So, I went to the basement of my building today to get my thesis scanned, converted to PDF, and burnt onto a CD-ROM. I am friendly with the guy in the Photocopy Center, and he said it wouldn't be a problem.

When I get there, I am confronted by an older, chubby man wearing a wrinkled sport coat that seemed very out of place here. The jacket begged to be on the back of a used car salesman at a used car lot.

But, I digress.

So, Johnny Slick (who's prices are so low they would blow you away) asks me if he can help me. I almost said I was looking for a red convertible with standard transmission, but instead I asked if my friend was around. He said no, but could he help me. I said no, it was nothing important just some personal stuff. He replied, "Well I'm the manager of this office, is there anything I can help with?" Again, I said no, it was personal, and I said that I would just leave the stuff on my friend's chair. I thanked him (for nothing of course) as courtesy dictates, and walked out.

I got about three steps out the door and my Spidey-senses started tingling. I knew what was happening back in the other room, and I needed to confirm my suspicions.

I walked back into the room, and as I thought, Johnny Slick was thumbing through the stuff that I clearly told him was personal.

What a bastard. Well, I guess that that proves that nothing is really private where our government is concerned.

I have had a whirlwind past few days, which all began on Friday last

*screen ripples as we venture into the past*

It all started Friday. It was hot, sultry, one might even say sweltering or torrid. I was dressed in my usual Friday evening apparel: jeans and a polo shirt. I was sitting at a booth in one of my favorite pubs, Nanny O'Briens, in Cleveland Park, waiting for friends to arrive. I was quite surprised to see the place barren, only a few older gentlemen (clearly regulars) were at the bar. Each was old, none was fat, and many had faded, distorted tattoos on loose, wrinkly skin. Even if those arms (and surely backs, chests, and legs) could have been compared to Rembrandts in their youth, today they are definitely masterpieces of the great early twentieth century Swiss master, Hermann Rorschach.

The sun shone into the bar through the dirty, grimy windows. The air was filled with smoke as the ancient men at the bar puffed, chain smoking. One elderly chap informed me that I must venture to the bar if I wanted to drink. He glowered at me with disdain when I politely explained that I was not yet ready to order a drink. Apparently I had broken a sacred statute in this temple of the Irish Dionysus. I paid my penance, for after admonishing me, he flew into a long-winded, unimportant (and dare I say incomprehensible) story about something in the fashion that only an elderly man is able. His yarn spun (and spun and spun), I drank from a glass of Smithwicks I did not remember buying. As he droned on, I scrutinized, perused, one might even say studied in detail, this man looking for a bird on a chain, or perhaps the wheel of Gilbert's Nancy Bell. But no, his story was not literature, it was simply boring.

Finally, after what seemed a long, inordinate amount of time, my friend and her friend finally arrive, and the eating and drinking actually commenced. Almost $100 of edibles and potables were devoured and consumed. I was pretty well intoxicated, inebriated, one might even say drunk. I am pretty sure the girls were as well. Due to our concern and compassion for others, we all thought that it would be best if no one drive for a while. So, the girls return with me to my apartment. I am slow with drink, but not completely unaware of what is expected in this situation: two drunk girls and one drunk boy.

Alas, it was not meant to be, for upon our arrival at my residence, we have become sober enough to comprehend, fathom, one might even say understand that this is not a wise thing to do. We sit on the couch and chat instead, and finally I remind the young women about my affairs and duties of the coming day. I escort them to the Metro, and stumble to bed knowing that I have a long day ahead of me on Saturday and that I drank entirely too much.

So I just posted something to my only friend on this blog thingy, Uncle Cliffy, and I decided to try the "Spell check entry before posting" and I discovered, to my astonishment, that the word blog does not appear in this blog's dictionary.

So, a little background first.

My sister has a Honda Civic that decided in May to stop blowing its chilly breath on those who dwelt within its confines.

It turned out that the compressor died, and it would cost over $300 to fix. She is planning on moving far away at the end of the summer, and the car is too old with too many miles to make the trip. She wanted to buy a new car. But, it is just as silly to buy a new car and put a ton of miles on a brand new car right away. So, we convinced her to suck it up and hang on to the car until she moved, and then buy a new car there.

Well, as it got warmer, she had a harder and harder time driving without A/C. You must bear in mind that she is a bit of a princess and doesn't like to sweat (or is it perspire?). Anyway, as I am the nicest one in the family, I graciously offered to trade cars with her for the summer as mine sits all week in its parking space and really only gets used on the weekends...also, sweating doesn't really bother me too much (once you have worked an entire summer in an unairconditioned scene shop in Miami, FL, sweat and heat don't really bother you!).

So, last night it poured to beat the band (an odd expression really, don’t you think?), and as it is a law here to have your headlights on while the wipers are on, I had my headlights on. Well, I guess you see where this is going, but I shall finish anyway. I got out of the car and went up to my buddy’s apartment to tell him we needed to get going. We decided to stay and watch a movie (Repo Man) and order in. Well, after eating dinner and finishing Repo Man, we walked out to my car to discover that the idiot who had been driving left the lights on! So, we called AAA and they came and gave me a hot-shot. It started right away, but it was still an awful experience, and I was so embarrassed.

I didn’t get home until almost midnight. I decided that as it is Friday today, I could afford to come in a little late. So, I set my alarm for 6:15 (instead of the usual 5:45), took a nice long shower, watched Matt Lauer, got dressed slowly, lallygagged to the Metro, and still made it to work with a few minutes to spare. I don’t get that at all.

I have errands to run today, so here’s hoping that the battery didn’t die again!

OK, so two bits of exciting news in my otherwise boring life:

I just found out yesterday that I passed the Foreign Service Written Examination. According to Monster.com: "In the fall of 2001, almost 24,000 people registered for the written exam, and approximately 13,000 took it." According to the State Department "about one third of takers have been asked to continue on to the next phase, the oral assessment." So, sometime between September 15, 2004 and May 2005, I will go on for the Oral Assessment!

The other bit of good news is that it seems that they really are working hard at getting me a more professional job here, but unfortunately, it won't kick in until October with the new Fiscal (that's pronounced "physical," BTW) Year...but I'm patient.

Well, I'm not sure what I plan on writing here, but I told Uncle Cliffy that I would try something new as he is always trying to broaden my experiences.