Paco's diary

D.C. has long emblazoned its license plates with the galling slogan, “Taxation Without Representation”. This is part and parcel of the District’s desire for statehood. Naturally, the donks would be delighted; it would mean two more U.S. Senators, and a voting Representative, situated permanently in the Democrat column. But it is a federal district, the seat of Leviathan, and, frankly, I think the slogan probably belongs on the license plates of all the other legitimate states and commonwealths (yes, we all get to elect senators and congressmen, but they don’t listen to us, and have proven uninterested or ineffectual in trimming the claws of the IRS). Besides, all the fat-cat bureaucrats, lawyers, lobbyists and lesser parasites have a readily available alternative: move across the city line to Maryland or Virginia. I’ve never really understood why people, who don’t have to, live in Washington. The city government is corrupt and incompetent, the streets are full of aggressive panhandlers, parking is a big challenge, and just try to find a conveniently-located supermarket . The vibe I tend to pick up when I talk to people who live in D.C. – mostly bureaucrats of one stripe or another - makes me believe they think there’s some sort of prestige or social cachet attached to living in the very business district, so to speak, of Mordor. It’s not enough to simply commute to jobs where they serve as little cogs or ball-bearings in the machinery of Sauron, they’ve got to actually live under the ever-watchful Eye itself, and smell the fire and brimstone from the cramped comfort of their apartment balconies. In any event, the District wants to change its slogan from a mere declaration to an imperative – “End Taxation Without Representation”. Larry O’Connor, a talk show host who sometimes posts at Hot Air, challenged his listeners to come up with better alternatives. Hilarity, as they say, ensues.

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Speaking of bureaucrats, the younger men have adopted some execrable new fashion standards: suits that look one size too small, pants that are too short (the better to show off their gaudy socks), and – this I particularly abominate – brown shoes with slate blue and even gray suits. And the shoes are very frequently those long, square-toed affairs that remind me of the kind of footwear usually sported by the Disney cartoon character, Goofy. I would not be surprised to see a sudden outbreak of berets, or even beanies (or – God help us – monogrammed cravats).

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Although much of Northern Virginia now serves as a bedroom community for Washington, there is a goodish bit of the wild still in evidence. Around dusk yesterday, I saw a fox chasing a cat down the neighbor’s driveway. The fox was growling furiously, but he seemed to be holding back his pace, as if he were wondering whether, in spite of having committed to the chase, it was altogether wise to actually catch the cat. The fox finally slowed to a trot and veered off in another direction. I can only speculate as to what led to this contretemps, but I am guessing that the cat must have strayed too close to the fox’s den.