, to a small, but tranquil neighborhood in a northern pocket of DC. He's renting a furnished room in a rather nice, if not slightly cluttered house, from this strange older lady with bohemian inclinations, who has two cats for the next few months. (The werewolf believes that dogs are man's great ally in this struggle called life, and has absolutely no utility for cats. Plus, he is inherently skeptical of women with cats.)

As much as he loves crashing on his dear friends' couch, with all of the gourmet food, regular consumption of alcohol, the inclination toward tomfoolery, good company, and great location; being the third wheel attached to happily married couple in a small, but charming, urban loft isn't conducive to healthy long-term outcomes of one the most cherished relationships a werewolf can have. The move will get interesting because tomorrow is the Washington, DC marathon, and all easy routes from point A to point B are obstructed.

However, there is an additional hiccup to the weekend. The werewolf has been asked to work eight-hour shifts on both Saturday and Sunday. This doesn't bother the werewolf in the slightest, as he is prepared to work his paws off and the work being done is on the front line of the trenches of the upcoming health care vote in the House of Representatives. (It's grim looking folks, the dastardly dems are within inches of marshalling the needed votes to ensure we are on a road to serfdom.)  Since arriving in DC, the werewolf hasn't really had a chance to catch his breath properly. It looks like it will have to wait until next weekend. That being said, the shift from stale idleness of unemployed exile to frenetic overwork is embraced with the alacrity and joy of being reunited with your favorite lover.

The job is interesting. The werewolf works as a staff member for the political communications arm of one of the Republican congressional campaign outfits. The hours are long, 8am to 7pm, on a good day. But the days have yet to drag. They actually fly by much quicker then the werewolf's old days in the insurance brokerage or as vassal in the tobacco castle. There isn't a moment that has gone by this week with out the screaming chorus of buzzing phones, floods of emails, pressing deadlines, and such. Oh, the joys of a political press operation. While exhausting, it's good place for him at the moment. Plus, it's quite the cast of characters with whom he works. Expect some forthcoming posts about the girl whose laugh sounds like a warthog being gassed, the Kardashian wannnabe, the congresswoman who won't stay on script, and the mysterious soup filled crock pot that pops up in the oddest places.

That's all at the moment. Please bear with me as I get my ducks lined-up. In the meantime, have a great weekend.

The Police: Man In A Suitcase (live)

Unlike certain fine wines, the Police did not get better with age. That doesn't discredit the occasional hit they produced during their later years, nor is it an attempt to impugn Sting's strange, yet occasionally decent solo career. Quite simply, they just happened to produce their best stuff during their first act. Their Zenyatta Mondatta album and its edgy blend of punk, reggae and new wave is unreal and never ceases to be a great listening experience. "Man in A Suitcase" may be the best Police song you have never heard before given all of the self-pitying strange musical experiments, like "Every Breath You Take," that seem to anchor their reputation by today's flaccid standards.

It's been an interesting few weeks for the werewolf. Last week he rejected the gradual stagnation of exile in suburban New York and relocated to Washington, DC, to pursue an opportunity in politics. Exile is still far from over.

The werewolf is grateful that his best friend of many a year, the Legal Beagle, has a loft in Chinatown and has allowed the werewolf to crash on the couch for the time being. A fringe benefit has been being spoiled by the Legal Beagle's gourmand wife, as he just watched her pack his lunch for tomorrow. It'll be hard to leave both the good company and excellent food that the Legal Beagle's yuppie domicile provides. Valuing relationships and nurturing credibility have been some of exile's key takeaways thus far.

This weekend will mark a strange new chapter in exile as the werewolf sublets a room in a house from a old hippyish, cat lady. They say life comes at you fast sometimes. No shit. The price is right for the time being and it gives the werewolf the ability to chase his dreams. Even though he will literally be a man in a suitcase for the next two to three months.

The abrupt move to DC has done wonders for his confidence and sense of self-worth. In some ways, the werewolf is beginning to reconnect with his long lost mojo. A prized characteristic he thought had atrophied months ago.

To celebrate his moving to DC, the werewolf allowed himself out of the cage and behaved as if the moon was full this past Saturday night. Although rusty and a tad humbler than before, he is pleased to announce that he hasn't lost his ability to be pleasantry pleasantly reckless and wild under the right circumstances. Someday he hopes to recount the improbable debauchery that ensued.

Yesterday was the first day of his transitional political job. It went well. The next few months will require some ball-busting labor, humble, but hungry attitude, and an appetite for risk. But for the first time in a long while, the werewolf feels slightly human. A-hoooo!