I have lost my parking mojo. Or perhaps the deities in control of parking karma are meting out punishment for my having Doris Day parking at my own home.

Here on Capitol Hill, where I am spending my evening, parking is a blood sport. Carnivores circle the asphalt blocks, sometimes for over 30 minutes, ready to pounce on the next open spot. Pedestrians, you'd better be alert. You are either walking to your car, in which case you're safe because I need to follow you to your parking spot, or you're a meaningless, expendable impediment to my harried quest.

I drove for 25 minutes around the same 25-square-block area of The Hill tonight. I got to the point of swearing, in Spanish no less. "Pinche parking!" I exclaimed, throwing my iPhone onto the passenger seat. I also was elevated to the point of prayer, asking whatever or whoever is in charge of such things to open a spot so I could get back to the warm bed and the big-screen TV.

The first spot I saw was in the same block as where I'm staying. But I would have had to reduce my car's length by about 40%. No go.

I used to know every driveway, fire hydrant and loading zone in this part of town. I could save my efforts for the real spots, because I knew right away that the gap in the row of cars ahead was not a legitimate parking spot. Now, not so much. In fact, almost not at all.

I finally found a spot. It was a good 6 blocks away. Okay, I accepted it. Felt grateful even.

Until I came back to the house. Where there was an open spot. Right out front.

Pinche parking. Pinche no-mojo.