Friday I’m supposed to head up to New York City to hang out with old friends. But I’m having a dilemma, a test on responsibility if you will, as it’s the last weekend we have to pack before moving into our new apartment. Therefore, heading to New York City may be a huge mistake on my part. A friend from Pittsburgh, whom I have not seen in about four or five years is headed that way as well so I sort of wish to go. Oh the drama, the drama. I predict my sticking around. Even if I head up there for a day it’ll be around $150.00 and I probably shouldn’t spend that kind of money right now. So, yes, we’re moving soon. We hired movers. They’re called Starving Students and they’re cheap—cheaper than crazy (to quote Kucher fans everywhere). And when I first heard the name I thought perhaps it was started way back when by a bunch of poor college students who broke the bank on the cost of one Psychology textbook. However, now I’m wondering if it was named for starving students. Well, regardless, they’re super cheap. And we’re pretty pleased we don’t have to do anything this time around. We’re moving into a place being vacated by a couple. They’re named NIck and Rebecca. I have spoken to them on the phone, but I haven’t seen them face to face. I have seen pictures though. While we were there checking out the place, I, of course, fell into their world through a number of pictures on the refrigerator, and scattered throughout the apartment. They’re outdoorsy. They like to hike, ski, rock climb and travel. And they’re moving to Portland. I haven’t ever been to Portland. But I think for a second I knew them. Or maybe I just wanted to be them, traveling from east to west in a truck. I asked Nick if he was taking the northern route or they’d be taking their time to see the sites of it all, and Nick said,

I’ve been south, and I’ve been straight across the middle, this time we’re headed up.

And I was sure this was true not just geographically. But it’s easy to dream for others. (No, please, allow me).

I want to start a miniature revolution in order to change the taxi cab situation in Washington, D.C.. Who’s with me? We’ll start small. We’ll begin by hopping out of a cab when said cab pulls over to pick up another fare. I hate this. You have no idea how much so. The rule is that he or she cabby is able to pull over and pick up another passenger if said new passenger isn’t going more than five blocks away from your destination. Which, we all know that in a city this could mean being a half an hour late. Now granted, it’s never really that bad. However, one day my cab driver picked up not one extra person, not two, but THREE extra people. What did I do? I fumed and then moved to the front seat because I was the only girl. Anyway, it’s wrong. And this situation does not better the experience for the customer, each person still must pay for each individual trip at full cost based on the ridiculous zone system. It only gets Mr. phone-yabbin cabby more money, and makes the passenger late.

I could get started on protesting the zone system but I’ve learned to choose my battles. For those of you who don’t know about the D.C. Cab system it’s based on zones. I was told once this betters those traveling downtown. Therefore if you’re a congressperson, a businessperson, a politician person, or a tourist going from one monument to another, the zone system isn’t so bad. I think you get off by paying about 5 dollars. (See the downtown area, Zone 1). If you live here, and if you happen to live above Florida avenue, you sorta get screwed, sometimes paying up to 12 or more dollars. If you’re going from say, Dupont Circle to Adam’s Morgan for example. it’s an absurdly short distance and an unjustifiably large fare. And it makes me crazy.

I have gotten out of cabs at the south side of Florida. I have hopped out of cabs as they pick up new fares. I have complained about the additional dollar added to stopping at an ATM (which is not always enforced and therefore highly annoying when sprung on you, given all the other hidden, ridiculous rules).

Last night after another bad experience with a cab driver going 499 mph while gabbing in some crazy language at full volume to a friend over a cell phone, I had this vision of making a change. I have had this idea before, in reference to the cab drivers of the land of Taxation without Representation, but last night it hit to level passion. And I realize there is a war going on, and I realize I could protest the presidency of GW Bush, I realize I could act as the catalyst for something more life-altering but those items tend to overwhelm me. And, holy shit, someone do something about the fucking D.C. cab system already.

(Please note: I have the ability to construct a much better “essay” but this time around I’m more interested in hearing stories).

I have no idea what went wrong with my site yesterday. And I could have complained, I could have stepped right up, armed with angry fingers. I could have written a nasty letter or two to my service provider. But I’m done with unwarranted anger especially towards strangers who aren’t actually god nor do they know god.

On Monday evening at the movie I witnessed an act which very nearly ruined the entire movie-going experience for me. It sat with me all night. I even took it to bed with me. Today, I have to admit, I feel better about it. I guess it’s like with any recent nightmare or disturbing dream, after a while that strange uneasy feeling begins to fade. Toby and I entered the theater and assumed our usual position. The theater, to some, seemed hot. Usually I am freezing, my 10 digits take on the form of winter roots, seizing up into a shattering ice-like state. This time I was perfectly comfortable. Actually, I rather enjoyed the warmth. Contrary to popular movie-house temperatures, the warmth of our particular theater house it made me feel as if I were within the comforts of my own home. But this did not sit well with some of the restless natives. No way, not for their spoiled asses. One large woman began to audibly bitch and moan to no one in-particular. But she was fairly ignorable. Another woman began to fan herself, also easily ignored. But there was one person, one uppity homosexual man, leader of all the petty movie-going mortals, leader of all those who lacked couth or care or respect or love, he was not easily ignored. In fact, he is that burning sensation someone with gonorrhea might feel while they pee. He is that nose-whistling asshole on the night train heading somewhere dreadful. He is that fly, gnat, or bee buzzing around your head while your trying to kiss your girlfriend (or, in his case, boyfriend) for the very fist time. And I hated him. I hated him for actually thinking we wanted him to represent us. This guy decided to go talk to the manager. Fine. Only “talk to the manager” for him apparently means bringing in this rather sweet looking older man in from the movie theater’s office and verbally berating him while everyone else watches. Some of us watched in speechless horror. Some folks actually agreed with this hot-headed (pun intended) wacknut. He kept on screaming, Ignatius J. Reily style.

“Everyone THIS is the mANaGER who SOLD us these TICKETS!” He yelled as he looked around the joint, waiting for us to speak.

The manager looked around and his arms went up, he began to use the arm-flap, a universal gesture in sign language which stands for “Ladies and Gentleman, please relax. Everything will be alright.”

Another guy spoke up to the uppity gay man, “What’s the problem?”

“WHAT’S The PROBlem?! It’s HOT IN HERE!”

The guy shrugged, “Oh.”

The horrified manager began to flap again “Ladies and Gentleman, I realize it’s hot in here, we have people working on the problem right now. It should be fixed shortly. I am so sorry. If you would like to have a full refund, or trade your tickets in for another show-time, I will do so without a problem. Please, feel free to come to the office up front, I will take care of it for you there.”

Now you might think that for a normal person this would have been enough. You might think that Ignatius J. Hothead would have walked over to his party of idiots, collected them from their seats and led them out of the theater heading for their 10 buck refund surely spinning their angry lives into something blissful and heavenly. But no, that did not happen.

“TELL ME! did you SELL us these TICKETS knowing! it was THIS HOT IN HERE?! DID you willingly DO THIS to all of these PEOPLE?!”

I began to wonder if “HOT!” stood for toxic gas or air-born anthrax. Is he a snowman? Are these people human? Where am I?

The manager stood there speechless. Then he managed to say, “Sir, I assure you, we are working on the problem. I sold the tickets, thinking by the time we seated you the problem would be fixed. I assure you, it will be fixed soon. However, I am more than happy to give you your money back.”

He’s a better human than I will ever be.

Apparently God aka the movie theater manager in Georgetown, could not fix the situation for uppity gay man. And eventually uppity gay man sat down again among the morons and huffed down into his seat. And the worst part is he seemed proud. He did not advance to a nicer place. He did not collect his 10 dollars for passing go. He just made my tummy upset. The manager eventually left. He answered a few more questions, “Are you still going to show the movie? We just want to see the movie.” Now this woman is a better spokesperson for the likes of me.

I was flabbergasted. And sad. The entire episode made me feel horrible for the manager guy. He is only human. He’s human with a job where he must deal with the pleasure or displeasure of humans, yes his job comes with free movies, but it’s probably a horribly difficult job. “I’ll be right back.” I said to Toby. “I have to go talk to the manager. It will make me feel better.”

I ran down two halls towards the entrance where I found the manager sitting on a stool staring at the monitor. “Excuse me, sir? You were just in my theater.” He looked up at me, worried. I saw “Not again” written within his forehead wrinkles.

“Yes.” he stood up.

Out of breath from running through the halls of the ten-screen movie theater in Georgetown, I began. “I just had to say this to you. That guy was a jerk. Many of us didn’t agree with him and we’re sorry for his behavior. I don’t wish to be lumped into what he said. We’re just here to see the movie. We know it’s not your fault. Thank you for coming in and offering us all a refund, but that guy was just a mean jerk. And I’m sorry and I didn’t want it to ruin your night. No one really cares about a hotter movie theater.” The man grabbed my hand.

“Thank you. Thank you very much. Some people are just high-maintenance.” he laughed and he shook my hand and I felt so much better.

So what’s my point? I’m not sure. But it pains me that folks can be so mean to one another. It pains me even more when the folks being treated poorly are older. I have no idea as to why. Respect should be a given, and while a manager at a movie theater might not be someone you think necessarily deserves it, there is a certain bit of empathy I wish people would practice. Reverse the rolls, change shoes, whatever. But don’t be mean. If I had the courage, I might write an “I saw you” to my uppity gay friend

It might read: “I saw you Monday night at the 7:10 viewing of Mystic River in Georgetown. I saw you nominate yourself as spokesperson for nearly 100 people in a theater many, in which, wished to have nothing to do with your bitteness. I saw you make many people cringe beneath your angry words. I saw you act entirely too rude to an older man who was manager there. I saw you put on one of the rudest public displays of human err. Shame on you, uppity gay man. Shame on you.”