The Insider's Guide to Washington, D.C.

Sitting on the curb across from Starbucks smoking scooby and drinking cheap vodka with Francis the homeless rock artist, I blink and the shops become a gender-neutral way to write Hebrew. I don't think you've ever known hard times, said my father, and I hope you never will. Penguins congregate around DuPont Circle Fountain for a flash mob. Let's get married, says Francis. Why not? I empty my wisdom into the ground behind China Daily and say, Teach me to panhandle. The wind herds me into a diner where the cooks don't think I understand Spanish. Esta haciendo la poesra, they joke when I break wind. Later that night, Shakespeare visits me and tries to sell me a bag of Tina successfully. I bite my thumb behind his back as he exits. Three days later, in a room full of pigs rescued from factory farms by the Holy Spirit, I pour my insincerity into their books.