Our wallets are one of the few items granted the dubious honor of following us around nearly every day. For most of us, they not only keep some essentials at hand, but become a universal storage space for the little odds and ends we come across throughout our day.

As a result, your wallet really tells a lot about you. A wallet full of neatly folded receipts might indicate a details-oriented personality, or a savvy/paranoid spender. A billfold stuffed with business cards is the mark of a networker. Or you might just have a wallet full of random things that provide clues to your personality: my best friend and roommate’s wallet contains a hand-drawn fighter pilot license I made him in middle school, about a dozen Chinese food fortunes, and not-quite-empty farecards for an assortment of public transportation systems across the globe (just in case). Those three items alone make for a pretty accurate picture of Jared.

I started thinking about this in earnest when I was gearing up to hike the Appalachian Trail in the Spring/Summer of 2007. The very last piece of gear I purchased for my six-month hike was a new wallet. I replaced the bulky leather tri-fold I got as a birthday present from my buddy Tobin with a slim nylon pouch with three pockets, capable of carrying about 15 bills and 10 cards. This was a big transition for me: I had developed a bad case of wallet packrat-ism, and saying goodbye to my drawings, membership cards, and other assorted miscellany was no easy task.

I realize in retrospect that my slimmed down wallet was just one component of a generally slimmed-down lifestyle. Trail life was exceedingly simple, free of the complex constraints of scheduling or obligations. The transition was so thorough that I found myself struggling to manage the little intricacies of the real world upon my return: my time management skills and capacity to worry about the minutiae of social life were diminished.

While I came to grips with the shift from simplicity to complexity, my wallet slowly bulged. On the trail all I needed was a few bucks in cash, two credit cards, my license and insurance card. I gradually added another credit card, a school ID, and a then bulky electronic RFID cards to get me into the subway, my office, and local rental cars.

I finally gave in yesterday when I received my first ever batch of business cards. I tried to wedge a few into my tightly-packed nylon wallet, but it just wasn’t happening. It was with some resignation that I shifted my cards back to my trusty leather tri-fold.

I’m not going to throw out my little green wallet, though. It will go right into the drawer where my bulky, complex, real world billfold was stored for a year. I hope to be ready for it again soon – I know it will be waiting.

Moral Manifest Destiny

What can I say here that hasn't already been summed up brilliantly elsewhere in the media and online?

Anyone who hasn't seen Keith Olbermann's emotional response to the passage of Prop 8 must: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/11/10/keith-olbermanns-prop-8-s_n_142862.html

I have such a hard time wrapping my mind around this. I feel like no words that I use, no matter how inflammatory or bombastic, can adequately summarize my thoughts. In the spirit of politics, I'll give it a shot anyway.

The holier-than-thou, moralistic imperative demonstrated by the passage of Proposition 8 is the single greatest threat this country is facing. The people who crusaded (pun intended) to pass this loathsome piece of policy are a greater threat to the well being and enduring success of our nation than any terrorist, rogue state, or foreign leader.

I'll explain.

This attitude of smug moral confidence, the sense that we have the God-given authority, right, or OBLIGATION to impose our conscience upon other human beings has divided our country and undermined our status in the game of global politics. It is this moral Manifest Destiny that sends our troops overseas to bleed for their country, in a baffling attempt to bomb, shoot, and otherwise bludgeon a democracy into being. This desire to mandate morality has split a rift between religion and science that is jeopardizing our role as the world's technology and innovation leader.

In the smaller, but nonetheless reproachable, case of Proposition 8, a craven and despicable majority has flexed its might upon a brave, oppressed minority. The compulsion to impose morality upon others has once again risen in gross affront to the first sentence of the Declaration of Independence.

I think that's why I have such trouble understanding this issue. That ironclad sentence, those immortal words that are supposed to define our nation. All men are created equal, and are endowed with the same unalienable rights. I, like so many of my countrymen, hold these truths to be self evident.

Those of you who voted Yes on Proposition 8, don't argue with me. Your beef is with Thomas Jefferson.

Moments on a sidewalk

Fun Fact: I, like many elitist Washington insiders, ride my bike to and from work. It's an inexpensive, healthy way to cultivate a sense of moral superiority.

Joking aside, biking also provides a unique view of the city. I see things on my bike that I would probably miss otherwise, especially if I took to the Metro tunnels every morning and evening. Take for example, this afternoon. I was riding past Erin's (for those of you not in the know, the charming, talented, beautiful girl who regularly tolerates my presence) apartment building in a relatively up-scale neighborhood in Northwest DC, when I had to pause to investigate an odd sight.

On the sidewalk in front of the building was an unkempt heap of stuff, everything from furniture to clothing to books, stretching for about 100 feet. An equally eclectic group of people, from a new father pushing a three-wheeled jogging stroller to a quietly mumbling homeless woman, was sifting through the odd assortment. I leaned my bike against a parking meter and joined them.

It only took a few moments' investigation for the scattered belongings to start to gel into a story. Moth-eaten women's clothing peeked out from decaying laundromat bags. A dozen fading hardcover books lay in a pile, dull letters on their cracking spines advertising land use law and Ohio history. A bedside commode hovered over the pile, an unlikely monument to persevering independence.

The new father had paused alongside me, his passenger dozing in her urban chariot. "Wonder what happened," he said. "Looks like someone was evicted."

"Don't know. Looks like old folks' stuff to me," I responded, not lifting my eyes from the pile.

"Here today, gone tomorrow" new-dad responded.

I couldn't help a wry smile from coming onto my face "It'll be our stuff someday, eh?"

He grinned back "Yep. We're next!"

As new-dad and his charge rolled off, I bent down to shuffle a pile of envelopes at the edge of the detritus. I was surprised to see the collected personal documents of a long life: bank statements, utility bills, AARP renewal notices. I noticed the familiar TIAA-CREF logo on one letter. The bold print, weathered with time, revealed a plan set up for retirement at the age of 65, in 1986. The same year I was born. I was reminded of the account I opened with the same financial service just a few months ago.

I looked away from the heap, suddenly uncomfortable standing there. I watched new-dad's back as it receded into the distance, and was struck by the poignance of the moment, the ghosts and promises of four generations of strangers tied together for a few brief minutes in the pale of Washington dusk. I grabbed my bike and headed for the crosswalk, suddenly eager to leave the scene behind me. As I left I watched two men load furniture into a battered pickup truck, and the mumbling homeless woman walking away with her arms full, a powder blue coat hanging on her narrow shoulders. I watched the evidence of a lifetime, cast out onto the streets of the city to be gradually re-consumed. I wondered how much would be left for the garbage truck in the morning.

As I pedaled off, I still couldn't tell if the scene was profane or beautiful, the last insult in a hard-fought life or the whispered promise of what's to come. All I knew was that it would be gone in the morning.

Welcome

Hello and welcome to EWI, the Elitist Washington Insider. My name is Rob, and as the title of this blog implies, I am an elitist, fat-cat, Washington DC insider. That slime-ball lobbyist and influence peddler all the politicians are railing against? Yep, that's me.

Sure, I'm technically an entry-level employee at an environmental non profit organization... but don't let my wrinkly shirt and cheap haircut fool you. Or the fact that I share an apartment with two roommates (decidedly awesome gentlemen, as it were). Or the thirty year old Schwinn I ride to work.

This blog will be dedicated to the opinions rattling around in my head, and the city I live and work in. The opinions expressed herein do not represent the official stance of anyone. Especially me.

Cheers!