The case of the mysterious green Saab that is frequently parked in front of a fire hydrant but never has any tickets on it is closed, more or less.

A couple of months ago my brother and sister-in-law noticed a green Saab - the one pictured above with its license plate blurred out - that was, more often than not, parked on their street in front of a fire hydrant.

Why?, they asked, would the car be parked in front of the fire hydrant so often? And why are there never any tickets on it?

We speculated: undercover cop car, undercover diplomat, someone who has something on the chief of police.

In recent months the car started parking in legal spots, and we more or less forgot about it. Until yesterday, when I got a text message from my sister-in-law: Green Saab is back in front of the hydrant!

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In honor of our Celebrating the Classics, Best of D.C. issue, I present to you an early, blog-only category: Classic D.C. Moment.

This one goes to–drum roll please–Moment when you discover that District government employees have the day off for some unknown holiday when everyone else in the city is clearly at work.

Congratulations D.C. government! Way to be.

What holiday is it? Well, I discovered the answer as I walked into the eerily quiet District Superior Court this morning. A security guard stoically greeted me. “Where you headin’?” he asked. He listened to my answer. “Closed.”

Mmmm. Had someone else died in the bathroom (thereby causing the building to shutdown)? I thought.

The guard offered a one word explanation: “Holiday.” He was quickly onto dismaying the next Court visitor. After pressing some more, I got a fuller response. “It’s Emancipation Day.”

No. Way. Over the next few hours, I asked a few (working) others if they knew why today was a special day.

“No,” said David J. Walker, Advertising Director at the Washington City Paper. “Count me as a loser on that one.”

“It’s National Pope Day,” offered a family member. Now, that would make sense! But, again, not right. At all.

“It’s emancipate day or something,” said a METRO bus driver. Someone in District government had informed her of the holiday yesterday.

“Nothing’s on my calendar,” said City Paper account executive Nick DiBlasio. So, we’ll take that as a no too.

“Today slaves were emancipated. I read it in the newspaper,” said Terri Holtz, senior account executive at the City Paper. Wait, wait! “Strike that from the record!” says Holtz. Someone mentioned it to her yesterday; Holtz loses bragging rights for simply being an informed citizen.

“It’s a emanci-$%^&*-pation day,” according to City Paper photographer Darrow Montgomery. “My kid’s skateboarding. He’s free.”

But, did anyone know the true meaning of Emancipation Day? Do you?

Is it:

(A) The day District slaves were freed.

(B) The day the Emancipation Proclamation was issued.

(C) The ratification of the Thirteenth Amendment, effectively abolishing slavery for good.

Check the answer here.

The National Park Service is taking its sweet, federal time making improvements at Lincoln Park, the largest and most popular park in Capitol Hill. First, in late October, NPS blocked half of it off with a chain-link fence and gave no warning or explanation. Then, when pressed by D.C. Councilmember Tommy Wells’ office for information, officials even boasted a little bit: “The contract period is for 90 days, however, we anticipate the project taking less than half of that time.”

So, doing the math, the renovation should have been finished by Feb. 19 at the latest. Instead, half of the park remains closed as construction equipment sits idle. Until Tuesday, no work had happened for several weeks.

The feds have two excuses: “a contract modification due to changes with the base material” and the weather.

“When the temperature falls below 40 degrees you really can’t pour concrete,” says NPS spokeswoman Janet Braxton.

Advisory neighborhood commissioner Nick Alberti, whose district includes the northeast half of the park, thinks bad weather is a lame excuse.

“I’m stunned that they would schedule a repaving project during the 3 coldest months,” Alberti writes in an e-mail. “It was either very poor planning or disingenuous to assure us that the park would reopen by Feb 19th.”

Park Service facility manager Frank Young reports that all work should be finished by April 30.

When I started working as a journalist (OK, as a paid intern), there was no Internet or e-mail, unless you count PINE, located at one terminal where you stood up to use it. At our giant, metal desks, we pounded out stories and briefs and obituaries on word processors. The future of newspapers meant an end to ashtrays in the newsroom. Or so I thought.

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With so many millions of dollars walking out the door in Jimmy Choos, etc., courtesy of the tax scandal, you’d figure D.C. Gov would be totally into recovering millions of other dollars it’s rightfully owed by the Corrections Corporation of America (CCA).

You’d figure that. But you’d be wrong. In a classic case of buck-passing between the Office of Property Management (OPM) and the Department of Corrections (DOC), the utility bill for steam used to heat the Correctional Treatment Facility—located right next to the D.C. Jail and privately operated by the Nashville-based CCA—has gone unpaid for years. What’s owed is up for negotiation. Last March, former OPM director Lars Etzkorn (who has since lost his job over that unfortunate police department relocation fiasco) testified before the Council that OPM was “collecting monies owed.” To wit: “For example, last month OPM presented to the Department of Corrections the analysis for it to recover $5.7 million from the Corrections Corporation of America…”

OPM didn’t take over collecting the money, mind you, it presented an analysis of how to collect the money. And this was after At-Large Councilmember Phil Mendelson figured out in the 2006 budget process that DOC was actually being billed for the steam rather than being paid for it. A year after OPM was informed of that, a year after Etzkorn’s testimony throwing around “$5.7 million,” none of the money has been collected. And $5.7 million could be way underselling it.

To be fair to the CCA, the folks in Nashville didn’t know how much steam they were using in D.C. until OPM installed a meter last March; a bill didn’t even go out until a few months later, in June. According to the bill, the meter shows that in six months—from June to December of 2007—the Correctional Treatment Facility used more than $450,000 in steam. When you do the math, and take into account that the CCA, according to its lease, has been responsible for paying utilities on the facility since 1997…. well that’s somewhere around $10 million to $11 million in danger of—poof!—evaporating.

The DOC, by nature of its relationship with the the jail, the next-door Correctional Treatment Facility, and the CCA, has been the agency ostensibly in charge of the lease with the CCA. But—and you’ll have to try and follow this alphabet soup—the DOC thinks it’s the OPM’s job to get the CCA on board. Beverly Young, spokesperson for DOC, e-mailed that succinct response to me this week: “The Department of Corrections is not responsible for the collections. The matter is ultimately an issue between OPM and CCA.”

Mendelson agrees. The DOC, he says, never should have been in charge of the lease in the first place. “The only agency that should administer a lease is OPM,” he says, and further: “They (OPM) screwed around last year with invoicing and not getting payment….They’re very slow to act and wer’e talking about millions of public dollars.”

At a hearing last Friday, OPM’s interim director Robin-Eve Jasper (after being jousted by Vincent Gray) faced Mendelson on this front:

Mendo: “We should get answers without having to think of every angle to ask the question. So I get the bills, but it turns out we’re not getting the pyament…”

Jasper: “I’m going to have to get back to you. We are billing currently, but the first bill didn’t go out that long ago…and I don’t believe it was as high as $11 million….I will get back to you with a detailed response.”

Mendo: “What I was last told at our last hearing on this was that the Office of Property Management was talking to the Department of Corrections. I’m not sure why that makes sense. Why doesn’t the OPM talk to CCA or to the CFO’s office?”

Jasper: “I can’t answer that question…I can’t answer why we were in discussion with the DOC rather than sending out a demand note and just proceeding on that basis.”

Mendo: “When you get back to me, can you also go into what was going on prior to June 2007?”

Jasper: “Yes, I believe we’re trying to establish a baseline of a full year at this point and…establish prior payments.”

Mendo: “I’ve yet to receive any evidence that anyone has talked to CCA, so this would all be a surprise to them when we send them a bill. That would kind of help, I think, to talk to them.”

Hey, it’s a start.

OPM’s spokesman, Bill Rice, did not return three phone calls. Stay tuned!

The noose is hot. It’s passed the Swastika as the go-to hate symbol for high-school kids and bozos from the Deep South to South Capitol Street. Don’t even try to use it to sell magazines, or to defend those who try to use it to sell magazines.

So, let’s take time to give credit for this phenomenon to the man who put the noose back in play in American pop culture: Former Virginia Senator George Allen.

When he was a lawyer and state lawmaker, Allen felt cozy hanging a noose in his office. During campaigns for the U.S. Senate in 2000, the rope wasn’t a major issue, and Allen was able to pass it off as, depending on the interview, a token of his law-and-order leanings or of his fondness for the ways of the Old West.

Then came the great “macaca” episode while Allen was running for re-election to the Senate in 2006, and Allen’s history on matters racial became the focus of the campaign and, because of his presidential ambitions and status as a frontrunner for the 2008 Republican nomination, part of the national conversation.

Turns out Allen had the sort of resume Spike Lee would fabricate were he to create a “Politician Who Hangs Noose in Office” character.

There was Allen’s opposition to the MLK Holiday in Virginia while he was in the state legislature, his proclamation for “Confederate Heritage Month” as governor to answer Black History Month, and his support for Trent Lott during the Strom Thurmond episode. And old acquaintances were running to microphones to recall Allen as a guy who would drop “the N-Word” into casual conversation.

By the end of his losing and most likely last campaign, the days when a hanging rope could be dismissed as “more of a lasso,” as Allen had tried doing not so long ago, were over.

Even giants among journalists get a little tuckered out, especially after a full night of historic bitch sessions.

While staring at the ceiling in the small hours of this morning I came to a revelation about an old boyfiriend who was addicted to Nyquil. It was a doomed romance. He was my mechanic. He had not a stick of furniture (save for his childhood twin bed) in his sprawling apartment. He admitted rather casually one day that he had dabbled in meth. He had a daughter he never saw. But, truthfully, it was when I watched him guzzle electric blue cough medicine every night that I realized maybe he wasn’t the one.

Now that I’m married, I still feel pretty sure he maybe set the bar low. But having come down with a nasty bug and giving Nyquil a try for the first time, I’m thinking he may have been on to something. I’ve gone through a bottle and a half since Thanksgiving and there have been peaceful, restful nights of oblivion as a result. My cat pawing my head? Unfazed. My husband yanking the covers? Who cares? But I’m lately wondering if continued self-medication is the best idea I’ve ever had, hence detailed knowledge of my ceiling.

I keep having visions of this woman featured in the most wrenching of all episodes of A&E’s Intervention (and trust me, I’ve seen most of them). She’d go to bed cradling mouthwash, wake up and puke in the wastebasket in front of her husband and children, slug some more of it down, then tuck it under her pillow again for good luck.

How many steps away am I from that? I’m not sure, but tonight I think I’ll sleep on it.

Some friends and I got together last Friday to try out the Restorative Yoga class at my gym. Now, like any self-respecting 26-year-old, I’ve spent plenty of time at yoga. I’ve sat cross-legged on more mats than I’d like to count, groaned my way through a series of Downward Dogs, and uttered Namaste with the best of them.

Except that I was the worst of them. I can’t do Downward Dog and my mind races right through the class’s most meditative moments. The minute I get to yoga, I flash back to my anti-athletic youth—chosen last for sports teams and faking injuries to get out of running laps. Then I think about all the work I have to do and how I’m going to pay my bills. By the time my 10 minutes of meditation are over, I’m in the middle of a panic attack complete with a fluttering heartbeat and the sweats. At least I look like I’ve had a workout.

That’s why Restorative Yoga is so good for me. My gym advertises it as more relaxing than sleep. And it’s just about as strenuous, too. Restoration Yoga involves lying face down on a pile of blankets, turning your head from one side to the other. An instructor slowly makes the rounds, lightly rubbing your back and spreading a blanket over you if you’re cold. It’s heaven, if heaven were naptime.

In fact, my only problem with Restorative Yoga is that I find the name deceptive. It isn’t exercise. It’s a way for young professionals, primarily women, to have an hour of infancy, curled up in a fetal position while a nurturing mother figure caters to our needs.

Which is why I don’t think men should be the only ones accused of arrested development these days. When the movie Knocked Up came out, critics seized on the guys reluctant to give up their pot and porn. The Nation’s Katha Pollitt wrote, “the real subject of Knocked Up is the immaturity of men: only under the most desperate circumstances will they put aside their bongs, or their porn, or their even more idiotic friends.” Perhaps. But I think women have their Peter Pan moments, too. Just take the estrogen-fest of Restorative Yoga.

It’s curious that the Web site for Cobalt would be the place (still) promoting the Halloween high-heel race, since the club turns away anyone who’s not wearing sneakers, flats, or flip-flops.

The club’s no-heel rule is nonnegotiable, at least for women, as a friend and I found out this weekend when we tried to take a dance-happy 50-year-old out for his birthday. Turns out this is not a new policy, and is rumored to be rooted in either a lawsuit or a new floor the owners don’t want scratched. The official reason is it’s “simply for safety reasons.” Or here’s another thought: It’s a gay club. They don’t want straight chicks.

I have a message out to them inquiring if drag queens or Halloween racers are allowed to emphasize their calves. I’ll let you know if I hear back…

Getting to New York City is a pain in the ass. Amtrak’s too expensive. Peter Pan buses are overpriced, and air circulation and clean seats don’t seem to be a company priority, in my experience. Reviews of all those Chinatown lines have been so mixed, I’m afraid try them.

But last summer, I thought I found my solution: Vamoose Express Bus Service. At $25 for a one-way ticket, the rides were cheaper than Peter Pan’s, the buses were cleaner, and service was pretty much on time. What a godsend.

This past Saturday morning, as I waited in Bethesda for my Vamoose bus to arrive, my good fortune seemed to be coming to an end. According to a company representative, Vamoose drivers had gone on strike. There were still buses running, but not as many. A few people had seats, and to everyone else: enjoy your weekend, and best of luck getting to NYC.

I got a spot. But I figured my future stress-free travels to Manhattan were over: Vamoose was joining the ranks of the unreliable.

Well, maybe not. When I called Vamoose today to inquire about said strike, I found out it never existed in the first place, according to company spokesperson Florence Bluzenstein. The company representative made up the strike to cover for a driver who simply forgot to make a second stop in Bethesda, she said.

Seriously? I asked. Bluzenstein’s response follows.

“I don’t understand it either. I was in Florida…This was an employee we hired just temporarily for the weekend. He messed it up. He thought it was very funny, he didn’t realize that it wasn’t funny. We had two buses, and a third was supposed to come from the other stop…instead of just telling people the truth, he thought it would be very funny to say the drivers were on strike. He thought it was a cute option. We found out about it when the e-mails started to come in. I was horrified because I had no internet connection in my hotel for a day. I called the office and said ‘what is going on? Why are people asking about a strike?’ That’s when I found out about it. There’s nothing to worry about. It was a mix-up on the dispatchers end…but instead of calling someone up, (the company representative) just took it upon himself to make that kind of a statement…But, there was no strike. No strike at all.”