This month, Lincoln, NE resident Jane Skrovota was caught on video delivering a barely coherent, anti-gay, hate-filled rant. She backed her claims with evidence that even pseudo-scientists would find laughable. After describing the Dutch TV show, Winter Wipeout which, according to her, is produced by “gays, bis and orgyers,” she asks “Why do gays like to see people perishing?”

You’re probably laughing already. I’ll admit it, the video elicited a dry chuckle from me. But the thing that makes this particular video really unfunny is the venue: The Lincoln City Council chambers. And the nearly five minutes Lincoln council members spent listening to and watching this venom drool out of Ms. Skrovota’s mouth. Without interruption. All while discussing anti-discrimination legislation.

Ms. Skrovota’s screed covered why homosexuals should not be allowed to work in hospitals or schools, how “anus licking causes sepsis,” and how most gays don’t live past forty.

“Don’t allow hundreds of molestations each year with this equality-ordinance,” she cried.

Were she sitting in a cardboard box, lying drunk in a gutter, on her dilapidated front porch, at an ultra-conservative rally or pretty much anywhere else you find crazies — this would be Hilarious with a capital H — she’d be just another garden variety xenophobe that we’ve all come to know, abhor and ignore. But when hate-speech gets the undivided attention of elected officials who represent a quarter of a million people, it gets pretty serious.

The non-bigots in the audience (all of you, I hope) will be pleased to know that the “dislikes” far outweigh the “likes” on the YouTube video, but there are still plenty of LOLs and HAHAHAHAs. One commenter asks, “Why so many dislikes? This video is freaking hilarious, mainly thanks to background dude.”

That I’ll give ground on. Background Dude’s reaction to Ms. Skrovota’s deranged rambling is a riot. He can barely contain himself. Check out my favorite moments at the two minute mark and at 2:35 when Ms. Skrovota’s line, about how college women are “seduced with illegal rohypnol to go gay” almost sends his head flying into the seat behind him.

With a population of 258,000, Lincoln’s not huge, but it’s not exactly a small town either. How then, does the city council have the time to sit and listen to a woman spout unfounded, anti-gay hate speech? And make no mistake, that’s exactly what it is.

When Ms. Skrovota said, that anal sex is tantamount to homicide and that “Gays are the bioethic genociders in hospitals,” well inside of her first minute, did the city council really need to hear more?

If Ms. Skrovota had listed the worst stereotypes and falsehoods attributed to African Americans, Jews, Hispanics or just about any other ethnic minority (with the exception of Muslims, unfortunately) she likely would have been shouted down, or at least cut short by a moderator. It should have been an outrage, but instead it was just a blip.

I’m a firm believer that the best weapon against bad speech is more speech — not suppression or censorship. In communities with free expression, good ideas rise while toxic ones, like Ms. Skrovota’s, sink. It’s been the case in every battle for equal treatment and civil rights.

I’m confident that within my lifetime, Ms. Skrovota, and those with like minds will be indistinguishable from the George Wallaces of the world. Until then Lincoln, please don’t throw homophobia another life raft.

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In yet another display of Not Letting Women Rest Until They Are Dead And Buried, the blogosphere and legitimate news outlets alike were all a-titter this week over Hillary Clinton daring to show her face in public without a lick of makeup. Though, to my knowledge, she retired from her modeling career a solid 20 years ago and now works in politics — a field that, while demanding one look presentable, certainly isn’t full of nothing but George Clooneys and Kate Winslets — she is apparently still required to never step out of the house unless freshly dipped in a molten vat of concealer.

Headline after headline was posted, deriding her for daring to look like a 64-year-old human being, even at one point strangely comparing her to Kate Middleton. And though it is certainly nothing new to see public figures lambasted for looking, well, like they’ve been a little worn down from being screamed at for a picture for the majority of their lives (though Newt Gingrich-giant head jokes will never be unfunny), there is something especially disheartening about seeing it done to Hillary. That woman has been through so much media ravaging, and every square inch of her life — and, more specifically, life as a woman — has been up for some of the most vicious scrutiny in politics. Seeing people stoop so low as to essentially call her ugly in the schoolyard playground that is internet journalism just put the icing on the cake of disappointment.

Being told that we have to look beautiful — but not so beautiful that we look “fake,” mind you, wouldn’t want that — is nothing short of exhausting. And while some arguments can be made that people who have carved out careers based on being physically attractive can expect that, when that engine starts to run out of steam, the same crowds that were once fawning over their legs might now be teasing their wrinkly kneecaps, a politician seems an unfair target. Regardless of where you stand on the political spectrum, the idea that you would hold a woman who serves as Secretary of State to the astronomical beauty standards that you hold female actresses of her age is ridiculous. She doesn’t get paid to look a certain way, and considering the bloodhound-esque jowls on so many of her crusty male colleagues, you would think that something as simple as going makeup-free would be a non-issue.

Regardless of your feelings about her as a politician, it is clear that the tone and goal of the mudslinging over her bare face was simply a more amplified version of the girl in the class getting teased because she has acne or braces. It is a subtle but firm reminder that, at the end of the day, no matter what your job is: If you are a woman, your second job is to look good while doing it. And Hillary, in one of her moments that I find truly inspirational — not only as a young woman, but as a young woman who sometimes looks crappy without makeup and would like to succeed regardless — had this to say on the issue: “You know, at some point, it’s just not something that deserves a lot of time and attention. I feel so relieved to be at the stage I’m at in my life right now, and if others want to worry about it, I let them do the worrying for a change.”

I can only hope to, as I grow and become more comfortable with myself — including how I look — to hold the same attitude about my physical appearance. The fact that she has the fortitude to dismiss the criticisms, and really mean it, is something that I wish I saw more often. Thank you, Hillary, for not giving a sh-t what anyone else thinks. You’re the best.

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Remember when Dan Quayle hated Murphy Brown? Remember when he blamed her — and her characters single motherhood — for causing the L.A. Riots and for perpetuating the breakdown of the traditional family structure? Didn’t that go a long way towards solving all our problems?

I mean, when you look at Candice Bergen, don’t you just say to yourself, “Society-eroding skullduggery?”



Lest we confine ourselves to the doghouse of simplicity, here are some words of explanation: 1) the speech Quayle gave was three pages long, and the Murphy Brown reference comes in at the end; 2) in the speech, he trots out the seemingly inexhaustible conservative rhetorical trope that there has been a “breakdown of family structure,” and claims that the poor have had their lot made worse by ‘the welfare ethos,’ i.e., ‘You’re addicted to welfare and you’re not looking for work’; 3) he passingly refers to LBJ’s Great Society, saying, “It would be overly simplistic to blame this social breakdown on the programs of the Great Society alone” then adds that “It would be absolutely wrong to blame it on the growth and success most Americans enjoyed during the 1980s.” (Leave the 80’s alone! ); 4) and then he declares that “marriage is the best anti-poverty program of all,” unless — of course — you’ve read The Two Income Trap (see, perhaps, this interview, if you want a taste of the book’s argument, which I think is a good one.)



As for the riots themselves: remember that it came about from Rodney King driving while intoxicated (though just under the legal limit, which is twice the legal limit in California), thinking that an arrest would violate his parole for a previous robbery conviction; remember that he was tased and then beaten 56 times by a swarm of LAPD; remember that the police bragged and joked about the beating as King was brought to the hospital; remember that the attorney for the police in the trial deemed that Rodney King was a threat after he had been tased and while he was being beaten; remember that Los Angeles is nineteen suburbs in search of a city, as the old saying goes, and that a lot was at play that day (a lot of which I can’t squeeze into here, but, for instance: the then-police chief initially spending his time during the riots at a party raising money to fight police reforms while others were furious at being pulled from the 77th and redeployed to — say — protect a bus station); remember that 55 people died, 2,300 were injured, and scores of buildings were burned over the course of six days; remember that — during the riots — Rodney King appealed for calm and literally asked, “Can’t we all just get along?”; and remember that — in Judith Butler’s words — a circuit of paranoia is built around the projection of one’s “own aggression and the subsequent regarding of that projection as an external threat.”



Rodney King hasn’t had the best life since the incident, but that’s neither here nor there.



The point here isn’t the speech or the L.A. Riots, but the fact that Dan Quayle invoked Murphy Brown in reference to the L.A. Riots. Instead of talking about a specific locality and community — predominantly Hispanic, Korean, and African-American — worn down by things not being what could and should have been, Dan Quayle invoked an imaginary white lady.


What makes it even stranger is that Quayle talks about Murphy Brown as a rhetorical “icing on the cake” moment after describing what he sees as a never-ending cycle of gangs and welfare dependents perpetuating themselves.

So, in other words: either Murphy Brown was in a gang, or she gave birth to a Crip. 

And Murphy Brown wasn’t just at it on her own: she had help. She had people on the inside, straight up villains like Jim “Cut Yo’ Face” Dial and Frank “I Don’t Drink My Milk, I Shiv It” Fontana.



Just look at the plot descriptions of some episodes of Murphy Brown: “To start a significant dialog, Murphy decides she will break the technicians’ strike by bringing both sides together for cake and conversation.”



Disgusting. I don’t understand why this episode isn’t in jail next to Charles Manson. 



“Murphy’s story wins freedom for an innocent man; when the rest of the team realizes he has a problem adjusting with the outside world, Miles offers him a job as Murphy’s secretary.”



Horrifying. I think I’m going to write a letter of complaint to the FCC, just to make sure it isn’t still on the air. I’ll also try and be flirty about it, too, writing things like “Rapidly bats eyes” in parenthesis after sentences like, “You should be ashamed of yourself.” (Then adding in a second pair of parenthesis, “Not ‘animal’ bat eyes. Though I’m sure they’re just as flirty.”)



“When Miles arrives to the office, the whole gang makes fun of his new suit. He says he bought it because his older brother is coming to town so he wants to look good. At Murphy’s office, Miles asks her to join them for lunch, Murphy reluctantly agrees.”


And there goes civilization. Shame it had it had to end like that – you know, because Murphy Brown accepted lunch and all.



Anyone up for a game of post-nuclear fallout foosball? 






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1. Turning All Water To Blood = Turning All Coffee To Water

7:19 And the LORD spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and stretch out thine hand upon the coffee cups of Egypt, upon their Talls, upon their Grandes, and upon their Ventis and upon all their holders of coffee, that they may become water; and that there may be only water throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of ceramic, plastic and in vessels of styrofoam.

2. Frogs = Bed Bugs

8:2 And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with bed bugs:

8:3 And the college dormitories shall bring forth bed bugs abundantly, which shall go up and come into thine house, and into thy bedchamber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy sexual partners, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy couches:

8:4 And the bed bugs shall come up and lay eggs both in thee, and in thy people, and in all thy sexual partners.

3. Lice = Oil

8:16 And the LORD said unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch out thy rod, and smite the dust of the land, that it may spill oil for extreme gas prices throughout all the land of Egypt.

4. Flies = Spam Mail

8:21 Else, if thou wilt not let my people go, behold, I will send swarms of spam mail upon thy email, and upon thy friends’ email, and upon thy people’s email, and into thy cellular devices: and the inboxes of the Egyptians shall be full of swarms of daily deals, chain letters, and also pornography.

5. Pestilence = The End Of Instant Food Gratification

9:3 Behold, the hand of the LORD is upon thy fast food which is at the McDonalds, in the Taco Bell, in the Wendy’s, at the In and Out, in the Pizza Hut, and at the Burger King: there shall be a very long, grievous wait.

6. Boils = Herpes

9:8 And the LORD said unto Moses and unto Aaron, Take to you brushes of sores of the genitals, and let Moses rub it on bodies in the sight of Pharaoh.

9:9 And it shall become a herpes outbreak in all the land of Egypt, and shall be an infection breaking forth with blisters upon man, and even upon beast, throughout all the land of Egypt.

7. Hail = Earthquakes And Tsunamis

9:18 Behold, tomorrow about this time I will cause it to shake a very grievous quake, and flood from a very grievous wave, such as hath not been in Egypt since the foundation thereof even until now.

8. Locusts = Zombies

10:4 Else, if thou refuse to let my people go, behold, tomorrow will I bring the zombies into thy coast:

10:5 And they shall envelop the face of the earth, that one cannot run away: and they shall eat the residue of that which is escaped, which remaineth unto you from the quake and wave, and also they shall eat your brains.

9. Darkness = Internet Crash

10:21 And the LORD said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand toward Google, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt.

10:22 And Moses stretched forth his hand toward the divine Internet; and there was a definite darkness in all the computers and smartphones in all the land of Egypt for three days.

10. Death Of First Born = Death Of First Born Via Hunger Games

11:4 And Moses said, Thus saith the LORD, About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt:

11:5 And all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall be sent into the arena of The Hunger Games to fight to the death, from the first born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the firstborn of the virgin Tim Tebow; and most definitely all the firstborn of politicians.

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A bad-ass photo of Secretary of State Hillary Clinton texting while wearing “Deal With It” shades has been turned into a meme via the Tumblr Texts From Hillary Clinton. It’s times like these that I love the Internet.

The original photo is a meme-maker’s dream. In it, Clinton looks totally cool, calm and ~over it, perfect for shooting off sassy barbs to other government officials like Colin Powell and Anthony Weiner from the comfort of her spacious G6. Everything around her is chaos, but Hillary’s got it under control.

You go, Hillary Clinton. I hope you really are in Washington DC laying the smack down and handling everyone’s crap. As Tina Fey once said in support of Clinton’s 2008 Presidential campaign, “B-tch is the new black.”

Get on board with Texts From Hillary Clinton before it falls into meme purgatory with Texts From Bennett and Sh-t Girls Say. Your mom will be linking it on her Facebook in about a week.

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Why major in Women’s Studies when you could study a more practical major that your parents would be proud to brag about with their pals? If you’re content with the idea that everything is fine as is — with women getting paid 80 percent of what men earn for equal work, and politicians arguing about birth control (birth control!) — don’t major in Women’s Studies. If you and the women you know are worth more than that, and you want to grab your beautiful, precious, wonderful life by the horns and do something challenging and inspiring and worthwhile with it, read on for five reasons to major in Women’s Studies.

What you don’t know actually does hurt you.

Two memorable responses I got as a Women’s Studies major were “Do you hate men?/Are you a lesbian?” (these are seemingly said in the same breath, which is why they collectively count as one), and “I studied women in college too… Heh, heh.” (This one’s uttered by your friend’s creepy dad or your questionable uncle.) Runner-up: “Why isn’t there a Men’s Studies?” (It’s called History.)

When I took my first Women’s Studies class, I’d often come home angry; I’d grown up with a progressive family, I was well-traveled, and I’d gotten good grades throughout school, and yet I still hadn’t heard about the Declaration of Sentiments or the Equal Rights Amendment; I’d still never questioned the stereotypes that women are bad at math and men are bad at feelings; I’d never heard of rape culture or the gender wage gap.

Every time someone asked whether I hated men (no), or whether I’m a lesbian (no, but does it matter?) upon hearing my major, I was reminded further that women’s issues aren’t getting the mainstream attention they deserve: that women are widely underrepresented in politics; that the number of sexual assaults on college campuses is staggeringly high; that women still get paid less for equal work. And the fact that WS was still obscure and somehow silly showed that there’s still a long way to go before women are considered truly equal. This gave me all the more reason to pursue the degree.

It applies…to everything.

When you major in Women’s Studies, you study politics, theory, literature, history, sociology, and psychology, all with a feminist perspective. You discover and ask questions that no one’s ever challenged you with before: How have women been portrayed in the media and religion? In what ways do gender stereotypes influence politics and literature? How does our society compare to others in its treatment of women?

Since it covers so many different subjects, you have a broad range of job opportunities; you’re not tied to a specific field like you would be with a marine biology or accounting degree. With whatever job(s) you end up having, you can apply what you’ve learned from Women’s Studies to any situation — it’s not so much a career choice as it is a life choice; you’re adopting a new perspective that you’ll use in every relationship, every job, and every circumstance.

It’s relevant.

Have you read the news lately? It’s War on Women this, and Birth Control Access Violates Our Religious Freedom that. Women and women’s health are at the center of politics right now. Sh-t just got real. Well, I guess it got real a year ago when the House nearly shut down the government over Planned Parenthood funding. As long as people are fighting to turn back the clock on women’s rights, women will need advocates for equality, and that’s where a Women’s Studies major comes in.

Oppression knows no bounds. But the good news is that justice doesn’t either.

The funny thing about Women’s Studies is that it’s not just about women. It makes you think about layers of identity and explore how oppressions like racism, sexism, and ableism are comparable and intertwined. One of the first words you learn as a Women’s Studies major is intersectionality, which at first sounds like one of those higher-ed, elitist terms that makes you shudder and say, “No wonder Rick Santorum thinks college is for snobs!” But really, it’s a theory that examines how different forms of identity like race, class, gender, sexuality, and ability intersect and interact on multiple levels.

Majoring in Women’s Studies allows you to challenge these intersecting oppressions and address the systemic problems that create them, and it instills a huge sense of compassion for disadvantaged, oppressed groups. And we all know that compassion leads to justice.

It’s on the right side of history.

When you choose this major, you become an agent — not a bystander — in the process of bringing humanity one step closer to equality. You do it not just for yourself, but for your partner, your family, and the future. A WS degree opens doors that you may not have known were there or otherwise even comprehended. Women’s Studies explores why women are underrepresented in politics and higher-level jobs, and then it shows you how to change that — how to strive toward a more just, equal, and vibrant society.

College isn’t somewhere you go to learn one skill, and a Women’s Studies major isn’t a trade you learn in a few classes; it’s a life evaluation — a social, biological, economic, political evaluation that arms you with ideas and answers to questions on how to interpret culture and your existence within it, and how to go out into the world and make it better, more inclusive, and a hell of a lot more beautiful.

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Listen, I did it and I don’t regret it. But then again, I arrived from Missouri with Big Plans to become a CIA agent until my Arabic professor told me that his people don’t have a word for homosexuality because “it doesn’t exist where he’s from.”

My point is: not everyone can hack it. If you’re ready to deal with the awkward discussion with your dad, the giggling recruiter on the other end of the phone, or the vegans, then, please, by all means, disregard everything below. If you’re questioning, unsure, or just curious, keep reading and know that I am jealous of everyone who has job skills.

You probably haven’t really thought it through.

It starts out innocently enough. Sometimes potential Women’s Studies majors just want a change of academic scenery. One day while sitting in freshman chemistry, you might look out the proverbial window and think, “I don’t care about titration. I just want to listen to people talk in vague, theoretical terms about their personal sexual experiences.” In other cases, you might stumble upon the discipline by accident. Yes, Jane Austen is a talented novelist but think long and hard about why you like her writing. If you find yourself confessing, “Maybe it’s not that I’m drawn to the themes of Victorian literature; maybe I just like female protagonists,” then take heed, child. That’s how they get you.

You will become a crazy person.

For a while, all of the fallout happens internally. You might see a scone at a trendy, locally-owned coffee shop and wonder about whether or not the sugar in the scone was harvested primarily by men or women. And that if it was harvested by women, whether or not that should be considered a triumph for gender equality because women should be breadwinners, too, damnit, or that it’s evidence that women are always being exploited? Or if by questioning the importance of the identity of the farmer, you’re just reenforcing society’s obsession with the gender binary.

Your family will avoid talking about you in public.

Your parents are likely to stop bringing you up at cocktail parties or family reunions for fear of having to concede that they pay $40k a year for you to study “White Masculinity in U.S. Popular Culture” and “Beauty, Fashion, and Self-Styling.” Your mom and dad (or mom-and-mom or dad-and-dad!) seek out new hobbies and experiences for the express purpose of keeping their conversational partners engaged about their lives and not yours. And when college does become a topic of conversation, your parents will probably make a fleeting remark about your chronic indecision. “I think he’s tried nearly every major in the course catalog!” This, of course, only works until second semester senior year when your parents decide unilaterally to tell their acquaintances that you’re an American Studies major.

It’s challenging to obtain gainful employment.

It’s this one that you don’t think about until it’s too late. At nineteen, one rarely thinks about the one day when he or she (or ze!) is going to have to make enough money to pay for cat food and premium cable. Since my college’s idea of a career center was to help people get jobs in consulting or abandon them completely, I didn’t have a lot of guidance about how to position myself in the job market. Technically none of my peers – other than the economics and engineering kids – had any skills either. But at least it’s socially acceptable to be an English major.

People will assume you want to talk about feminism.

If you choose to commit to the Women’s Studies degree, you must be prepared for the inevitable change in all of your social interactions. If you’re male, the response to your academic disclosure, from older straight men, for example, will be to make a joke to change the topic: “You go on a lotta dates, then?” Har har har. Someone will try to relate to you by mentioning that class she took that one time where she read Foucault and it was really interesting. Or someone else will try to talk to you about feminism. This usually waffles between the hyperpolitical — “So what do you think about abortion?” — and the weirdly specific — “I think Disney has gone too far with the female heroes. Now they’re just emasculating the male characters.”

You can always change the conversation by bringing up patriotism, religion, or Mitt Romney.

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You: Filibuster Brown.
Me: Shrinking junior member in the last row.

Your recitation of whole episodes of Murder She Wrote was brilliant. Didn’t want it to end but I fell asleep in hour 16 and when I woke up, you were gone. Email me, I want to hear what matters to you.

_____



Senate Dining Room last week, you were eating with some old guys and you caught me looking at you, lol. Was that bow-tie for real? Dying to know.

_____

Getting our shoes shined together and I was coveting your tawny Fratellis. Wanted to talk about redistricting but you said that’s for behind closed doors. Can’t stop thinking about that.

_____

Me: Dashing salt and pepper Rep. yelling at an aide in the hallway.
You: Ravishing constituent on a tour of the chamber last Tuesday.

I’m not really that scary. Send a pic so I know it’s you.

_____



Even though you were across the aisle, I caught your eye roll when the Speaker said “nay” to our bill. Just wanted to let you know you made my day. Compromise soon?

_____

Am I crazy or were you were looking right at me every time you said “two-party system?” If this sounds familiar, email and tell me I’m not crazy.

_____



After Appropriations yesterday you jokingly proposed a “subcommittee to kill some brain cells.” Sounds more like a caucus to me. Where do I sign up? :)

_____



Debated you on TV the other night and I can’t get your hair out of my mind. I was too shy to ask but I have to know who you see when you’re in the beltway. Is it Frances at the Ritz?  Put “Activist Judges” in the subject of the email so I know it’s you.

_____



Scene: Barry’s SOU
Me: Wishing I was anywhere else
You: Laughing at something on your phone.

We made eye contact. I was wondering if you play Words With Friends.
 Your move: MinorityWhippit

_____


You met with me in your office last month, I was the one worried about losing my job. That smile looked like more than just glad-handing. Well I lost my job, but maybe I gained a friend (you)? It’s probably a shot in the dark if you’ll ever read this but my fingers are crossed anyway. Like you said, things have to start going my way sometime right? Let me know.

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I wasn’t born in Washington, D.C. In that, I join the ranks of most Washington residents. Like some, I never thought I’d like it much here. It’s too hot in the summer. It’s too political. There are no tall buildings. However, after almost four years of living here, and with a slight aside to the love/ hate affair I have with my hometown of Lima, Peru, I can honestly proclaim that I have the biggest crush on this city.

Washington, if cities were princesses, you would be Cinderella: you’re looked over by your larger, more pretentious but ultimately uglier sisters, you do all the dirty work and your metro system may close at midnight (3 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays!), but in the right pair of heels, man, can you shine bright.

Yes, like any city, D.C. has its problems. There is still violence in its streets. There is still a gigantic wealth gap: within the same 61.4 square miles, Washington is home to both affluent Georgetown and poverty-stricken Anacostia, and it’s surrounded by very prosperous areas in Virginia and Maryland. There is also a gigantic perception gap in that Washington is seen as a merciless overseer, not unlike the Capitol in The Hunger Games, living off the effort of the rest of the country while oppressing it into submission.

There is truth to all of this, to be sure. But despite what candidates and pundits and naysayers may say, Washington is not just the halls of Capitol Hill or the White House or K Street. It is just a big city in a small town with an even bigger soul. And like New York City in the 1980s and 90s, it is undergoing a renaissance. Streets are cleaner, restaurants are opening on every corner and, most importantly, a sense of community has begun to permeate among its residents and those of nearby districts in Maryland and Virginia.

Beyond the calls for resignations, and the scandals, and the pundits and the politics and the theatrics, there exists here a thriving society full of young, brilliant people whose core reason for living and breathing and working in this town is to make the world better. Whether it’s the young community manager at a tech startup, to the ex-pat taking notes at their embassy, to the communications director at an environmental non-profit, sit down at a bar with anybody in this city and after one martini or seven, if you listen carefully you will hear the same story: that they came to D.C. because they want to be part of something bigger than themselves.

Fact: for every guy trying to win an election at all costs just for the sake of winning, there are at least ten men and women asking themselves, “How can we make [X] better? How can we make it so [X] reaches every corner of this nation so that everyone can benefit?” Call it defense, call it tech, call it health care, call it flight path optimization, call it daily deals. It is an incontrovertible fact that the people in D.C. actually care about something, and they share it every day, from dusk till dawn. This sense of connecting, of sharing, of testing and launching and improving the threads that make the very fabric of our society is ever present among this city and its denizens. For what makes up the personality of a city, ultimately, if not its people?

If Manhattan and Chicago remain this nation’s financial market, if San Francisco and Brooklyn are its creative cores, if Detroit and Houston are its manufacturing engines, then Washington remains America’s grande salon, a forum where ideas are brought forth and discussed. At its worst, it is a zero-sum cesspool where power and privilege are peddled and pilfered at the expense of others. But at its best, the people living and working in D.C. stand by that ancient maxim that government has the unique power to bring people from all paths of life together, and that out of that cacophony of voices, good intentions and actions will prevail.

People of America, people of the world: you may disagree with me. You may call me a naïve idealist fascinated by The West Wing-like imaginary constructs. You may talk of D.C. as a blighted scourge to be eradicated, a cancer to be eliminated. I challenge you to visit. Walk down its streets and avenues. Explore its museums. Discover its culture — your culture. Smell its cherry blossoms. Breathe its history — your history. Troll its bars and speakeasies for that elusive perfect glass of bourbon. Try its food. Meet its people. They’re not monsters, they don’t bite, they (mostly) don’t hatch schemes to live off your tax dollars. No matter where you come from, there is someone here who is just like you. And he or she will probably be happy to see someone like them when they see you. They might even buy you a drink. If they do, listen to their stories, because, and I guarantee this, they will definitely want to hear yours.

As for me, I am writing these words on a perfect spring night standing alone on a small hill, perched on a bright red Capital Bikeshare bike by the Washington Monument, with Congress behind me, Thomas Jefferson to my left, Barack Obama to my right, Abraham Lincoln staring solemnly at me from afar. Beyond them and their politics are my friends, my loved ones, and other great people I have yet to meet. And, for now, there is no place else I’d rather be.

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When the Horrible Internet Commenter wakes up, he eats toast. He does this because on the outside he resembles a normal human being with regular hopes, dreams and wants — like toast. He drinks coffee and scoops a handful of star-shaped cat kibbles into a gummy red bowl for his cat. He brushes his teeth.

He gets on the train, coffee thermos in hand, headphones jammed in his ears. On the train, he notes how much of a hipster loser the boy to his left with the plaid shirt looks. He mentally notes how the woman sitting down would be a little hotter if she was a little thinner and how the old woman on the right should fold up her walker so it doesn’t take up as much space in the aisle. He notes these things but says nothing. Here is not his place.

He’s not particularly unhappy about going to work; he doesn’t love it but accepts unsatisfying careers are a part of life. He works on a computer where he does things like sell stuff for his company.

He talks casually to his coworkers. They’ve long decided going deeper than small talk is a bad idea because of the quiet scowl that crawls across his face when he disagrees. They talk about the weather, the sports games, the fact that people should adopt dogs rather than buy them. He likes it this way. It’s easier to avoid subjects that require him to express an opinion which is an exercise in restraint and is frankly uncomfortable.

On the way home, the Horrible Internet Commenter sees a billboard he does not like. It promotes something he disagrees with, something he is completely opposed to. He turns around, wanting to tell someone how stupid he believes it is. But there is no one. He’s alone. The hatred for the billboard smolders inside him, how can anyone agree with what it’s supporting or advertising or using his tax dollars on? He wants to release a violent yell and tear it down. But he is not in his place. Later.

When he returns home, the Horrible Internet Commenter waters his bamboo plant. Then he kicks off his shoes and grabs a bag of Taco Doritos, shuffling over to his computer. As he presses his index finger to his laptop’s “on” button, a power surges through his arm.

When he sits down, his white cat hops onto his lap and he pets it, stroking its silky head as he decides where to begin. He hops onto a page he regularly visits but something catches his eye. Something he does not like.

His gut tells him he hates it before he can logically understand why. But he does not agree with the writer’s stance; he’s sure of that much. Then he notices it was written by someone he does not find sexually attractive. Perfect.

His keyboard begins to clack, his apartment dark minus the blue glow from his laptop and the nightlight he leaves on for the cat. He tells the blogger that he thinks she is ugly, which is clever, and that what she wrote was stupid. He continues to make his rounds, spinning deeper and deeper into comment boards and using his thesaurus for the most biting insults he can muster.

When he comes upon an article he actually likes he finds an idiot commenter who does not feel the same. He tells him the planet would be better off without him, which seems fair since he expressed nearly the opposite opinion of The Horrible Internet Commenter.

It would be a crime, really, to not share his enlightened opinion with the world, so he keeps typing and typing and scrolling and clicking and panting and brushing Dorito crumbs off on his sweatpants. Every page just begs for his opinion, pleading for his response.

Sometimes, he wants to stop but he just keeps finding things he doesn’t like: stances on politics, essays on traumatic life experiences, opinions on this spring’s shoe trends.

He is angry, furious even, at the evidence he keeps finding that there are people in the world who do not think the same way as him. Screaming at them, his fingers flying away, gives him the power to make that not true.

After he brushes his teeth and applies his tooth-whitening strips he bought on sale, he brings his computer to his comfortable bed and puts it on his belly like an otter with a special treat.

He clicks on his heated blanket, something he could never manage to give back to his parents after they lent it to him years ago, and continues to tell strangers he hates them. He does this for hours; he can’t stop. He must keep commenting on the things he doesn’t love because it’s the only time all day he gets to scream. Doing so in public would draw the ire of the police.

But behind the screen and under his blanket, behind his fake names attached to fake emails and blank photo boxes, behind the opportunity to submit his rage anonymously, he is safe and warm.

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