The baristas at local gourmet coffee shops here in the DC Metro area pulled a lot of extra shots for many of their regular customers this morning, as the resident hordes of federal contractors made bleary-eyed tracks for their office desks. They had all been up rather late for a Sunday in Washington, a town where, on any given night, most good citizens are in bed and sawing logs by 10:00 p.m.
But last night was the thirtieth of September, and that meant it was New Year’s Eve. We here in the Nation’s Capital celebrate that day a bit earlier than the poor, benighted shmucks in the hinterlands, whose hard-earned taxes pay for our lavish homes, fine food and trendy automobiles, because, as far as Uncle Sam is concerned, this is New Year’s Day.
It was not always thus – in the era of our staunch Puritan forefathers, the federal government’s fiscal year started on January first, along with the start of that traditional calendar year decreed so many centuries ago by the august emperors of Rome. Over the many decades since the establishment of our great republic, however, the federal government routinely squandered the American taxpayers’ wealth with a fervor and gusto more commonly associated with sailors on shore leave in Manhattan. Consequently, in order to conceal the enormity of its constant and perpetual follies, our government has, over the course of its illustrious history, had to employ some creative accountancy. This amounted to a juggling of red and black inks so ingenious, in fact, that the federal government would never allow any private enterprise to engage in it. But it’s not like anybody would arrest the legislative and executive branches of the United States of America for cooking the federal government’s own books, is it? No, it is not. And so, as time wore on, the start of the Federal Fiscal Year moved backward relative to that more quotidian temporal calendar employed by the people Washingtonians once referred to among themselves as the “Great Unwashed,” and whom today they simply call “Those Stupid Suckers Out There.” In fact, this arcane sleight of hand with Uncle Sam’s ledgers has continued to such an egregious extent that now, as far as we here inside the Beltway are concerned, 2008 began today.
This situation has a strange effect on the weeks leading up to October first, to be sure. A specific derangement, known locally as “September Madness” ensues, during which members of our Civil Service dump money in the laps of federal contractors like drunks plying the exotic dancers at a strip club. Now, a sane person living anywhere but this town may ask “Why the hell is that?” They might even do so with a certain amount of righteous indignation, too, and I, for one, would not blame them. But let me explain, because a good explanation can be worth its weight in Treasury bills, and, if Washington excels at nothing else, it most assuredly excels at good explanations for insane behavior. To illustrate, consider the hoary and nearly legendary “600 Dollar Toilet Seat,” also known by other ridiculous prices. I once had the opportunity to discuss that item with a major general in our illustrious Air Force. That toilet seat, he explained, was installed in a B-52 bomber. As such, it qualified, under military aircraft structural specifications, as an air crew member seat. This, in turn, mandated that it be constructed to withstand the acceleration forces generated by a 175 pound air crew member sitting on it while carrying out his or her homeostatic duties, during an extremely high altitude aerial maneuver executed at up to five times the force of gravity (visualization of that experience is left to the reader as an exercise). So, he explained, it is not at all unreasonable for a toilet seat constructed to such specifications to cost six hundred dollars – in fact, he proudly pointed out, our NATO allies paid nearly twice that for essentially the same thing.
So it is with September Madness – once you hear the Washington explanation, what appears to be sheer lunacy is suddenly revealed to be plain common sense, though applied, admittedly, in a place upon which Alice’s Wonderland hasn’t a tinker’s dam. First, it is necessary to realize that there are two kinds of money inside the Beltway – there is “Appropriated” Money, and “No Year” Money. Federal bureaucrats privileged to slop at the trough of such things as, for example, Superfund, have loads of No Year Money, and having access to No Year Money is, in fact, one of the most coveted perquisites in the Civil Service. That’s because the rest of the money is Appropriated Money – Congress allocates big, fat slices of the stuff to federal agencies every fiscal year, but only for that fiscal year (or, more rarely, for only a few consecutive fiscal years). Any Appropriated Money not spent by the end of the fiscal year (or, sometimes, the period of two or more fiscal years) for which it is designated must, by law, be returned to the Treasury. Now, the idea of giving back to the taxpayers even one lousy red cent of the money Congress allocated to their agency makes the blood of any good federal civil servant boil. That’s because, if you don’t spend all the appropriations you get this fiscal year, then next fiscal year, Congress will use that as an excuse to allocate less money to building the little civil service empire which provides the reason for your little civil service career. So, as anyone can now clearly discern, every federal employee in charge of Appropriated Money for FY 2007 better have spent all of it by midnight yesterday – or else.
So September is a jolly month here, with civil servants finding all kinds of reasons to, say, visit Paris and take along a couple of contractors to carry their luggage and scurry down the Champs-Élysées to fetch their master an order of perfect croissants. To such dedicated governmental professionals, anything, really, is better than providing Congress with a pretext for letting Joe and Jane Sixpack keep even enough extra cash next April 15 so that they could, say, visit the Dunkin Donuts in Jerkwater a couple of times themselves. Who, after all, do those stupid suckers out there think they are, anyway?
So it’s life high on the hog for the feds and their flunkies, every September, like clockwork, as every last dime of the Appropriated Money for the closing fiscal year is spent on something. It’s spent on anything and everything, really – just get rid of it all, somebody, please, by the end of the month – here’s a wheelbarrow full of crisp, grinning Benjamins for you, and one for you, and you, and you… Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely if everybody in America could do that each September? But, alas, that can never be. Thus, however, for the fortunate few, are the Washington New Year’s Eve celebrations held, as federal contractors and consultants gleefully count their windfalls – people such as those two go-fers in Paris, after all, collect not only their own salaries, but also considerable overhead charges and fees for their employers as well.
So likewise follows Washington’s very own, special New Year’s Day – that day when many new, challenging and, most importantly, lucrative federal contracts begin. It’s the time when we honest, competent and qualified federal contractors and consultants – the few of us there actually are in this roiling moral cesspool – ready ourselves for another federal fiscal year of struggle, performing the vital work of this nation. Because if we don’t do it, nobody – most especially the bloated and incompetent members of the United States Civil Service – will, and then, rest assured, there will be all bloody hell to pay. And it’s also a time of discovery and revelation, as droves of handsome and clever young people, so earnestly clutching their freshly-minted Ivy League diplomas, report for their first day of work at that big, world-renowned consulting firm which recruited them – one which advertises extensively in every medium, and proudly sponsors prestigious and lavish PBS productions; one with a slick and seductive corporate Web site of award-winning design; one with offices that occupy an entire glitz palace in a tony Beltway suburban office park. It is today that those fresh-faced scholars, who just last June donned gowns and mortarboards for their finest moment, will find that their fancy Washington consulting job actually consists of mornings spent performing dog-and-pony Powerpoint presentations for bored, dozing, moronic federal apparatchiks and afternoons spent on their knees, slathering at the curdy loins and reeking backsides of agency division directors and federal program managers. Oh, yeah, Mr. and Ms. Barista – pull those bright, innocent kids a big old cup of latte, and be sure to suggest a double shot of mint syrup, because today, they’re going to need it!
And now, without further ado, Tom’s Quarterly Mailbag.
The volume of inquiries from people named “Tom Collins” threatening to sue me for one reason or another has slowed to a trickle, but those asserting that I am a long-lost relative continue at pretty much the same level. Again, let me tell those folks who think I’m their third cousin or something that I most assuredly am not – as I have pointed out several times, my full name is “Tom Collins Martini,” and, as an Italian American, I guarantee you I know who all my relatives are – furthermore, I’ve had to kiss each of them at least once. Additional background on that is available in this Web log, by the way.
A new wave of inquires, however, has started to break in my Inbox these days, and so, to those folks who wrote in and asked, I will state a few things for the record:
No, Jacqualeene, I am not your child-support dodging husband; my sympathies to your five children in Biloxi and your recent travails with the mobile home and your domestic problems with your current boyfriend. I cannot, however, send any money to tide you over for 90 days until he gets out of jail, nor provide for an upper plate to replace the teeth he knocked out of your head while earning his stay as a guest of the county.
Jonathan, I am, alas, not the distinguished art historian whose lectures at the Cincinnati Conservatory on a new schema for interpretation of the Abstract School you found to be so moving and insightful. Your description of his performance was so striking, though, I will confess that if being an art historian paid anything like being a policy consultant inside the Beltway, I’d wish I was one.
I’ve been told that Yale is a fine school, Ken, but I never attended any classes there. So it’s impossible that I am your former senior year room mate who still owes you eleven hundred bucks from 1999 spring break in Daytona. Nor do I have the water skis, underwater watch, scuba gear, spear gun, surf board, swim trunks, carbon fiber tennis racquet, Fender guitar, vintage Peavey all-tube amplifier, or the “eclectic and irreplaceable” collection of 315 CDs you say that your room mate made off with after graduation while you were over at his girl friend’s dorm attempting, with nothing but the best, innocent intentions, to fix a mysterious noise her car was making. Best of luck locating your old school chum, who, if my experience is any indication, displayed all the hallmark traits of a genuine Bonesman. I suggest you look for him on Wall Street, in Silicon Valley, on Capitol Hill or on the Microsoft campus in Redmond, Washington, if you haven’t already done so.
Henri, your threats impress no one. It’s a shame that your colleague wiped the drives and disappeared with the only copy of your “awesome OS that will replace Linux,” but I’m not him. In the future, maybe you should back your work up every day to a memory stick or a remote network logical disk – that’s what I do.
Ginger, it is impossible we could have met at Woodstock – that was years before I was born. Furthermore, if Judy Collins has a brother named Tom, I’ve never heard of him; maybe that guy was just making stuff up to impress you. In any case, I don’t have the final missing part of Quetzalcoatl’s crystal third eye that the Aztecs took from the Maya who got it as a reward from the leaders of Atlantis for their help defeating Pharaoh Semerkhet at the Battle of the Dra’ah Valley in 2903 BC. And I’m not going to accompany you or anybody else to some pagan altar at the end of a three-mile long sacred cave in Yucatan to replace the damn thing in order to initiate the New Age, not even for a bushel basket of primo Sonoran peyote.
Louis, I know nothing about where that semi truck full of cigarettes went. I don’t know anybody who calls himself “JC Mutha,” or anybody in the Kansas City mob. But I am tight with some pretty bad krews here in DC and I can call made men in New York if I need to. So fuggedaboutit, paisan, from the attitude you displayed in your message, my guess is the person you trust the most probably ripped you off – try asking them.
Marie, if I were the playboy heir to the fortune of the man who invented the aerosol spray can, do you think I would work for a living? Just for the record, I most certainly would not, and anyway, the man who got filthy rich off aerosol spray cans was named Abplanalp, not Collins, and he didn’t invent them – he invented the crimp on spray control valve.
Sorry, Jerry, but I’m not the surgeon who turned you into Joan in Guadalajara and I can’t change you back. Maybe you should have given the whole thing a bit more thought before going through with it – these things are generally considered permanent. But what the hey, if you’ve got a spare $200,000, check with Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, they might be able to help you.
Sara in New Bedford, your story of unrequited love for your middle school English teacher was very touching. Too bad he got a job in Memphis and your parents won’t buy any of your excuses for traveling there – faking a rabid Elvis fan must have been especially difficult for someone of your generation. I can imagine your poor, bewildered Mom and Dad, wondering why their daughter suddenly became so interested in a singer who’s been dead since 1977. But, as you may have gleaned from reading my Web log, I’m not an English teacher and I don’t live in Memphis. I’m a policy consultant, and I live in Washington, DC. So I’m not the Tom Collins you are trying so desperately to contact. But why not wait until you are eighteen? If you still love the guy then, you can go to Memphis – or wherever he’s teaching English at the time – and tell him how you feel. Don’t be too disappointed if he rejects you, though, because, you see, Sara, a lot of English teachers are gay.
And so, Camille, are a lot of wedding planners. No, it was not I who left you crying at the altar in Calgary because you gained 150 pounds between the engagement and your wedding day. Of course I know that preparing for a woman’s Special Day of Holy Matrimony can be extremely stressful. Furthermore, I agree that your fiancee’s choice of a wedding planner does not appear to have been all that perspicacious, particularly in light of the fact it appears that your beloved absconded with him the night before your Sacred Vows. And of course, I agree it’s plausible that cad who stole your man from you may have intentionally made your life a living purgatory for ten agonizing months with constant changes in china patterns, silver settings, sheet thread counts, bridal party costume, flower arrangement motifs, decoration themes and so forth. And by all means, yes, I am very impressed by the new you, thanks for the revealing pictures, and no, I don’t see a single stretch mark. Just remember that, after liposuction, continued overeating can result in quite serious health consequences, as well as weight gain in unexpected and inappropriate places.
Duku, I have also reviewed the pictures you sent. Your mother is indeed a strikingly beautiful woman, the bone through her nose notwithstanding. Believe me when I say that not only am I absolutely sure I’m not your daddy, I have never been anywhere near Sarawak. It’s nice to know that you have Internet access out there, though – keep turning that hand crank and surfing the Web, dude! As to the search for your father, please note that “Tom Collins” is the name of a type of gin cocktail. Since you mentioned that your aunt’s missing husband, your father’s buddy, called himself “John Thomas,” it’s possible both gentleman in question may have employed pseudonyms. Regards to your cousin Lupong – she’s as lovely as her mom, and good luck with your search.
Habib, it’s obvious they should have left you shoveling out camel stalls back at the camp in Pakistan. Maybe your US contact went by the name “Tom Collins,” but where did you get the idea he would have a Web log? Wouldn’t that be just a bit… conspicuous? Since I forwarded your email to the FBI the day I got it, no doubt you are hearing somebody read this to you while you rot in a cell down at Gitmo or somewhere similar. So while I have your attention, I would like to say this: You will never win. We will send you all to prison or to Divine Judgement, depending on your stupidity. We will keep on doing what we have been doing since before the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, uttered his first Koranic verse, and you will never stop us. So eat spit and die, you primitive, ignorant, disgusting monstrosity. May the Ifrits of Damnation eternally feast on the entrails of the foul and dishonorable imams of your madrassa, who taught you to worship murder and evil instead of the Blessed Word of Allah. Whew. That was good. I’ve always wanted to tell one of those guys off, but since my interview with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the urge has been downright palpable.
Finally, Sh0ut5 0ut to D1LLp1ckL3, MaureenQ, DoggyDaddy, MortonDPew, 3133tStr33tMan, SallieFifth, DianaMoonGlampers, MikeInMexicali, 5Hanker, RaviDevi, STEVEN, Mu0nGurl, LostPlatoonLeader, ByteSize, WootMeister, HILLTOPGLARE, T_Gleason, Terrible2, B1gTr0ubl3, Nemo667, cutelildevil, DOCPARKER, HeckRaiser, CreamOSleet, MentalMeltdown, ICEBLUE, MusselMon, ChaimSteinStien, DutchTreet and MiniPerl, who all wrote in to report symptoms of extreme mirth syndrome while reading various posts. Most cases involved someone else expressing concern for my Dear Reader’s mental state – really, now, how could anything be that funny? Well, I’ll tell you how. The sages of laughter have long observed that “tragedy plus time equals comedy,” and here in Washington, we have more tragedy than anywhere else – of course you knew that. But, just as importantly, we also have more time than anywhere else; if you don’t believe me, try sending in a federal government application for a new hazardous waste landfill. With all that raw material lying around, it’s inevitable that excruciating comedy, intentional or otherwise, is, was, and will always be a major Washington DC export. So I recommend that you folks invite your concerned spouses, parents, grand parents, children, grand children, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, supervisors, secretaries, business partners, system administrators, lead developers, station chiefs, dive masters, laboratory technicians, shop stewards, dentists, Tai chi instructors, co-workers, valets, sergeants major, crew bosses, commanding officers, boat captains, varsity coaches, airport security guards, waiters, baby sitters, district attorneys, upstairs maids, fire marshals, teachers, professors, fellow monks and prayer group members to read this Web log and see for themselves that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.