I received an exciting email the other day from an exhibitions coordinator at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. They want to use several of the pictures posted on my Sudan Blog in an exhibit this upcoming spring called “From Memory To Action: The Genocide Intervention Project”. The exhibit will focus on the histories of different genocides: the Holocaust, Bosnia, Rwanda, and Darfur. It’ll be neat to have stuff from my site in the Smithsonian. I still haven’t given up on a book and am brainstorming various ways on how to bring that to fruition, inshallah.

This summer I’ve been working daily supporting a proposal for a big contract with the State Department. I am consulting for a subsidiary of a large, in-charge defense contractor who is a serious implementer of key concepts learned in business schools and refined in practice; stuff like modeling project data, optimizing strategies and solutions, assessing and mitigating risk, and in the case of proposals, painting very crafty pictures.

As I work with and learn from these folks in the organization, I try to think about what common theme contributes to their success. It’s become clear that aside from their big brains and corporate comb overs, they have all learned to use a specific business vocabulary (bizcabulary) that encompasses power verbs and clichés to express their point and provide vivid imagery and emphasis.

The folks often speak in active, not passive voices (think “I will”, not “I should”), massaging the proposal process to a point of selling business perfection. They are at the top of the business buzz word hierarchy, and I can’t help but smirk at the meaty phrases overheard during my hundred meetings summer.

I think some people go home at night and even spend time dreaming up these terms, hoping to impress the following day. Sometimes if I look close enough in meetings, I can see nods of understanding and approval (and sometimes an occasional sneer of jealousy) from peers after strong bizcabulary usage.

Action words are coveted in review sessions. One might gain points by using words like flesh out, target, bench mark, streamline, hyperfocus, optimize, re-square, tweak, noodle-up, scrub, spin, mine, synchronize, populate, leverage, and button up.

Solutions are sought after, ones that are fundamental, self-sustaining, or turn-key.

You don’t get together or meet, you mobilize or circle-back. People don’t just understand, approach, or think about work or ideas, they bore down, wrestle, and tackle them.

I hear the typical clichés like “That’s apples and oranges”, “Let’s keep our engine running”, and “This is the only long pole in the tent”, but I also hear more interesting ones like “That’s like drinking your own bathwater.”, “What’s the pedigree of the pricing model?”, and “There could be up to 20% in negotiation slop”.

You might hear a particularly garrulous manager say something like, “stop the arm flapping”, “let’s grab those floating thoughts”, or “fix the hangers”, which leads me to think about snotty things.

Some managers revert to kid speak to appeal to the masses. You might hear, “Just for gee whizzes”, “I want a warm and fuzzy”, “I need a sneak peak”, “Let’s meet for a pow-wow” and “Check off your Tiggy Boo list”.

Some are politically correct. “Keep it simple, Simon”.

Many want report cards, red-lines, layers, optics, and sanity checks. They also always talk about centralizing power. I’ve seen madness when documents don’t have document configuration control. Tasks need single belly buttons and you should never vector your sub-assignments to others without the task head approval.

It kills me sometimes. I hate to think one day I’d have to conform, but I suppose such is nature of big business, and that understanding and speaking the bizcabulary is simply apart of the game.

This is a fictional short story I recently wrote about a place in DC called The Mansion on O Street. Today it is a hotel and private club. Years ago it was a front for a massive KGB operation. It takes pride in its shrouded secrecy. I am going there for a party next week and am looking forward to the experience. I hope you will take a moment and enjoy the story.

—

Some time ago, I was perched on a bar stool near the back of the Adams Morgan Bar, Asylum. It was an off night, Tuesday or Wednesday, and I was feeling royal sentiments of anti establishment. After the nth beer I was tired of thinking and was bored counting the tattoo colors on the bartendress.

Sitting three seats down to my left was an older man, who had recently arrived and was sipping slowly on something strait. He wore unimpressive clothes, having a style that you notice only after second glance. I would not have paid attention to him under normal circumstances; in fact, I would have probably status’d him as riff raff, but it was the song he was singing under his breath that caught my attention.

“In the twilight glow I seen her
Blue eyes crying in the rain.
When we kissed goodbye and parted
I knew we’d never meet again.”

Willie Nelson. I thought, alright! Normally, in this town, I wouldn’t be that surprised, but it was the accent for which he was quietly singing with that made me think twice. He continued through the song, delivering words to himself and I stared, trying to place this man in some stereotype or profile. I was having a hard time.

There was no one between us and my eyes must have been burning, because he stopped in mid verse and without looking up or over at me, said in a low and accented voice, “Am I the first Russian you’ve ever seen who likes the Willie Nelson?”

My tongue seemed frozen in headlights and it struggled to move. A transitional “ahh” murmured while I tried to compose a reasonable response parallel to my puzzled read on this guy.

All I could retort was an unoriginal spin of his own words, “Why would a Russian like Willie Nelson?” I asked, which looking back was watered down brilliance because it opened the door to this guy’s story and a world I hadn’t comprehended touching that night or ever, for that matter.

“40 years ago I met him here in Washington at a small party,” the man said. “That cowboy sang soul music to us. I remember ‘Blue eyes crying in the rain’. I will never forget.”

“40 year ago? Wow!” I was intrigued. “That was early in his career. Where did you see him play?”

He stared at me for a moment and then sipped his drink. “You must be a fan,” he said. “Would you still be a fan if I told you it was in a safe house, a Russian safe house, which at those times was the central point of mother Russian communism in the United States.”

“Wait…what?” I was stunned.

“Yes, your all-American cowboy, Mr. Nelson, did at one time toy with our ideology. To his credit, he was only a guest, and very friendly, and shall we say…relaxed…he never caught on. We think he was more anti-government than anti-American. But that didn’t stop John Lennon or Elvis.”

“Whoa,” I said. “What are you talking about?” I blinked a couple of times to refocus my eyes and simultaneously looked down to ground the flurry of content.

When I looked back up the man had moved from his seat to a stool directly in front of me. He was glaring at me intently. With a slyish smile, he said “Comrade, these kinds of things were daily occurrences at The Mansion back then.”

—

Dmitry had engaged in front line KGB espionage activity against the western world since his first assignment after university in the late 1950s. He was a bright student, a strong linguist, and had success capturing useful information early on as a junior agent. He quickly earned himself tenure and a permanent position in the United States for the Russian agency, where he was stationed to recruit, or turn, US government employees and generate a steady flow of intelligence.

Agents in that day had been housed at a location on O Street in Washington DC, called The Mansion, which consisted of a number of separate adjacent houses that had been owned by a locally prominent front man.

The front houses themselves were beautiful, treasured tributes to cultures around the world, adorned with the finest and most eclectic range of furniture and artwork. From European tea parlors to Alaskan Log cabins, the motif of each unit left many in awe. It was here that guests were invited to dinner parties and intimate gatherings. The owner’s underground tenants often watched or even joined the soiree, always screening for tidbits of information and possible recruits.

The basement’s of these units had been gutted, connected, and transformed into a highly technical and strategic operations center where agents lived, monitored, processed, and planned their espionage activities. Trap doors, passages, and underground tunnels linking the complex were secretly installed at the onset of the operation. Because of the extreme care and discretion taken by those involved (not even the owner was allowed into this underbelly), the hub had successfully served as the single largest spy operation against the United States by the Russians in the middle of the Cold War, right in the heart of the capitol city.

Dmitry had lived and operated out of The Mansion for several years. His success of infiltrating some of the US’s most meaty agencies had been unparalleled and he was looking to simultaneously develop an effort to counter balance the massive anti-communism campaign in the States by generating grass roots support. To do this would take the turning and subsequent indoctrination of some of society’s key figures. It was his thought that by targeting America’s pop cultural icons and role models, he could puppet them into winning over a broader, younger base. His primary concern rested on initial contact. He simply did not have access to these people. As fate would allow, his concern would be answered in a most unexpected manner, one that would test his loyalty against his heart.

—

One Friday during the mid 60s, Dmitry had been out to dinner and was having a drink at one of the popular political after-hours hangouts in Georgetown. He had been conversing with several groups, probing for clues that might indicate potential targets. The night had been flat though and Dmitry was tired. He was about to leave when a girl walked by and caught his eye.

He smiled, reached out and touched her arm, stopping her to say hello. Her name was Elizabeth and they struck up conversation, making a quick connection. She was a southern blue-eyed beauty, smart, but overtly naive, Dmitry realized. He was charmed by her warmth though, and drawn to her right away in the most basic of instincts. The evening struck a chord and they started seeing each other, against his better judgment as distractions in his line of work were not tolerated and potentially fatal.

Dmitry learned that Elizabeth’s parents were polar; her Mom classified the epitome of a Type A personality and her Dad was the exact opposite, a laid-back hippie and professional musician. Elizabeth’s personality spanned both and was a result of her mother’s insistence for perfection and her father’s feather-like altruistic search for peace through music. Dmitry wasn’t drawn to her liberal side, but he saw an opportunity in the musical connection.

As it turns out, her father had toured with some of America’s leading musicians, the likes of Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, John Lennon and Elvis Presley, and she was still chummy with several members from their bands. Dmitry knew if he could have face time with any of these figures, his charm and persuasion could lead to conversion which could initiate the implementation of his counter campaign to further influence the younger population, America’s Future.

The trick was whether to involve Elizabeth. Admittingly, he had fallen for her and had done so under the radar and without exposing her to his profession. He was experiencing the best of both worlds and didn’t want to tip the scale in either direction.

He thought hard and concluded that the only way to pursue his objective was to involve her. He eased into the subject over several weeks, not exposing the true operation but saying he was apart of a club that promoted understanding in alternative forms of government and hoped she was willing to be open minded in the message. The duality of her upbringing left feelings of uncertainty in this request, but her leftish spirit, coupled with her feelings for Dmitry led her to attend a few meetings. Elizabeth was soon indoctrinated and was willing to do anything for Dmitry to promote the cause.

—

“Wait a second.” I had been sitting on this stool, imprinted with fascination, listening to this man captivate this story to me that was strait out of a Tom Clancy novel.

“You can’t be serious, right? This girl, Elizabeth, fell for you and used her musical connections to allow you to spread communism to the some of music’s greatest legends ever? They came to The Mansion, hung out, played music, and were converts? I don’t believe it. Communism failed. Why are you still allowed in this country?” I was surprised at my blunt outburst.

He lamented, “Son, you’re jumping ahead, you’re jumping very far ahead in the story.”

—

As it turns out, there were many musicians at the time who were willing to hear out the alternative. The US government’s insistence on remaining in Vietnam had cut deep at the heart of public morale and musicians were at the forefront of anti-government activism.

At the request of Dmitry, Elizabeth had set up an evening where Willie Nelson, John Lennon, and other cultural icons (both up and comers and those with establishment) came together to engage each other over dinner, discussing the state of current affairs and sharing ideas. The meeting took place at The Mansion.

Many, many things were said in the first gathering. In one heated discussion a memorable line was passionately said by John Lennon, ‘All we are saying is give peace a chance’, which ad-libbed into a sing-along later that evening. Willie Nelson also tested a song that he eventually released, a bluesy, soulful, ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain’ that touched everyone, and would echo through Dmitry for years, as it became a sad and ominous foreshadowing of both his relationship with Elizabeth and with the communist movement.

The evening was a success and resulted in many more that included a cross section of America’s leaders and outspoken celebrities. The KGB, only a basement away, monitored each gathering closely and specific individuals were targeted according to their personalities, beliefs, and impact analysis of their conversion to the ideology.

Dmitry felt that the KGB was making real progress in screening and capturing the correct figure-heads for implementing a successful campaign. In addition he felt his relationship with Elizabeth was as strong as ever.

What was never far from his thought was that one slip up could compromise the whole operation, Elizabeth’s safety, and his life. He had spent a career practicing the skills necessary to ensure that wouldn’t occur. But he was not prepared for the event that would confront him in 1969.

—

‘I’m pregnant’, were the words that left Dmitry speechless one chilly fall afternoon. ‘We’re having a baby!’ Elizabeth was ecstatic and couldn’t contain her excitement, smiling from ear to ear as she looked at him for any sign of reciprocation. His dormant, apathetic response troubled her, and it troubled him too. He was speechless. This unexpected news overwhelmed him with massive uncertainty, and returning a mutual feeling of excitement to Elizabeth was the last thing he was capable of doing at the moment.

Her excitement slid from question to concern to hurt and she stormed out of her house, slammed her car door and drove away. Dmitry’s eyes remained fixed on the ground as he chewed over the next move. As a KGB spy, a baby with an American girl would not work. One thing was certain; he could no longer balance the relationship and this line of work.

—

Elizabeth was devastated. She had known Dmitry was involved in controversial organizations, but did not know the depth of his involvement or his employer’s origin. His lack of emotion or excitement was crushing.

She pulled over in a park and called her mother from a pay phone in tears. While explaining her calamity, she held no reserve and leaked her concerns about Dmitry’s work and controversial ideology. She felt this could be causing his dissent.

This news concerned her mother. She was convinced that if Dmitry was involved in controversial work, he was not the right person to take care of and support her daughter and their baby. She was determined not to let instability affect Elizabeth in the way her husband’s profession had affected her marriage. As a mother, she would do anything to protect her daughter’s interests. She consoled Elizabeth with comforting words of support and hung up the phone. She then opened the phone book, looked up government agencies, and called the local office of the FBI.

—

The FBI opened a case on Dmitry and gathered proof that he was a foreign operative. They also discovered the houses jointly known as ‘The Mansion’ were a front for something greater than its facade. Before storming the place and arresting Dmitry, they agreed he could be a prime candidate to act as a double agent. They approached him with the offer, saying they knew the full extent of his and the KGB’s involvement in DC. If he was willing to give up allegiance to Russia and provide all his accessible information to the US Government, then he could be exonerated from all espionage related charges and enter into a relocation program.

Dmitry’s conflict ate at him from the inside outwards. To give in to the Americans would require him to give up his citizenship, loyalty, communism, career, and his fellow colleague’s safety. In return, he would have security, freedom, Elizabeth and a new family. If he resisted the offer, he would lose everything and retire in prison for life. Was he willing to sell his life long loyalty for this price? It was a dilemma he hoped to never face.

He lived his whole life in a structured, bureaucratic framework and was now handed the opportunity to break free. Given the space, would he, could he enjoy his new life? While he initially resented Elizabeth’s free spirited outlook inherited from her father, part of the mentality had grown on him. Living in America had given him a new perspective that he felt, more often than not, was eating at his communistic core. Starting a new life was possible. He would simply have to come to grips and give up everything he once believed and understood. For Elizabeth, he felt the transformation was worth it. He accepted the FBI’s offer.

—

Elizabeth, in the meantime, had begun to distance herself from Dmitry. She was following her mother’s advice and protecting herself. She still loved him and was happy about his acquired encouragement towards their baby, but because she didn’t understand the full and precarious extent of his professional predicament, she couldn’t grasp the impact it was having on him or on his renewed commitment to her. All she could replay in her mind was his initial reaction at the news of the baby. His momentary uncertainty insecurely ate at her on a daily basis, reinforced by a mother’s selfish love.

Simultaneously, in responding to the government’s demands, Dmitry had been working double duty and was not around to understand Elizabeth’s distance. He felt alone in the world. He could not talk to Elizabeth about the full extent of his conflict for fear of her safety during the transitional period. He could not talk to his colleagues or family back home, and he did not fully trust the Americans.

As he handed over packet after packet of information (including safe houses, agent alias’s, US born KGB operatives, and full details of The Mansion), he constantly second guessed his decision. His inability to communicate these feelings sequestered his emotions and emptied him in a gradual decline until he became void and lifeless. He was in full denial of his current state of mind and the effect it was having on their relationship, feeling that this mess was nearly over and justifying that Elizabeth and their child would be together soon.

One month before her due date, and one week before the FBI ultimately raided all known KGB operations in the United States, Elizabeth broke the news to Dmitry that she was moving home to her family to raise the baby and that she thought it best that Dmitry go his own way.

She had fallen out of love.

—

We sat in silence for several minutes, staring at our empty drinks. I looked over at Dmitry. It was the anniversary of the day she left him, one week before the raid at The Mansion, the largest FBI bust ever recorded against the KGB. A new life had been forced upon him, and years later he was still alone. In remembrance to his former glory, he quietly sang to himself…

“In the twilight glow I seen her
Blue eyes crying in the rain.
When we kissed goodbye and parted
I knew we’d never meet again.”

—————-
Willie Nelson, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain

I’ve had the urge to write for a while now (it’s been the longest since I’ve written a few months), but I feel like work has taken my time and energy. I wrote a post called “A Premature Assessment of Chad”, which was just that because it looks like I will not be headed back to Africa this summer, so I did not post. It’s a long story, but essentially, the UN brought their focus back on Darfur and delayed the efforts to assist the residual peacekeeping efforts in neighboring Chad. The troubled irony with this decision is they’ve also succumbed to Sudan’s pressure to kick out any American businesses in country (in retaliation to increased sanctions the US has placed on them) so now the UN is scrambling to find other non-American companies to do our job of providing logistics support to their mission. This doesn’t bode well for the UN for a number of reasons (these smaller companies will not benefit from centralized organization, experience, economies of scale, and deep financial pockets) and will most likely result in a further delay to their massive additional mobilization of 25,000 more troops and in worse overall support. This article explains it all. I have a feeling we will be hearing about Darfur for a long time.

One of the other reasons for delays in writing is that I’ve found any after hours creative energy is geared towards either enjoying DC and my friends or into absorbing other mediums. One I’ve really enjoyed is Ted.com’s list of interesting speakers. I’ll prop this site up for a brief moment, only because I find it fascinating how one 15 minute speech can be such an inspiration. I’ve spent countless hours surfing around this site, which is an organization dedicated to sharing ideas and has used the web to blast out sound bites from their great seminars over the last few years. Speeches like Benjamin Zander’s on revitalizing classical music, Hans Roslings talk about analyzing statistics on improving third world countries, Isabel Allende discussing passion, and Sir Ken Robinson on revitalizing creativity in schools, I’m thoroughly enriched and entertained, in a dorky intellectual kind of way, but none-the-less, energized in the sense that the organization tries to accomplish.

I enjoyed a good 4th of July, walking around the National Mall taking in the Smithsonian’s Folk Life Festival, which this year highlighted Bhutan (which is a Himalayan country that places more importance on Gross National Happiness than on it’s GDP), a big showcase on NASA, which was really neat hearing various astronauts and scientists talk about their experiences past, present and future, with the agency. The reason I was really drawn to this years showcase was because their third highlight was the great state of Texas, which produced some BBQ and a little Tejano music, but overall, was the least impressive produced events of the three, to my disappointment. Afterwards, I hopped around a few parties and found my way to a downtown rooftop to watch the fireworks. Part of me wanted a big soundtrack (something other than the 1812 overture) to back up the grand display over the mall, something like this, but was substituted this year with rain.

I’ve been put up in a hotel this summer, which is nice but hardly the green oasis I lived in France, and I find myself missing my time there more and more (I suppose a natural after effect). Little things are making me happy, like eating frozen grapes, driving with loud music, afternoon exercise room jogging to the chauncy soundtrack of TMZ celebrity trash tv, smiling at uncomfortable silences while in elevators, and so on.

I’m looking forward to traveling some in August, someplace Latin, and then beginning school in September. It’s always good to look forward to something. And this post is…wait for it…done.

I did something rather foolish on Friday; something some of you might know as just another typical Siller story. It had all the classic elements (good intentions, fowl play, disastrous outcomes on someone else’s behalf, extreme guilt, and then a happy ending). So it goes a little something like this:

My friends in DC have been planning a tubing and camping trip in Shenandoah National Park for this weekend and I was excited to be in town and able to join them. There were 25 of us going and emails had been flying back and forth over the last couple of weeks building enthusiasm. I sent this email, which summarizes my excitement and preparation for the trip.

I just got back from target and the costume shop for this weekend. I got some basics…to include:

Shitloads of velveta mac and cheese for our contribution dish.
chex mix
secret snacks for late night (animal crackers in the kids box)
granola bars
fruit roll ups
2 cases of capri suns
(I’m in a health kick)

I also bought a bunch of balls. football, soccer, frisbee, and almost one of those big play rubber balls you sit on and knock little kids over with, but it wouldnt fit in my car. I did get some nascar fold up chairs and dorky aqua socks that I’m pumped about.

I also got some citranella camping torch things. I had to put back Twister and the bottled water b/c I thought they were erroneous.

At the costume shop I got some crazy hats and sunglasses we’ll save for this weekend so I’ll keep hush, other than the fact one of the sunglasses takes batteries, has windshield wipers and sparkle lights. Gonna be hot.

I havent come up with a branding theme for the trip yet, but I’m working on that. I didnt get the coozies, as b asked, b/c I just didnt. that’s yall’s project.

I have 5 road trip cds I burned this week (to include the new coldplay cd and a great ‘indie’ mix) so I do recommend you ride with us.

I started thinking, “what else can I do to cement this trip into epic proportions”. I thought about some of the pranks George Clooney likes to pull off, click here to read, and came up with idea that if I could procure and secure some animals, if I could conveniently wait until a couple of people go to sleep Saturday night, then I could slip those animals into their tent, causing a rude awakening and raucous laugh for all those still awake.

After first I thought about a common snake (boa, python, rat snake) but I thought that would be too expensive, a crazy shock, and just a little too much for people who I only casually knew. I went over to Petco on Friday and decided it was going to be mice.

I purchased 10 white feeder mice, knowing all I had to do was to keep them alive that night and during the tubing portion of the trip. (I was going to secretly stash them in a locker while we were on the water.) Petco asked very few questions when I asked for 10, only commenting that I must have a lot of snakes. I didn’t feel like answering questions or stating that these were going to be used as a part of a practical joke, because they might not be inclined to sell them to me, so I just smiled and nodded, knowing these mice would get to run free in the woods at the termination of the joke.

They gave them to me in a thin cardboard fold-up box. I asked for a little food to keep them busy over the next 24 hours.

I went back to my hotel and packed my stuff, leaving the mice in the box in my car in underground parking for a couple of hours. I was planning on crashing in DC that night and leaving early morning for the tubing trip.

I should have picked up the first sign of trouble when I got back to my car, because sitting on the passenger seat, looking at me with a tilted head, was a beady eyed white mouse who had escaped from a crack in the top of the self assembled cardboard box. Dang-it, they can squeeze through anything.

I quickly reached over and grabbed him by the tail. The good news about these feeder mice is that they are ‘farm raised’ so are not so street smart and skittish. I put him back in the box, counted the remaining mice, totaling 10, and ensured that there were no cracks anywhere in the box as I closed it. For some reason, double checking to ensure the box was ‘secure’ was reassuring to me at this point.

I arrived in town at my friends place, the one who recently purchased a new condo. This was my big mistake. I didn’t think I could leave the mice in my car because of the heat, so I snuck them upstairs, disguising the petco box in a target bag.

When I arrived at the apartment, she didn’t realize I had brought in rodents, thankfully. I secured them in the corner and we went and met up with friends in Dupont Circle. I starting thinking bad thoughts while we were out, like, what if they were to escape the box? That could be a disaster. I pushed through with the power of positive thinking.

Later that night we went back to the apartment and my worst fear had come true.

We walked in and she screamed, saying, “Oh my god, there’s a mouse!”

Scurrying across the floor right in front of us was one of my white mice. I immediately let out an, “Ohhhh Noooo”, and she looked at me stunned.

“What did you do?”, were the stern words that came out next.

“I, ummmm, wanted to pull this little prank tomorrow night, and needed a place to keep some mice until then, and ummmm, they must have gotten out.”

“You brought rodents into my new apartment? You brought RODENTS into my new apartment? You don’t bring mice in, you get them out. What is wrong with you?”, were the words that were coming out of her mouth…although these might be a little censored.

I chased after the mouse and grabbed it by the tail. I went over to the box and opened it, hoping, wishing, and praying that there were nine still inside. There were only three left, which meant six others had escaped and were pilfering around her place. They had gotten out by chewing a hole in the corner of the box.

What can you say at a moment like this? I tried to apologize and reassure to her that I wouldn’t stop until I found and caught them all.

Standing from the top of her coffee table, she concurred and said, “they better be sterile mice”. More talk of exterminators and other demands were entering my ears.

For those of you who have tried to catch a mouse, it’s not the easiest thing to do in the world. I began the search for the final six and found the first one under the computer table by a towel. He was resting and I picked him up easily.

I found the second in her closet and the third behind her dresser. The forth she found and pinned under a bowl in the hallway closet. I took the eight outside and let them go out back of her building. (I didn’t think it was the smartest thing to try and salvage them for the prank the next day. Cut your losses while you can, Matt.)

When I arrived back upstairs, the 9th was hiding behind the kitchen cabinets, finding his way into a small crack underneath. It was impossible to reach in or take apart to catch this thing, so I became a little nervous. He would peak his head out occasionally, but when he saw me or the light, would retreat to safety.

I heard about leaving peanut butter out as a lure, and I knew he hadn’t had any water, so I put some peanut butter and water in a bowl and left it nearby to get him out from behind the counter. If he went into the bowl, I would trap him inside.

I must have waited for an hour, him teasing me with exposure every so often. Eventually he made his way out, and I slammed my hand down trying to grab him, my heart racing. I missed him and he scurried back to safety under the stove. This went on for some time. My friend went to bed, in shock, awe, and anger.

I started horse whispering to the mouse, trying to lure him out with my sweet and comforting voice, but to no avail. I kept thinking about the Beverly Cleary children’s book I used to read, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, about Ralph the mouse, and I imagined a mouse scurrying past me on his red motorcycle. Everywhere I looked, I thought I saw a mouse. It was late night maddening.

Somehow, and I still don’t know how, the mouse came out and I cornered him and got him by the tail. I put him in a plastic cup and covered it with paper towels and started celebrating, saying “Only one left! Only one left!”

Right as this happened I saw the last one race across the floor, against the wall in her bedroom. I trapped him in the corner and picked him up.

A huge sigh of relief and simultaneous adrenaline passed over me. I took out the last two mice and came back into the place with a smile. I couldn’t believe we had caught seven escaped mice in a little under two hours.

She really didn’t share my enthusiasm for the unbelievable, but did keep a surprisingly mature perspective on the situation. I know most people would not have allowed me into their place again.

Needless to say, the prank didn’t make it to the camping trip, but the rains did, causing a really incredible tubing experience, but a rain out mockery of camping. There’s always next time!

In the meantime, any future pranks must be thought out more clearly and without danger or peril for my friends’ possessions or well-being. Wait a second, isn’t that exactly what a prank is supposed to invade in the first place?

Yesterday, I went to a rooftop party in the Adams Morgan district of DC. This area is a sought after area to live because in DC standards, it seems to be the most edgy and multicultural in an otherwise square town. It’s also fairly parky and green which adds to the appeal. My friend, Nancy, just purchased a place there and was having folks over to celebrate this stressfully momentous occasion.

All was fun except for the blanketing heat, which was clocked around 100F but with the humidity seemed about 150. We decided to embrace rather than run from it and sweat profusely the whole afternoon, rehydrating ourselves with cool, 12- ounce beverages that have been known to dehydrate.

I get reality checks that I’ve hit DC when conversations turn political. One girl at the party was at the Clinton campaign closing speech earlier during the day, cried in sadness at her loss, and then recanted the story and speech highlights to us in full. Afterwards we went around the group and spoke about how charismatic Bill is when he speaks. It was a general consensus that if you happen to be in the first 10 rows at one of his speeches, his eye contact is so compelling that you genuinely believe he is speaking to you and only you.

Somehow the conversation then turned into the disaster that would happen if the US Postal Service ever went away, because apparently UPS and FedEx just can’t hold the same flame. One of our friends, Dan, works as a consultant to the USPS and told a story how his girlfriend, Kelly, had a problem and was upset with the USPS over a package that was delayed. Dan happened to know the email address for the Postmaster General (the top dog) and gave it to Kelly to make a formal but pleasant complaint.

She emailed him and I shit you not, the next day there was a knock on her door with a man in a government suit accompanied by the lady at the post office counter who handled her account. They had her package in hand and offered it to her with apologies. I guess it helps to know the email address of the Postmaster. The funny part of the story is that they asked Kelly, politely, what was in the package. She felt a little silly at this point because it was her mail order doggy doo bags that you use to clean up the mess during a walk.

The rooftop party turned cool because we watched surrounding thunder and lightening storms brewing as the orange-red sun set behind the National Cathedral. Massive energy. In the words of a good friend, “Beautiful”.

Anyway, I’ve seen two really good movies that I highly recommend and should be required watching. The first, “Bigger, Stronger, Faster”, an independent documentary showcasing the reasons, causes, and effects of steroid use in the US, is an enlightening insight into our culture, basically saying steroid use is a side effect of our overall desire to be the best, live the American dream, and reach the top.

It discusses our self-set double standard by providing examples of quasi-accepted “performance enhancements” in industries other than sports (students taking Adderall to increase concentration, musicians taking anti-anxiety medicine to perform better, military pilots taking a form of speed to stay awake and concentrate on long missions, and of course other forms of steroids doctors prescribe in various medical capacities to improve our bodies). Athletes have taken the blunt of the negative press because they are most easily recognizable role models, but it transcends so many other industries and into the core of our culture.

The movie also discusses the effects (physically, morally, and socially) of using any of these enhancements and discusses a number of personal cases, to include Arnold and Sylvestor’s. Whether you call it cheating or not, most people will accept the risk and physical side effects that occur when taking any unnatural substance, and also the social risk that may or may be placed on you, for the gain or reward of being the best, or in some cases, simply being able to earn a living and to provide for a family in the often highly competitive environment that this country breeds. In an ideal world, everyone competes fairly and naturally. But we live in a far from ideal world, and as a society we often accept some form of ‘cheating’ by others in order to be the best. When it crosses the line is when this acceptance trickles down and impacts our children. It’s a great movie, a very interesting and complete look into this issue.

The other movie is called Surfwise, a unique movie about the life of Dorian “Doc” Paskowitz, a doctor who quit his job, bought an RV, married, and raised and educated 10 kids from this vehicle, moving around the country and surfing every day. It’s a compelling story of anti-establishment much like Into the Wild. He simply tries to remove himself and his family away from the societal ills in search for unified, purified, happiness within themselves, as a family, and with nature. This, of course, worked for a while, but had incredible impact on the family over the years. Good film.

That’s about all I have to say today. Still waiting on news from Chad. In the meantime, enjoying the fruits of DC.

I’ll kick off this blog with a story of my departure from France, arrival back into the States, and surprise news on my summer plans as they are a doozy. I was scheduled to depart Montpellier last Sunday morning at 7am and arrive in DC that afternoon. Making this flight was critical because I had notified my company that I would be ready to work Monday morning. (Some people are smarter and schedule arrival downtime.)

Early morning departures are never easy. When I took my 24-hour trip to NYC several weeks ago, I made the same flight out of Montpellier and just stayed out all night with friends, stumbling exhausted to the flight. This time I slept.

When I woke the next morning and walked to the taxi area at the train station at 5am, there were no taxis. (The airport is 20 minutes outside of town and requires taxi service.) There was a line of 10 drunk people and others walking around trying to get home from their nights’ festivities. I got a little stressed. I managed to talk my way to the front of the line, but every time a taxi came people ran around the corner to meet it, cutting off people like me waiting at the stand. About 45 minutes before my flight took off, a car of obnoxious hooligans pulled up and were chatting with a guy they knew in line.

They saw me waiting with beaucoup de luggage, and their eyes lit up. They asked if I wanted a ride. “We will taxi you to the airport”, they said. I thought how bad of an idea it was, as the driver was looking young and shady, smoking a cigarette as it rained.

I said no way, but looked again at my watch and thought this was my last chance. Sometimes in life I suppose we have to take risks. Hitchhiking at 6am in the morning with a couple of glazy Frenchies was a good way to start. They wanted 50 euros and I said ok (it was a reasonable cost). They kicked out three friends and piled my stuff and I inside. They wouldn’t shut up the whole way to the airport, talking mostly about soccer in French, Spanish, and broken English, and other stuff I couldn’t understand. Somehow, thank you karma, these guys got me there on time and without theft, rape, or harm. I was the last one to board the plane.

I made the long flight in the middle seats and arrived in DC on time. I should have checked my work email before I left for the plane, though, because I touched down, made it to my hotel (wondering why my car and hotel had been cancelled), checked my email, and realized that the proposal had been delayed and my company didn’t need me here for another month.

I wasn’t flying back to France at this point. Not two hours later I discovered that they had other work for me in mind. I was excited until I heard the location, which wasn’t DC, where I had originally planned spending the summer. As it happens, I am scheduled within the next couple of weeks to travel back to Africa, this time to Chad (neighbors to Sudan), for 6-8 weeks to kick off a UN project.

It should actually be pretty interesting, especially since they think I now speak French. I’ve already been given an agreement (written in French) between the UN and Chadian government that I’m supposed to translate to English. I didn’t think I would be regretting my lack of studiousness in France so soon, but at least I can put to use the language this summer.

More news and information to come about this trip. It will give this blog a good kickstart because I’m going apart of an advance team with a group of about five people and we will be the first ones in country to help kick off a UN peacekeeping mission, which will be interesting. (Problems of Darfur refugees overflowing into Chad have influenced this need.)

Back to Africa so soon. I can’t get away from the Sand.