the conclusion is left as an exercise for the student...
I forgot to mention that while in DC, we had a little adventure, which I thought I ought to document for y'all.
We were walking down the hill from Adams-Morgan (where my cousin lived before leaving for London to take on his new job at The Economist) to Dupont Circle.
The dramatis personae: me, my cousin, and hofnarr, who for those of you who don't know - is tall, has got light brown hair, green eyes, and if he'd lived in Germany at the appropriate time, could've been a poster boy for Aryan pride (He grew a moustache once, and I called him "Franz" until he shaved it off. I am not always the nicest person in the world, but that's another story entirely.) My cousin, like myself, might also be described as Aryan, I suppose - but of a different stripe entirely, since we're Indian. Short, dark-skinned, etc. etc.
On our way, we happened to pass by the First Church of Scientology.
Visitors Welcome, proclaimed the sign outside. We eyed each other curiously, and then decided this was an opportunity that should not be passed over lightly.
We went in. Pictures of Hubbard's house everywhere. Past the foyer, I could see something with curved computer banks; it looked utterly futuristic, all white and blue, and blinking.
There was a girl at the reception desk; she said, "Hello," and her voice cracked nervously. We said we were tourists, and had heard a lot about this place, and thought we'd stop by.
She said we could have a tour; she pressed a button under her desk, and asked for a guide to report to the desk. We heard voices upstairs, but no one arrived. She kept jabbing at the button like it was a panic button or something.
We waited. Then finally, a gentleman appeared. He did not address me, or my cousin directly. He did however shake hofnarr's hand, and pressed upon him a business card. He did not give us the tour, but gently indicated that we might prefer to leave - and perhaps visit the Hubbard Museum instead.
If we had wanted to drink the koolaid, we couldn't have. Except for hofnarr.
These are the facts. Conclusions? I leave that for you.
We were walking down the hill from Adams-Morgan (where my cousin lived before leaving for London to take on his new job at The Economist) to Dupont Circle.
The dramatis personae: me, my cousin, and hofnarr, who for those of you who don't know - is tall, has got light brown hair, green eyes, and if he'd lived in Germany at the appropriate time, could've been a poster boy for Aryan pride (He grew a moustache once, and I called him "Franz" until he shaved it off. I am not always the nicest person in the world, but that's another story entirely.) My cousin, like myself, might also be described as Aryan, I suppose - but of a different stripe entirely, since we're Indian. Short, dark-skinned, etc. etc.
On our way, we happened to pass by the First Church of Scientology.
Visitors Welcome, proclaimed the sign outside. We eyed each other curiously, and then decided this was an opportunity that should not be passed over lightly.
We went in. Pictures of Hubbard's house everywhere. Past the foyer, I could see something with curved computer banks; it looked utterly futuristic, all white and blue, and blinking.
There was a girl at the reception desk; she said, "Hello," and her voice cracked nervously. We said we were tourists, and had heard a lot about this place, and thought we'd stop by.
She said we could have a tour; she pressed a button under her desk, and asked for a guide to report to the desk. We heard voices upstairs, but no one arrived. She kept jabbing at the button like it was a panic button or something.
We waited. Then finally, a gentleman appeared. He did not address me, or my cousin directly. He did however shake hofnarr's hand, and pressed upon him a business card. He did not give us the tour, but gently indicated that we might prefer to leave - and perhaps visit the Hubbard Museum instead.
If we had wanted to drink the koolaid, we couldn't have. Except for hofnarr.
These are the facts. Conclusions? I leave that for you.