Saturday, December 5, 2009
(And no, I’m not talking about the Washington Monument)
When I’m in Rockville, one of the things I frequently bitch about is that there’s nobody to hang out with and thus not much of anything to do. Once I started college I lost contact with a lot of friends from high school, and when I did come home I found myself missing their company, but (with a few exceptions) I didn’t find myself missing them. Who wants to get lunch or see a movie alone? In between eating a sandwich I really should have gotten mayonnaise on and sharing stories of unfortunate sexual experiences, that was how I explained my gross excess of free time to our friend
BB BB on the steps of a Baptist church in downtown D.C.
We talked about BB’s (real name Adrian Monk, no relation) childhood in Soviet Arabia being raised by American expat parents in Riyadh, the capital city. He told me he came to the states in the summer of 2001 when his father had a strange feeling that shit in the middle east was about to hit the fan. While in his native sand country, Adrian developed a strange affinity for an n-word: nutmeg. Once he got to America, the boy (it feels weird calling someone older than me “boy”) developed a strange distaste for Uncut. As far as magazines go they have decent articles, in my opinion. When he asked me to keep all the newly uncovered details of his life private, I told him I’d just make up something fantastic for the blog.
But the above paragraph of bullshit does go to show you the far reaching nature of our conversation; I was out with him for a good 3 1/2 hours or so and things never really got stale. Anybody who talks about gay sex at the front door of a Baptist church is a friend of mine. We would have discussed sodomy at the back door (har har) but one of D.C.’s homeless was occupying that stoop. According to our friend BB the homeless in DC have a special glow about them. They may be homeless but dammit they’re the most ironic homeless people in the world. Citizens of the capital city of the richest, most powerful nation in history and they don’t have a roof over their heads.
We went down to the National Mall where, surprisingly, the actual grass was closed to the public because they were “refurbishing” it. In December (for the record, it’s snowing today). I found a nice metro exhaust vent to stand on top of but eventually we got moving down towards the Washington Monument, whose mammoth size up close I forgot about, and the White House which is surprisingly small in person. I’ve lived in the area almost all my life and I’ve never been to a lot of the monuments so to an extent I was as much a stranger to them as he. However, he is not a stranger to
love distasteful photos. ‘Flying into the White House’? “Too soon,” I said. He retorts, “it’s been eight years.” The boy’s got a good (and hairy) head on his shoulders.