Oops, There Goes Rabbit

The title of this post owes a hat tip to some Eminem lyrics I won't repost here. If you can tell me what line precedes it, you understand my thinking and you win a prize.

I'm at work after a few well-deserved days off, having crunched away at the end-of-year omnibus issue full time last week. My performance on the job has been nothing short of miraculous so far, getting three articles in each issue (and the front page top spot each time!) and deftly handling the Washington big shots like an old pro. The office is quiet this week -- most people, including the Big Cheese, are away on extended holiday while the potzers and the new guy take their turns "making phone calls" while the city hums with the sound of crickets, because that's all there is. That and the few tourists silly enough to come here in the dead of winter.

Yesterday I took some time to establish my Dining Guide to D.C. -- thanks mostly to the internets, I can now show my girlfriend a good time when she comes to visit in a few weeks. (I even found a German restaurant that serves black beer and peppered potato soup; if you say no to that, you're no kind of woman in my book.) I eagerly await the chance to act like I'm the one who knows his way around town. I still pay cash on the bus. No self-respecting local pays cash on the bus.

Today it's me and my colleague -------- sitting around trying to get work done, although he asked me what I've been reading lately (I waltzed in with a few books under my arm) and we talked about litchratchur for a while, where we are both clearly more comfortable. He wants to be a writer. I did not ask to see his stuff for fear of being upstaged.

After work today I'm heading to a cafe I know to read the evening away. It'll be kind of nice to have everyone out of town, so I can feel good about not doing anything with any of them. We writers are all essentially a solitary lot.