I. Hate. Most. Things.

Metro Center, at 11PM on a Friday night in the heart of Washington D.C, is absolutely dead. You might as well be in Springfield, Ohio.

The only other people within a visible radius were the other people who had taken the Bolt Bus with me from New York, and a couple of wandering tranny prostitutes who were clearly new at this. If there are any newbie tranny prostitutes looking to make a quick buck in our nation's capital, head over to Georgetown and Capitol Hill. That's where our closeted elected officials with deep pockets live.

After hopping on the Metro, two things quickly occured to me about the city that I used to call home:

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Back when I lived in D.C, DJing is what kept me creatively alive while simutaneously crucifying my immune system. It always seemed like when the stresses of climate change reporting and diving through energy leglsiation were about to end me, my DJ responsibilities would save my life. Thursday nights on the second floor of Rock and Roll Hotel. Friday nights on stage at The Red and the Black. And when-the-fuck-ever at DC9, Saint-Ex and Marx Cafe.

But when I moved to Brooklyn, I had to start from scratch.

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