Members of the Police Officers’ Association of Michigan (POAM) Assault Two Women at Local Washington, DC Restaurant

The POAM, the Police Officers’ Association of Michigan, rented a bus and treated members to a “night on the town,” on Capitol Hill at the Tune Inn, a bar located at 331 1/2 Pennsylvania, Avenue, Southeast, in Washington, DC. Police officers from cash-strapped Michigan¸ paid by taxpayer dollars, packed a local DC dive bar and assaulted two female DC residents while there.

According to multiple accounts, badge-wearing police officers from Michigan assaulted at least two women at the local Capitol Hill diner. One woman was groped by a POAM member as she walked toward the restroom. Another woman was groped by multiple members of the POAM party as she stood near the entrance of the Tune Inn.

“The Tune Inn was recently featured by the Food Network as one of America’s hidden gems, as far as diners go,” said one eyewitness. “It’s a shame that badge-wearing members of the Police Officers’ Association of Michigan not only turned the Tune Inn into a raucous dive, but also into a place where women are objectified. When did the Tune Inn become a place to worry about getting groped while walking to the ladies’ room? I had always viewed the Tune Inn as a comfortable spot to relax. My guard is up from now on,” said one woman. "Multiple Michigan police officers were wearing badges, drinking alcohol, and carrying guns. That is irresponsible at best."

After the first assault incident, where a woman’s buttocks were squeezed by a POAM member as she tried to make her way to the restroom, the situation quickly escalated to a dispute. As the woman accused the perceived offender, another member of POAM told the local resident to “get out of here,” indicating that drinks at the Tune Inn were either being paid by him or by POAM and thus, Michigan taxpayer dollars.

“In Washington, where everything is built on a person’s professional reputation, it’s shocking that behaviors such as those like groping women at a DC restaurant still persist, and people still believe that’s acceptable...especially at the Tune Inn, a beloved neighborhood diner,” said a person at the scene.

“The members of POAM are paid by Michigan taxpayer dollars. It’s certainly feasible, considering the scarcity of jobs in that state, that more upstanding citizens should be worthy of support from hard-working, Michigan taxpayers. Shame on members of POAM for implicitly objectifying women in our nation’s Capitol.”

Advice for Lobbyists

MEMORANDUM

TO: High-paid DC Lobbyist

FROM: Congressional Staffer of 6 Years

RE: Do’s and Don’ts of Meetings with Congressional Staff

1. Do NOT touch your Blackberry when you are meeting with me.

I was once in a meeting with a well-paid lobbyist and six of his out-of-town clients. As the out-of-towners attempted to make their case to me, his Blackberry make sounds twice. Then, he had the nerve to pick it up, check it, and send a message during the meeting.

Finally, I looked at his client and said, “I am having trouble hearing the message that you are trying to deliver today because his Blackberry is so distracting.” The look she gave him suggested that his contract may be ending soon.

Same goes for your phones. Silence them prior to the meeting.

2. Don’t schedule a meeting with me without confirming.

A paid-for-hire “executive scheduler” named Kevin S. has this system for setting up meetings with our office:

(a) He contacts the Member’s scheduler to request a meeting for his client;

(b) Scheduler nixes the request and punts it to me;

(c) He sets a time of his choosing and informs me via voicemail that his out-of-town clients have been advised of this “tentative time.” Will I confirm.

(d) I’m busy and don’t get the chance to let Kevin S. know that I have a schedule conflict.

(e) Clients show up; I’m unable to meet with them due to conflict;

(f) I call Kevin S. to ask him not to set meetings until he has confirmed with me;

(g) Kevin hangs up on me and calls my superior to complain.

This, I tell you, is the perfect recipe for having your calls to a Congressional staffer never returned again.

3. Don’t openly break the rules.

A certain health care lobbyists drives a navy Maserati. Colleagues have seen the Maserati enter secure areas without a permit. Not sure how Capitol Police would explain that. Public records say he made half a million in 2007 off of lobbying.

4. Don’t go around me to my superior.

Maserati-lobbyist also loves to walk into the office and directly into our chief of staff’s office. He wants to talk health care. The chief asks me to handle it because chief is overwhelmed with multiple projects. Mr. Maserati continues to rarely make an appointment and expects me to drop everything when he walks in – once before 10am. I’m really busy. Please don’t do that.

5. Don’t try bribery.

I have actually been on more than one phone call, and the person on the other end wants to talk policy/legislation in the same breath as a fund raiser for my boss. At that moment, I immediately cut him off and say, “Ethics rules disallow me to discuss campaign matters with you at this time.”

‘Nuf said. Please check with the Ethics Committee for further clarification.

6. Don’t flaunt your money.

We all know that many of the lobbyists who come into our offices make big money. Especially if they work for: (1) Big Oil; (2) any health insurance company or conglomeration; (3) most “energy companies,” or (4) specialty health care physicians; (5) trial lawyers; or (6) Big Pharma.

While it’s your conscience about for whom you work, don’t flash your money while you are asking the federal government for money. No huge diamonds. No Rolexes. No designer labels. No obvious recent plastic surgery.

Better yet, hire yourself a 20-something “junior lobbyist” to do this work for you. It’s likely that the Congressional staffer is her age, and they’ll jive a lot better anyway.

7. Do keep the meeting less than 20 minutes.

It is not a good thing if a staffer starts to stack up her papers while you’re meeting with her. That means you have gone on too long, and please wrap it up. If she says, “Well, we need to wrap up the meeting,” that means that the meeting is over.

The folder that you gave us will end up on our desks, at best, in a huge stack of other folders. Today, I had seven meetings from 1:30-5pm. Following up increases the odds that your request will be considered. No follow-up signals to us that you don’t care that much.

8. Do bring 3 people or fewer.

Congressional offices are small places. More than 4 people coming in for a meeting means one thing: the meeting will occur out in the hallway. It’s not a sign of disrespect, it’s simple logistics.

9. Don’t flirt during the meeting OR afterward.

A lobbyist whom I find very charming and with whom I like to work serendipitously met me out at a bar a couple months ago. After a couple drinks, his compliments to me started to get uncomfortably personal. Now I feel awkward trying to work with him. Bleh.

10. Don’t lie to the scheduler.

We’ve actually had lobbyists come in and tell the scheduler that they were “cleared” to come in and give our Member an award and do a photo-op. Cleared by WHOM? That maneuver was shot down faster than you can say, “Cheese!”

I Love Capitol Hill

Capitol Hill is such a wonderful neighborhood.

I can not tell you how much richer my life is because I have zero commute. Okay; I have a 10-minute walk, but it's a gorgeous walk that is good for me.

And on nights like tonight, the festive restaurants and bars have people spilling out of them, sitting at outdoor tables or standing around outside, like flowers spilling out of a bouquet.

Capitol Hill truly has a "neighborhoodly feel," in that I know and am known by the local merchants. Folks are friendly here. Every morning, during my walk to work, I pass a gas station. Dane, who pumps gas there, always says hello to me, by name. The homeless man who hangs around there also says good morning to me. On cold days, I ask him if he's keeping warm.

I had Greek food tonight. It was this macaroni dish, with ground beef and bechamel sauce. It was delicious, and Dominic, the greeter, was so nice.

It's that iffy period just before spring's daffodils peek through the ground. Rain is often threatening, and the cloud cover and concomitant humidity make the night air balmy and mild.

In a way, Capitol Hill feels like a small town. After working on the Hill for 6 years and living here for 2 years; after countless trips to Eastern Market; after many visits to local churches; after even more visits to the Tune Inn - I'm starting to feel like a local.

Call me "Inside the Beltway" if you wish. But what I'll tell you is that the people who live and work here are genuine and kind. Most of them are hell-bent on making this world a better place in which to live. Just like me.

Almost Spring

I can not wait for spring. All of this warm-teaser weather is getting to me.

Southerners struggle more than most after moving northward.

In the fall, the days quickly shorten, and the period after Christmas is especially dark and depressing. It's not quite that dark in the South. Then there's the snow and ice. Granted, the past few winters in DC have been mild, compared to others, but still. This is the time of year when the oddly warm days become more and more common.

I can almost smell spring in the air. The dampness that I felt when I walked out of the house this morning reminded me of spring showers, daffodils, forsythia and these funny little flowers that bloom a lot on Capitol Hill.

Oh, spring. Where are you? I have missed your warm touch.

Dark Metro - by Brownpau

You can see this fun video on Brownpau's blog as well:

Wrong House

Funny li'l story from tonight.

I was invited by my friend, Mike, to his house to have pizza and watch the returns from the primaries. After all, it's Super Tuesday. Forget Fat Tuesday! In DC, elections take all the spotlight.

I had never been to Mike's before. It's in my neighborhood, on Capitol Hill. Mike is a sweetheart and works on the Hill, like me. So, I quickly glanced at my Blackberry and saw the house number, "608."

Hooray! Remembering it was the basement apartment, and seeing a couple folks sitting and eating on the sofa, watching the tv, I did what any good party guest would do:

I pranced down the steps to the English basement, opened the door, and let myself in. "Hello!" I chirped. The two people in the house looked at my quizzically. "Hello," they said.

Suddenly, I got a strange sensation. There was no Mike in the room. Nor pizza. Nor party of primaries-watchers. I cocked my head to the side. "Um, is this Mike's place? I'm here for the party...?"

"Um, no." they said, in a tone that was half questioning if I'd lost my sanity, and half pitying me for the embarrassing gaffe. I felt my face redden with shame. "Oh, I'm so sorry...I think I've got the wrong address. So sorry!" I said, as I began to turn on my heel.

"That's okay," they said, still eyeing me.

"Good night!" I said with a cheerful smile, as I squeezed the door handle and made a quick exit before they could get a long enough look at me to recognize me later.

As I headed out into the damp-night-from-a-mild-day-in-February, I chuckled to myself. Before long, the correct house number was just a block away, and I could already hear the party revelers outside. And I was relieved! Liberal Hill staffers and animated politicos buzzed like gadflies and yelled comments toward the television. A senator was even present at the fete! Even more impressive was the selection of exquisite hand-made truffles, the flavors themed. Each chocolate truffle variety was named for one of the candidates! One had a fuschia outer shell with a strong chocolate center: The Clinton. Another was dark on the outside, with a white filling (certainly, The Obama). Still another was smooth milk chocolate on the outside, with a nutty inside: The Romney. Get it? Pure, chocolate brilliance. Only in DC, folks.

The experience earlier in the evening reminded me of a powerful life lesson: the seriousness of the gaffe is less important than the skill of making a graceful recovery and quick exit.

The Ole 96

I am one frugal sistah.

Here's a typical example of a cheap night out for me. Instead of pay $7.50 for a cab to HR-57, and buy drinks there, like most normal DC residents, here are my choices:

I decide to wait on the good old 96 bus. The 96 runs from Capitol Hill, two blocks from my house, all the way to U Street. I had decided to then walk the 5 blocks from the bus drop-off to the jazz club.

Cheap Challenge #1: the bus came too early. The next bus is in 30 minutes. So now I must choose to wait half an hour, then walk the 5 blocks to the club. From now on, I'm hatin on the 96. It's over, 96.

I decide, instead, on Plan B, and begin to schlep toward Union Station. I walk the mile to Union Station; it's probably a good thing, considering the half chocolate bar I ate this afternoon. From there, I'll Metro to Dupont and walk 8 blocks to the club.

Cheap Challenge #2: there is a 13 minute wait for the next train. Hm. So here I am, blogging away the wait. Patience is a virtue.

Cheap Challenge #3: drink prices in the city. My resolution? Take full advantage of HR-57's "byob" policy. So I will bring my own bottle of wine.

Cheap Challenge #4: But wine's expensive. My solution? A gleaming, shiny new bottle of Charles Shaw cabernet! That's right, folks, Two Buck Chuck. A critic-beloved steal at only $2.99 a bottle!

Many challenges tonight- all met with a smile, an inaudible curse or two, and money left in my pocket. The trade-offs were time, and mileage on my sneakers. Fine by me.

Mission accomplished!

Metro, 2/1/08, 2:15am

Who's on? A young 20-something married couple, a pack of young Spanish kids, a mid-30s black guy with dreds, and me.

The fluorescent lights glare as the announcer's surreal-friendly voice announces, "Next station is SMITHSONIAN!" As if hordes of teeming masses will jump off for the museums, or even for a stroll on the February tundra that is the National Mall.

I'm full of lamb chops and good company. And happy.

Sometimes, and to some people, "happy" is as fleeting as this Metro ride. I count myself as one of the lucky ones who gets to take the train 16 stops.

Good night, Washington.

Dupont Circle Drag Race

Last Tuesday night was the annual high heel race in Dupont Circle, and it was mighty impressive. There were Ladies with bright red poinsettias, a quartet of blow-up puffy ballerinas, the classic femmes fatales, a Senator on a toilet, a JFK-Jackie-Monroe threesome, a Washington Monument, and all manner of debauchery, glitz and silliness one could imagine.

And of course, there were the onlookers. "Just-Folks," like me, who came out by the thousands to witness the pageantry. This year, the weather was perfect: crisp as an autumn pear; dry; chilly; definitively autumn.

One thing that I love about DC, is that for all of the suit-stuffiness and pompous parading of Congressional pins and Executive-this-or-that business cards, some parts of the city aren't too politically correct to let their collective hot pink hair down and shimmy in a feather boa. I love the anti-culture of zaniness and liberalism, and the way that it sharply contrasts sometimes with the careful political strategizing that occurs during the day.

Long live the Dupont Circle Drag Race!

2 Alarm Fire on Penn

I was awakened at 5:45 this morning by the wailing of sirens. Often, I hear a passing siren or two during the night but quickly disregard it and fall fast asleep. However, I heard one rumbling truck engine, sirens blaring, pass by under my window at 4th and Pennsylvania, Southeast. Then I heard another truck, with its sirens. I heard backing up, voices on the street, pressure brakes chirping and whistling.

Clearly, something was emergent down below.

The siren-after-siren phenomenon brought me eerily back to spring 2007, when Eastern Market burned. It was the same "this is a real emergency" kind of auditory experience.

My heart stirring with nervousness, I pulled my curtains aside and peeked out of my third floor window. The street corner below was red with flickering lights. I dressed quickly, grabbed my keys, and stepped into the heat and humidity outside.

I saw three or four fire trucks, surrounding the corner of 4th and Penn, my corner. I worried that the church was on fire, and I faintly smelled smoke. I didn't see fire anywhere nearby and felt relieved.

I have a soft place in my heart for firefighters. Especially since just the week before, I got an email notifying me of the new Houston, Texas, firefighters' fundraiser calendar. Love 'em! The truck nearest me had five - and two of them were standing in the street (that was blocked off), only steps from my front door. I approached them.

"Two alarm fire," one of them said, his face furrowed and leathery for his age. "What does that mean," I asked. "Oh, it just means that if one group of fighters is at the scene, and they are having trouble containing the fire, they call in a second Unit. Then, if those two Units still have trouble, they call in a third Unit, etc." "Oh, okay," I nodded.

We shot the breeze for a few more minutes as twilight brightened into an early morning glow of gentle blue skies and smothering humidity. I thought the fire fighters looked handsome in their heavy suits, oxygen tanks on their backs like scuba divers. We talked about Eastern Market, about local bars, working on the Hill, family roots.

And suddenly, the truck began pulling away. I waved as they faded toward the end of the block.

I have such tremendous respect for those guys.