The Washington-Baltimore Newspaper Guild yesterday released a survey of salaries in the newsroom of the Washington Post. Most of the document is a snooze: A lot of editorial aides are earning salaries in the $30,000 range and a lot of reporters hover in high five-figure, low six-figure territory.

There is, however, one fun detail: Three employees in the category of “Reporter, Bureau Chief or Columnist” are pulling down between $230,000 and $239,000. As this this publication made clear last month, that salary is higher than the base pay of the paper’s tier of assistant managing editors.

So who are these three well-paid Posties? I’m guessing that two of them are Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser, the ESPNers who have a leg up in just about any set of negotiations over compensation. Kornheiser, of course, took this year’s buyout offer.

The third?

As I mentioned before, I’m brand new to the District. In fact, this is day 8 of my new life on the East Coast. With this new transition comes adjustments to weather (How ridiculous is this weather, people? I’ll tell you. It’s ridiculous!) and discoveries of fun things to do and great places to spend money on delicious eats. Which brings me to cupcakes.

I casually mentioned to one of my co-workers yesterday that I wished there was a great cupcake place nearby. To my surprise, she told me there were actually a couple bakeries devoted to cupcakes in the city; the closest shop to the office is a mere 15-minute hop over to U Street. After a lengthy discussion about our preferences regarding the tasty treats, I decided I’d try the first bakery this morning.

Enter CakeLove.

The less-than-humble “The CakeLove Story” section of Warren Brown’s “About CakeLove” shrine to himself and the play-by-play of his creative “brilliance” was more than enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth, let alone the misspellings, punctuation errors and typos that littered his site. (Note to Mr. Brown: I would be thrilled to tidy up your site. I am a copy editor, after all.) I’m getting dizzy just trying to figure out whether the name of his creation is Cakelove, CakeLove or cakelove. Let’s just pick a way to write it and stick with it, OK?

CakeLove seems to just be a glorified Safeway bakery. For one, I couldn’t believe my eyes when the person behind the counter wrapped the first cupcake, a raspberry frosting on vanilla concoction, in wax paper. What happened to the idea of using tongs to delicately place a frosted treat into a cardboard box, preferably in little cupcake stands? The folks at this shop definitely have the right idea when it comes to the cute cardboard boxes, but Brown needs to hit up a couple other cupcakeries — yes, I’m making that word up — and see how the treats should be presented. Heck, he should use his Food Network show to pay for the trip!

First stop on the tour: Magnolia Bakery in New York City, made famous on an episode of Sex and the City. It was my first true cupcake experience, and boy was it glorious. I bought enough to take a couple home with me to Seattle, but they didn’t even make it off the plane.

Trophy Cupcakes, in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle, has great presentation, in addition to amazing frosting, though the cupcakes themselves are a bit hard to stomach. I don’t know about you, but my ideal cupcake shouldn’t make me feel like I just ate a brick. Those were some dense little cakes.

More recently, I visited Cupcake Royale, in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood. Known for its “Legalize frostitution” bumper stickers and shirts, Cupcake Royale comes in a close second in quality to Magnolia Bakery. Its recipe of just-the-right-amount-of-fluff and frosting to (almost) swoon for makes it a top dessert stop on my 2008 Sweets Tour.

CakeLove, though? I’d say skip it. The frosting looks gross (especially at room temperature), the cake is a tad too dense for my palate, and just looking at the chocolate on chocolate treat on my desk makes me want to have a burger and a milkshake to wash down the nasty, cheap Safeway/Costco-like buttercream frosting taste lingering on my tongue.

I hope the next cupcake shop suggestion is far better than this.

I’ve seen a fair amount of performances in the Kennedy Center’s grand concert hall. Andre Watts banging out a Beethoven piano concerto, the Chieftains, and if memory serves, the NSO playing some strange composition by Witold Lutoslawski.

None of them lit the hall up quite like last evening’s celebration of MLK Jr. Day. There was Denyce Graves, a young violin duo called “Nuttin’ But Stringz,” and the “Let Freedom Ring Choir,” not to mention a decent orchestra.

The concert was free, though that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a price to be paid. The sponsors of the show–who won’t be named here because they promoted themselves just fine at the show itself–orchestrated an award for great work in the civil rights arena. It went to D.C. congressional Delegate Eleanor Holmes Norton. Just as Norton was getting into a discussion of how an award in the tradition name of MLK places an even greater responsibility on her going forward, my 4-year-old started squirming and saying he had to go to the bathroom. Point being, don’t mix ceremonies with tunes.

We got back just in time for some fine music-making. Denyce Graves sang a lot and well. The choir, too, was amazing, singing “We Shall Overcome” and some great gospel stuff. This from a choir that had at least one pretty green voice on the risers.

How do I know that? Because my wife was among the robed, by way of full disclosure. In the best spirit of MLK, the “Let Freedom Ring Choir” was open to just about anyone who could make it to a few rehearsals, and my wife leapt at the opportunity. She later said it was the “coolest” thing she’d ever done. That may raise a few questions about all the things she’s ever done, but hey.

About a year and a half ago, I posted an item about an online nuclear blast simulator that told you just how you might fare in the event of a nearby atomic explosion. While I was having dinner the other night with some old friends, several of whom work for various intelligence agencies, they mentioned there’s a new and improved version out there.

So here you go—this one’s a Google maps mashup.

If you select D.C. from the drop-down menu, it defaults ground zero to the middle of 9th Street NW at the Mall. Centrally located sure, but I doubt that’s where any terrorist would choose—unless they really, really wanted to blow the Hirshhorn off the map.

More likely would be closer to either the Capitol or the White House, I’m thinking.

So how would we City Paper folk do here in our Adams Morgan offices, according to the latest and greatest in blast-simulation technology? Pretty well, in the event of a Capitol-area strike under 50 kilotons—we’d probably get nothing more than shattered windows. A White House strike of that magnitude would be a bit more serious, with “Severe damage to ordinary houses, and light to moderate damage to reinforced concrete structures.”

Log your own fortunes in the comments…

I called Flexcar on Monday to see if anyone had turned in a pair of Ray-Bans my friend had forgotten in the car I took out over the weekend. “We don’t have a centralized lost and found,” the woman said. Instead, items are just left in the cars. You have to reserve the vehicle again, at your own cost, and go back and fetch your stuff for yourself. Even when people call to report finding valuable items like wallets or cell phones, the office staff just tells them to leave the booty in the car. Flexcar may get in touch with the last driver, but that’s it.

With deadlines and being generally disorganized, I didn’t get back to the car until yesterday. I was dreading breaking the news to my friend, whom I’d told I was “getting right on it” on Monday. But lo and behold, the glasses were there. I really didn’t expect that. I guess I assume that everyone steals.

I often tell people that I’ve never stolen anything. I really do think it’s wrong, and I’m scared of getting caught. In high school, I would only act as lookout when my friends wandered out of Albertson’s with bottles of wine stuffed in their baggy skate pants. I refused to go on shoplifting sprees at Nordstrom. I won’t even steal music or movies from the internet.

But now that I think about it, I’m not as high and mighty when ownership isn’t clear. I once found a dollar in a Flexcar. And I took it. Maybe I would have taken the sunglasses if I’d found them. I think people have a sliding scale for the kind of abandoned items it’s OK to take. My gym’s lost and found, an unlocked chest in the locker room, is openly perused for spare headphones. I’d trust people to resist the temptation of an iPod, maybe. Or a wallet. But not necessarily sunglasses.

I’ve been trying to figure out the ethics of whether it’s good or bad to take stuff people forget, or how much effort you should put into giving it back. I hate the pay it forward crap, so it’s not like I’m going to go do something nice just because I found the sunglasses. But I do think taking stuff from Flexcars is like stealing. So if you left a dollar in the car by Domku this summer, I owe you.

There were maybe three of them. I’m not sure exactly what they were, but they looked like drawers from a metal desk, minus the desk. They were lying out in front of a Mount Pleasant residence with a sign indicating that they were free for the taking.

I’ve lived in Mount Pleasant for a while, and I’ve benefited from similar acts of largesse by my neighbors—a stereo, and if memory serves, furniture and some books. And probably some other miscellaneous things. (Hey, who doesn’t like free stuff?) I appreciate the generosity, but I’m not sure how I can use unattached desk drawers (assumming that’s what they were).

But if you’re interested, they might still be there. I think it was the 1700 block of Kilbourne NW.

There was an interesting observation embedded within Monica Hesse’s article on group houses in Monday’s Post. Of the five roommates she profiled, not one is an only child. Which made me wonder: do only children stay anti-social well into their twenties?

I’m an only child, and it took me a while to pry myself from self-induced isolation. In elementary school, I spent more lunch periods than I’d care to admit reading alone on the blacktop. But I’ve grown up since then. I like people now. I even hang out with them from time to time.

In fact, according to researchers at the University of Texas at Austin, while negative views of only children are common, they’re more myth than fact. Apparently, we’re no more lonely, selfish or maladjusted than anyone else.

Still, when I was apartment-hunting last summer, I knew without a doubt that group-house living wasn’t for me. So, here’s the question for you only children out there: does your only-ness still dictate your behavior?

So the city’s suing the A.N.S.W.E.R. Coalition over their hard-to-remove posters, which they’ve stuck to lampposts, electrical boxes, and other pieces of street furniture. Good for D.C.

A long time ago, as part of a community-service project, I was tasked with cleaning a wall full of similar posters. Lemme tell you, getting that shit off ain’t easy. Wheat paste, or whatever those folks are using, might be water-soluble, but it’s still sticky as hell—especially when you slather the poster with it, which is the only way to get it to stick when you first apply it. But after it sets up and dries, it’s there for good. Getting it off involves getting the posters as wet as possible, then taking a scraper to it an inch or two at a time. And you never get all of it; there’s always residue left over. Sorry, Shep Fairey, but this stuff sucks.

Thing is, what’s a better option? Tape is always a pain in the ass to remove. Tacky gum-like stuff I’m sure would be a disaster. Anyone out there have a better idea for securing posters to public property?

And here’s a question for the city: Why is there no provision requiring removal of signs in public space after a specific amount of time? Political candidates, for instance, are required to remove their signs shortly after any election—why not make that the policy for every sign-poster out there? If that were so, I’m guessing A.N.S.W.E.R. would be a little less liberal (no pun intended…OK, pun intended) with the wheat paste.

1. After reading the Washington Post story today about the 23 Virginia Tech students hospitalized for carbon monoxide poisoning, I’m beginning to wonder. Every university has its share of stupid and tragic. My alma mater—Penn State—had a school shooting, an incident where a student was killed by a falling tree branch, and a massive riot one summer. And we all know about the University of Maryland’s troubles. But, shit, Virginia Tech just can’t get a break. Is the campus cursed?
2. If you cat-sit, you are supposed to change the feline’s water and replenish its food bowl. A good sport will keep the litter box clean. I’ve done all those things for Blakey. But then the cat—which is huge, almost panther-huge—seems to want some sort of attention. So I sit on the couch and pat at the cat’s ears and head for a while. But petting a cat is kind of boring. So how long do you have to play with your friend’s cat as part of your cat-sitting duties? And do you even have to bother?
3. During halftime of the Redskins second exhibition game, Joe Theismann was featured “interviewing” a pre-injured Jason Campbell. The interview was stultifying in the usual Theismann way. The former Skins quarterback talked more than enough about himself. He also came to the interview dressed in gym shorts. And let’s just say the way the interview was shot, I kept thinking we were going to end up seeing Theismann’s balls. Thankfully, the viewers were spared such sights. Instead, we got a good look at his fucked-up leg. So my question: Why are TV producers still putting Theismann on the air?

Perhaps you’ve seen his question-marked Mini Cooper parked outside of the T.G.I. Friday’s. Perhaps you’ve seen him projected upon the National’s JumboTron, a single question mark tracing the curve of his back. Perhaps you’ve read about him in Washington City Paper. Surely, you’ve seen this Riddler-suited, bespectacled man spouting promises of Free Money! From the Government! (For only $39.95 + $6.95 postage and handling!)

Next week, you’ll get your chance to see him in the flesh, as local author, minor celebrity, and question-mark enthusiast Matthew Lesko descends upon the U.S. Capitol for a sleepless 72-hour Q&A. Lesko calls it a “Leskathon.” Its goal? Free. Money.

Fittingly, questions abound. How will an already off-kilter personality keep it together for three days in the 90-degree heat with no sleep? How many bystanders will simply pass by and, in a moment of inspiration, scream, “Free Money”? For a guy with an apparently insatiable addiction to question marks, isn’t a 72-hour Q&A nothing more than an irresponsible bender? And when is this thing, anyway?

I turned to the “Talk to Lesko Live!” feature on Lesko’s Web site for some pre-Q&A Q&A. Instead of live Lesko, however, I got “Kelly,” who, while live, I suspect lacked Lesko’s expertise and trademark whimsy.

[Kelly] hi
[Kelly] how can i help you?
[Visitor] I’m looking for information about the upcoming event on the National Mall.
[Kelly] it’s going to be held Aug 14 thru Aug 17
[Kelly] 72 hours
[Visitor] And he’s going to be there the whole time?
[Kelly] yes
[Visitor] How is he going to stay awake that long?
[Kelly] He’s Matthew Lesko.

He’s Matthew Lesko. And when you’re mounting a “Leskathon,” maybe that’s all you need.

On Sunday I was riding back from Philadelphia. I was on a Chinatown bus, the little boy in front of me was trying his best to become a monkey, and the young man beside me was explaining his medical history. It was an epic history, full of terrible surgeries in distant places, and colored with the most minute descriptions of pain that I have ever heard.

After two hours between the zoo and the hospital bed, I began to see Northeast D.C. passing by the windows. There were withered lots, high fences, crumbling houses, basketball courts. A woman exclaimed: “This is D.C.? This looks just like Philadelphia.”

Is it just me, or does the world’s shortest man remind you of someone?

Give this site some love: District Limerick. ’Cause Calvin Trillin doesn’t have a monopoly on silly poems about politics.

Most of it deals with the feds, but there’s the occasional local-focused gem. From last month:

Committee members agree
There’s something amiss with D.C.
When last t’was taxation
Sans representation
We found ourselves swimming in tea

When there’s a will, there’s a way
As proved by events yesterday
They took the first step
Towards a full voting Rep.
Now the Senate will say yea or nay

The anonymous limericist was kind enough to answer a few questions:

Why limericks? What inspired to embrace this particular art form?

I started writing limericks a few years ago in college when I took a class that required weekly responses to reading assignments. Late one night before a response was due, I really just didn’t feel like writing paragraphs…so I wrote a few limericks. I sent them to my professor, fully expecting to get chewed out for my irreverence. Instead, he loved them and had me read them aloud to the class. I think he even sent them to the author of the reading material. That was enough to get me started.

How long have you been writing them? Any chance you’ll get sick of them, switch to, say, Petrarchan sonnets?

I’ve only been writing the news-related limericks for a month or two. Before that I mostly wrote apology limericks when I forgot Father’s Day. I’ve toyed with the idea of rhyming couplets, but I’m pretty hooked on the limerick form. I can’t think of a less pretentious form of poetry, and I like that.

There are some changes you can expect, though. I’m trying to write more about local news and serious news. Honestly, it’s hard to write a limerick about truly tragic news. It just doesn’t feel right. Fortunately, there seems to be an endless source of semi-comic news that just needs a bit of help. The advice I’ve gotten from people older and wiser than I am, is to get “meaner and dirtier.” I’m working on it, but I’m from Minnesota so it’s a stretch.

What’s your day job?

Well, I just graduated from college and I’m working as a Research Assistant here in D.C. It’s my first job out of school and I love it so far. If you try really hard, you might be able to figure out what area of policy I work in based on what I don’t write limericks about, but I’m hoping you have better ways to use your time.

You’ve seen the maternal signs: the polite and pleading “Please curb your dog” or the more demanding “Scoop your pets poop!” and all other manner of slogans aimed at reminding dog owners to do something they know they’re supposed to do anyway. The signs, like a nagging mother telling you to pick your wet towel up off the bathroom floor, may incite you to begrudgingly do the right thing, but they’re easy to ignore if you’re hellbent on being inconsiderate.

Enter a new breed of sign—this one spotted on the block of Champlain Street near our offices. It doesn’t demand or boss you around, but rather appeals to your inner aesthete and horticulturist:

Judging by the neatly kept box and the health of the roses, it’s working.

Name:
By Day—Tony Lugthart
By Night—”White Pony”

Profession:
By Day—K Street shoeshine; wiped the smut from Tom DeLay’s wing-tips
By Night—meager but committed Johnny Cash impersonator; mutters stuff about rodeos

Haunt:
By Day—McCormick & Schmick’s
By Night—The Reef karaoke night

Accessories:
By Day—Whimsical hat; red suspenders; bow-tie
By Night—Whimsical hat; wild-eyed, roaming glare; cocaine-slang nick-name

Demeanor:
By Day—All business with a touch of flair
By Night—Close-talker; wildly drunk; enthusiastic dancer

Best Line:
By Day—”There are other guys around—they can’t touch me.”
By Night—”And that’s a real American song, not like the Communists!”