I Heard it Downtown

This has not been a good week for Matt Brown.

The big story here is my housing crisis. I can’t go into a whole lot of detail, as its a pending legal matter, but basically, the girl who was living in the apartment we contracted for refused to leave, and the landlord won’t put us up in some sort of temp housing while we’re waiting (which would be at least 60 days). Its an ugly situation, with a small army of lawyers bickering back and forth…but most importantly, in the meantime, I am homeless.

College students are able to adapt to not having a lot of “important” things pretty easily. A working knowledge of what clubs are meeting where can yield all sorts of free dinners when grocery money is not forthcoming. Some clever technological innovations can snag a wireless signal. We know what classrooms have the best bathrooms if we forget to buy toilet paper, and we’re willing to even sell our plasma for a few extra bucks. The one thing that is not so easily appropriated is a house. Needless to say, this is a *big deal*.

The other need that is difficult to work around is a car. I’ve been blessed with a working set of wheels…my old 1997 Mirage that I’ve covered in bumper stickers, and affection ally named The Mormon Meteor (even though it has maaaaaybe 4 horsepower). It certainly isn’t a glamorous or sexy automobile, but it gets me to point A from point B with a minimal amount of cursing.

Naturally, I parked it on Neil Ave on street cleaning day, and it has now been towed. Or stolen. The impound lot doesn’t answer calls after 4 PM, when the rest of the civilized world is still at work, so I can only assume its been towed. Who would want to steal my car?

Being deprived of two building blocks of the College Student Hierarchy of Needs, I’ve naturally been in a bit of a crabby mood…which is a bad state to be in if you’re a Democratic political junkie during the Republican Convention.

I’ve tried to write about several different topics this week, but nearly all of them have broken down at some point into some sort of Sarah Palin hit piece. I honestly don’t mean to degenerate into another cheap political hack, like say, James Carville (who I gotta say, has absolutely been beaten to death by the ugly stick. CAJUN STYLE)…but what I can say…I can’t resist cheap political one-liners.

Sure, the media has been over saturated with Palin stories…ranging from the important (Palin supported earmarks and the Bridge to Nowhere), to the crude and personal (potshots at her pregnant daughter), to the wildly stupid (did you know that Palin attended 5 different colleges? Or that there is a picture of her as a college student wearing a t-shirt with a boob joke on it??). But just because a few overzealous reporters have overstretched on some stories doesn’t mean that pick wasn’t full of cynical pandering. Sarah Palin is clearly much more qualified to be a companion on the Oregon Trail than she is the Vice President of the United States. (Moosehunting skills + ability to withstand cholera and other gold rush era illnesses)

I gamely tried to listen to part of her speech, but I couldn’t get last through some of the other speakers. Mike Huckabee, the runaway populist, was ranting about expanding the size of government…and somebody had the bright idea to let Mitt Romney, one of the richest men to ever run for president, to complain about Liberal Washington and Eastern Elitism. Really?!? I couldn’t handle it. I had to switch to baseball.

Mark Jackman, my tough, seriously professional Film-Noir journalist alter-ego, couldn’t handle it either. He shook his head in disgust, muttering something about dames, hung his snappy fedora on the door, and retreated to his study, where he would be nursing several cigarettes and fine booze the rest of the night.

I wanted to join him, but my religious cultural inertia keeps me from setting up a good drunken bender to cope with the madness of the world. Instead, I grabbed my ipod and running shoes, and ran off into the night.

Running as a way of clearing your muddied head may be healthy, but it sure isn’t always easy. My shins protested every step down the pavement, reminding me that I have a perfectly good Norman Mailer novel that needs read, and a perfectly comfy couch. Its a temping offer, but I decline. Time to turn up the ol’ ipod to 11, and lose my troubles in thundering basslines and wailing saxophones. Redemption comes from my ol’ muse, Bruce Springsteen

Don’t worry darling

Oh baby, don’t you fret

We’re livin in the future

None of this has happened yet

Ol’ Bruce is a smart guy. He’s certainly a man who can appreciate the value of a good ol’ stream of conciseness essay. He knows that I’m Born to Run, and when I tried to run down my broken heart and confused mind in Rock Creek Park, I swore Bruce was singing to me. He’s right. Its hard to be a saint in the city.

Maybe thats the solution…time to live in the future right? A future where somewhere or another, I have my car back, and my own roof over my head. A future where I can turn on the television again without being baraged by bitter, unfunny campaign ads. I hope its soon.