E veryone has a story to tell. Everyone is unique and exciting and special. Yeah, we've heard that since kindergarten and for one reason or another, it is a lesson never forgotten.
The difference between normal people and D.C. people is that D.C. people love to tell their stories - anonymously. Consequently, some pretty exciting stuff gets shared, but it can never be used for anything worthwhile.
Google has caught the Potomac Fever, and is ahead of the curve once again, adding an "off the record" button for online conversations through their Gmail chat program.
Yet here I am, halfway through my time "abroad" and it seems that button is constantly pressed in reality and not just while talking online. Last week Tufts' very own Beelzebubs were in town performing at one of the local "I-didn't-get-into-an-Ivy-league-school" schools. It was nice to get a little taste of the Jumbo spirit (whatever that means), and let's be real; the Bubs are better than anything else on stage that night, including a singing priest.
Hanging out with them after the show, I found out that they are just as interesting and exciting off the stage as on. Someone should get an NSA wiretap on this group, because the traditions and things they do are, uh, let's just say "interesting." Of course I'm not allowed to tell you about any of it, mainly because it was all "off the record," but I can share some of what I learned about the D.C.-based a cappella group they preformed with. After all, I have no loyalty to them, right?
This particular group makes potential new members of the brigade be their slaves for a year. They have to do things like clean the house and cook and lick dead bugs off of boots. And as if that weren't cruel and unusual enough, they call these little freshmen and sophomore punks "neophytes." Yeah, I didn't know what that word meant either, but I looked it up, and the dictionary said, "sad excuse for legalized torture, see Guantanamo." Out of 15 neophytes, only two actually get accepted to be part of the group and the other 13 just wasted a year of their lives picking up Solo cups and soaking up floor beer after long nights of Beirut.
Then there's also the other story I'm not allowed to tell you about. This lady I met in a coffee shop was telling me about a client that used to come in all the time, but who she hasn't seen in about a year. Apparently he was a rising star in the White House; he was getting promoted all the time and doing very well for himself working for the neo-con movement here in D.C. Super. Good for him.
Why do I care? He has a secret. That's right, he leads an "alternative lifestyle" and no one in the West Wing has a clue. Oh the shock! Oh the humanity! Say it ain't so!
But my favorite bit of privileged information came from the water cooler at work. Interning in an office can be rather interesting, no matter what the folks at NBC tell us. While talking to some people, I stumbled upon the story of Judi, (not her real name, come on guys, be real, focus), a cantankerous (look it up) veteran beltway media correspondent.
I tried to dig up her story, only to keep hitting the wall of "off the record" discussions. Everyone had something to say about Judi, but I couldn't attribute any of it to anyone. This legend has interviewed every American president since Washington. She finds her way, through sweet pinch-your-cheek charm, into intimate interview sessions with the most powerful men in the world.
But when I called the White House to track her down, someone whispered through the phone that "she doesn't own a phone ... She gives us a different number each day where we can reach her."
The other branches of government told me the same pathetic story, adding that she is often just lurking around the press room telling people her current fax number will expire at 8 p.m. the same night. Fax her while you can!
I even corroborated this information with other senior sources, who said she would ask to borrow other reporters' phones, only to make lengthy long-distance phone calls to the Middle East.
Around the city, the stories about Judi continued to abound. I heard that she has a way of making it into invite-only events inside the beltway and putting "sticky food" into her purse to eat later. (Unless she has a dog - that's possible, right?) By sticky food, I mean egg rolls. Who in their right mind takes an egg roll home in a purse?
I tried getting in contact with Judi, but I finally had to drop the story altogether because nothing I had learned was usable. Not to mention the fact that Judi would have flipped if she learned the "CIA" was around asking questions about her. Apparently in her mind, whenever people are asking for her, they are always covert CIA agents. So I work at the CIA! Who knew?
She's a character; everyone has plenty to say about her, but no one is willing to go on the record. I've found D.C. is a very secretive place. And yet, at the same time, everyone wants to tell you what they know, as long as you never attribute it to them.
What's the point? Why do I even bother? If information is power, then why not grow a set of balls, go on the record, and shake things up? I'm only a student here, but I can only imagine what a "real" reporter with "real" resources could dig up in this city.
I'd give it a try, and I'm sure I'd find out a lot, but it wouldn't matter, because I couldn't possibly tell you about it.
Jamie Bologna is a junior majoring in political science. You can e-mail him at James.Bologna@tufts.edu
