while i haven't been blogging
i've been studying for the GRE. because i like to be unhappy. for example,
define "phlegmatic."
you can't, can you. because its not really a word. its a test, from the cosmos, to see if i have the fortitude to go through with this bullshit. raise your hand if you've ever or will ever use this word naturally in your life. hooey. and don't get me started on the math.
define "phlegmatic."
you can't, can you. because its not really a word. its a test, from the cosmos, to see if i have the fortitude to go through with this bullshit. raise your hand if you've ever or will ever use this word naturally in your life. hooey. and don't get me started on the math.
how can be? can not.
my office had our holiday party last night and no one got xmas bonuses.
not a one.
in other news, i hate everything.
if you need me, i'll be at the whiskey.
so this is thanksgiving
went back to kck to visit the fam last weekend, which was stressful and depressing. everyone in kansas is married or pregnant.did see a traveling exhibit of john lennon's drawings at the old ritz on the plaza. i didn't really know much about lennon as an artist before the show, but i liked what i saw. you could really see his style change and the subject matter shift as he grew older.
i especially liked the series on animals that he did for his son to teach him about the world.
Also, they had blown up some old clippings of news articles about a police raid on one of his shows in london for violating obscenity laws, for such works as this
in defense, lennon's lawyers compared his drawings to the erotic nature of picasso's 'the embrace.'
not sure if they meant this
or this
cool, anyway.
addendum
Just remembered the best part of the conference. We gave an award to Laurie Zabin, a researcher at Johns Hopkins, for her career in adolescent health. During her acceptance speech, she reflected on the change in atmosphere in the last 50 years or so, specifically the shift from talking about a problem of illegitimacy to one of teen pregnancy. She recounted meeting with a certain bombastic Maryland legislator who opened a session by barking, "WE CAN'T BEAT THE COMMIES WITH AN ARMY OF BASTARDS." so true.
life on the pita
oh my christ, its good to be home. spent the last week in bmore at my org's conference and i feel like i've been underwater for 5 days. took the amtrak home last night, curled up in the fetal position and fell asleep within minutes and awoke to station agent barking "union station! district of columbia!" inches from my scrunched face. hallelujah.
the conference went really well. i was in charge of organizing the opening panel session the first day and presenting a workshop the second. my panel featured 5 leaders in the field of youth development programming, including Kazi, the founder of the Hip Hop Project in nyc, on whom i immediately developed a debilitating crush. he was only supposed to stay one night and do the panel, but i convinced my boss to give him another night in the hotel and for him to perform later in the evening at the networking reception where everyone was milling about, looking at the exhibits and eating crab and brie filo off silver trays. we hooked him up with a mixer and a mic and he did some spoken word and a couple songs, complete with audience participation bits. it was great and i was beeming, but i kind of felt like an asshole, as everyone there including myself was dressed in suits, sort of gingerly swaying and trying not to seem as old and uncool and sooo not hip hop as we truly are.
on the last day, i met up with a friend who just moved to bmore from nyc (against the general migratory grain up the east coast) and had coffee and walked around Fells Point, which seemed like a quieter, less douchebaggy adams morgan. we even walked by the police station building where Homicide was filmed. i'm kind of stoked to know someone in baltimore now, so i'll have an excuse to get to know the city (my job's impending move there aside, god help us). it always gets me how, just by having tall buildings, other cities look and feel so much more like a real city than dc. effing washington monument.
but its good to be back.
the conference went really well. i was in charge of organizing the opening panel session the first day and presenting a workshop the second. my panel featured 5 leaders in the field of youth development programming, including Kazi, the founder of the Hip Hop Project in nyc, on whom i immediately developed a debilitating crush. he was only supposed to stay one night and do the panel, but i convinced my boss to give him another night in the hotel and for him to perform later in the evening at the networking reception where everyone was milling about, looking at the exhibits and eating crab and brie filo off silver trays. we hooked him up with a mixer and a mic and he did some spoken word and a couple songs, complete with audience participation bits. it was great and i was beeming, but i kind of felt like an asshole, as everyone there including myself was dressed in suits, sort of gingerly swaying and trying not to seem as old and uncool and sooo not hip hop as we truly are.
on the last day, i met up with a friend who just moved to bmore from nyc (against the general migratory grain up the east coast) and had coffee and walked around Fells Point, which seemed like a quieter, less douchebaggy adams morgan. we even walked by the police station building where Homicide was filmed. i'm kind of stoked to know someone in baltimore now, so i'll have an excuse to get to know the city (my job's impending move there aside, god help us). it always gets me how, just by having tall buildings, other cities look and feel so much more like a real city than dc. effing washington monument. but its good to be back.
tellem where you stay
Going to Baltimore til Saturday for my org's conference. Its going to be a rough week. I have to present in front of my peers and colleagues and as usual I feel like a complete fraud. plus, my coworkers are talking about getting together in the evenings to watch grey's anatomy, which makes me want to die a little. I've gone through all the stages, from denial to rage to acceptance. I hope I don't make a jackass of myself, all I ask.
also, can't believe i'm missing this ish today. saw LSS speak about her new book "unhooked" at P&P last winter. definition of batshit.
also, can't believe i'm missing this ish today. saw LSS speak about her new book "unhooked" at P&P last winter. definition of batshit.
honestly, i dont love it
I'm at the American Public Health Association's national meeting at the convention center in DC. This conference brings together preeminent professionals working in the fields of adolescent, family, and population, and environmental health from across the us and abroad. Leaders in the field present cutting edge research in dozens of scientific sessions running concurently.
I feel like a fraud. Most obviously, i registered under a false name - my boss' - to avoid paying the membership fee. I also feel like I need to have a few more degrees just to know what's going on at all. And I'm totally bored.
Don't get me wrong, I actually do care about this stuff. Just today I've been to panels on risk factors for adolescent sexual behaviors, and how interpersonal violence has occupational effects in the workplace, and heard about advocacy initiatives for family-friendly policies at the state and local levels. Its fascinating and relevant and I'm going into this field because I love it.
But man, these people are fug. I know that public health isn't sexy, but come on, you're not even trying. I haven't seen this many white sneakers and polyester pantsuits and paisley scarves since the 'women of faith' conference came to the verizon center this summer (as observed swarming around chipotle in gallery place from a vantage point drinking 40s of OE at the Hotel Monaco).
what was I talking about?
Whatever. Not a girl, not yet an elastic-waistband, bridge and tunnel, I give up.
I feel like a fraud. Most obviously, i registered under a false name - my boss' - to avoid paying the membership fee. I also feel like I need to have a few more degrees just to know what's going on at all. And I'm totally bored.
Don't get me wrong, I actually do care about this stuff. Just today I've been to panels on risk factors for adolescent sexual behaviors, and how interpersonal violence has occupational effects in the workplace, and heard about advocacy initiatives for family-friendly policies at the state and local levels. Its fascinating and relevant and I'm going into this field because I love it.
But man, these people are fug. I know that public health isn't sexy, but come on, you're not even trying. I haven't seen this many white sneakers and polyester pantsuits and paisley scarves since the 'women of faith' conference came to the verizon center this summer (as observed swarming around chipotle in gallery place from a vantage point drinking 40s of OE at the Hotel Monaco).
what was I talking about?
Whatever. Not a girl, not yet an elastic-waistband, bridge and tunnel, I give up.
no one belongs here more than you and david foster safran lethem eggers
went to a book talk last night at olsson's. it was a biography of the guy who wrote peanuts by someone who writes for the nytimes. didn't read the book, didn't really know anything about the guy, never really considered myself a fan of the strip even. the episode where linus waits for the great pumpkin kinda gets me nostalgic. but i like books and it was free and, save applying for food stamps or taking up drugs, i really had nothing better to do. plus, i hate to think that i'm falling into a rut of only doing things that are hip and ironicly uncool so it makes me cool but not if i admit that i liked it vomit vomit vomit.
but it honestly was so boring. and like so many of my generation raised on matrix pikachou myspace telefurbys, after 5 seconds without immediate visceral stimulation, i lost interest and began to doodle. here is what i found myself scribbling on the back of a pay stub i found in my purse:
talks too fast
went to schulz's house, studio, found dandruff on back of his chair (gross)
posthumous biography - scary prospect -> who knows you when you're alive, and after death? (who cares?)
still boring
art imitates life - and the reverse - its true
seriously what is the point of this book?
gnarly split ends on girl (page?) seated in front of me
floral bag-dress and dusty stockings on senior next to me (old. people)
maybe i don't know enough about peanuts
f scott fitzgerald was from Minn. - really
wawawawawa (teacher, all adults)
i'm surrounded by true dc elite of the styleless and fug
happy halloween (almost).
losing my vieiners
can this day drag on longer?
i got shit to do, namely, gotta find a wig for saturday.
mash here for the end of my dignity.
i got shit to do, namely, gotta find a wig for saturday.
mash here for the end of my dignity.
the question no one seems to be asking
ohmygod when is the sequel to stomp the yard coming out?!
according to the chris brown forum... people all over the world can't spell right.
too much drama in the lbc for just one.
according to the chris brown forum... people all over the world can't spell right.
too much drama in the lbc for just one.
tweakin into a whole new era
the leaves turn, the rats pick clean the chicken bone on my front stoop, and i can now leave the house without dowsing myself in deet. its fall, or it will be soon, maybe, which makes me thankful for one thing. r kelly.
the summer of pussy rock thus endeth. let the winter of the endless grind begin. real talk!
the summer of pussy rock thus endeth. let the winter of the endless grind begin. real talk!
or not
so the camping didn't happen, sadly. what did happen was a lot of searching in vain for the ultimate dance party. all i wanted was a little soulja boy, or maybe some wipe me down, or a bit of same girl remix. instead i got disco 2000 and guitar hero. and a hangover.
sunday was spent with dos gringos, pistaccio ice cream, green tomato curry, and a whole lotta buffy.
we finally made it to the singing episode and nearly had an aneurism when spike and buffy got together at the end. it was magical, there were birds and rainbows and unicorns.
sunday was spent with dos gringos, pistaccio ice cream, green tomato curry, and a whole lotta buffy.
we finally made it to the singing episode and nearly had an aneurism when spike and buffy got together at the end. it was magical, there were birds and rainbows and unicorns.
morning jorge
going (ice/car) camping this weekend. don't know where. i'm imagining somewhere in apalachia. remember that movie wrong turn where they take a (what?) wrong turn (no!) off some backwoods highway and the car breaks down and they become hunted and picked off one by one by these mutant hobos that, from being so very, very inbred, have these superpowers like they eat people and they can't die?
i do. the sequel (dead end!) stars henry rollins too.
i do. the sequel (dead end!) stars henry rollins too.
i can't stop
they played this at the wedding. and we did the dance. and everything was ok in the world. wipe me ooooooooh. i don't know the words.
this is bat country
leaving for vegas tonight for my best friend from high school's wedding. i have rented a car instead of a hotel room, the former being cheaper, as a security measure for the possibility that i may end up passed out in the parking lot after the reception. i like to be prepared for all contingencies. and by 'contingencies' i mean open bar and the fact that my best friend from high school is getting the fuck married.
you know what they say.
when in vegas... i become a hobo.
you know what they say.
when in vegas... i become a hobo.
geeks like me
ira flatow spoke at politics & prose last night and it was awesome. i sat in the back row taking down notes on my tiny flip pad with a clicky pen like i had a real scoop while my friends pointed and laughed. he talked about the 'dismal state of science journalism today' and how 'smart people are on the internet, while stupid people are on tv.' then he mentioned dinosaurs and my companion shat a brick and i missed a bit, but caught back up as he went into how scientists, if they're the real deal, should and will argue amongst each other. he made a comparision to a press conference with scientists versus politicians and how at a scientific press conference, people will read a report, ask for the facts to back it up, and try to tear apart the argument to see if it holds up. can you imagine saying to a politician, 'just give me the facts, Senator.' why doesn't that ever happen?
then he explained how a plane flies. its really simple = air goes down, plane goes up. write it down. seriously, why couldn't ira flatow have taught my first two semesters of college science? maybe then i wouldn't be trying to explain a marijuana-induced GPA against my subtle yet superior intellect in my grad school essays.
my friend bought his book and we stood in line to have him sign it. she asked if dinosaurs really hallucinated themselves into extinction because the proliferation of angiospores in the environment fucked them all up. i really wanted to ask if he was in that movie 'crazy people' with dudley moore and darryl hannah where he played the one mental patient who only ever said 'hello.' i chickened out and later looked it up on my bberry while we ate pizza at comet.
it wasn't him. it was this guy.
i love that movie.
how it feels
a few quick words about animal collective. from someone else. a long time ago, a friend of mine had a dream where she gave birth to an alien baby that was wrapped up in a head of lettuce like a cabbage patch kid. but in her dream, it was totally normal and all she could think was "you're weird, leaf baby, but i love you." that's pretty much what i thought of the show.
the opening act was the girl from the ring*
who is now apparently going by the name 'tickly feather.'
*not really, its a metaphor.
tonight! science friday!
tomorrow! house of leaves!
thursday! portland pop!
the future! wide open!
the opening act was the girl from the ring*
who is now apparently going by the name 'tickly feather.'
*not really, its a metaphor.
tonight! science friday!
tomorrow! house of leaves!
thursday! portland pop!
the future! wide open!
needle in the hay
my job is moving to baltimore in february. yep, it looks as though. crabcakes and homocide, here we come.
to add insult to injury, i'm going to be out of town next weekend and will miss - for the second time - blitzen trapper at the rnr hotel. i'll be in vegas, at a wedding. i'll in fact be a bridesmaid and have been informed this requires making a toast. i'm thinking of singing, or maybe doing a mime, or using semaphore. i hate myself.
the only things holding me back from the ledge are my ticket to animal collective tomorrow night and this. and booze, duh.
overheard in dc
at velvet lounge, Saturday night.
patron: (pointing) what's that beer there with the jesus on it?
bartender: its a candle.
me: snap!
i love how no matter what day it is or how packed velvet lounge is, there are always two open seats at the bar. and they have $2 Schlitz everyday. what else is there really?
patron: (pointing) what's that beer there with the jesus on it?
bartender: its a candle.
me: snap!
i love how no matter what day it is or how packed velvet lounge is, there are always two open seats at the bar. and they have $2 Schlitz everyday. what else is there really?
bye bye love
happy (albeit dry and a bit bland) mexican pastries. fuck me, i'd rather die than go back to DC.
ridin dirty
just returned to san francisco from camping in northern cali, a little frozen and dirtier than a pile of dirt that sat out in the dirt all day. but it was worth it. hiked through the Caribou Wilderness (swear to god) and swam in a pool heated by natural hotsprings at Drakesbad Guest Ranch in Lassen National Park, where i worked summers in college. we went back to relive the magic (read=guzzle whisky) and it looked like this.
sludge-covered lake at sunset
canoe we used to get drunk and sleep in on sludge-covered lake
deer in beautiful meadow
and i accidentally deleted the pics from the caribou wilderness (ha!) which involved gay asian cowboys and pitbulls in tshirts. you'll just have to trust me.
sludge-covered lake at sunset
canoe we used to get drunk and sleep in on sludge-covered lake
deer in beautiful meadow
and i accidentally deleted the pics from the caribou wilderness (ha!) which involved gay asian cowboys and pitbulls in tshirts. you'll just have to trust me.
on a mission for them greens
vacay starts tomorrow. i go to san francisco for a few days, then to chico to pick up friends, then northern cali around lassen national park to camp and fuck shit up with bears and hotsprings and nature. i'm also renting a car, which is my favorite thing of all time. the last two times i got a neon yellow and then a neon orange chevy cobalt. this time i'm hoping for the neon green to round out the 2 fast 2 furious trinity. and if all goes well, i expect to be drunk from about 5 minutes from now until next thursday, so will likely not post much in between. fuckinay.
crabs, pt 2
here's the unmistakable evidence (from Cantler's):
4 dozen filthy crabs covered in Old Bay, ordered.
more crabs.
nooo, ur dooin it wrong!
4 dozen filthy crabs covered in Old Bay, cracked, gutted, eaten.
more crab filth.
then i got gelato.
from left to right: mine, not mine. in you, bammas.
4 dozen filthy crabs covered in Old Bay, ordered.
more crabs.
nooo, ur dooin it wrong!
4 dozen filthy crabs covered in Old Bay, cracked, gutted, eaten.
more crab filth.
then i got gelato.
from left to right: mine, not mine. in you, bammas.
crabs crabs crabs
this week sucked. i got back from brooklyn and my boss called everyone into the conference room and told us the organization is moving to baltimore. kaboom. the rest of the week i spent picking the pieces of my brain up from where they landed after the explosion and thinking about updating my resume. honestly, besides low rent, what possible benefit could baltimore offer? i think we all know who the loser in the "does-baltimore-suck-more-than-DC" game is. i'm not even taking votes. the answer is yes. bmore does suck more.
to celebrate the end of summer (and my career), i'm going to annapolis today with friends to (not) eat crabs. since i don't eat fish, i will be sitting with my beer and corn on the cob and scowling intensely, plotting my next diabolical move. talk about feeling crabby (yuck yuck).
i also hope we have time to make a stop by this Italian Cafe for gelato that comes highly recommended. ima need this week to be over... now.
to celebrate the end of summer (and my career), i'm going to annapolis today with friends to (not) eat crabs. since i don't eat fish, i will be sitting with my beer and corn on the cob and scowling intensely, plotting my next diabolical move. talk about feeling crabby (yuck yuck).
i also hope we have time to make a stop by this Italian Cafe for gelato that comes highly recommended. ima need this week to be over... now.
like butta
Yesterday, a friend and i had mid-afternoon lunch at Tom's Restaurant in Prospect Heights. We chose a table "outside" in the annex that's really an air-conditioned patio with no outlet to the real outside whatsoever. Before we had even sat down, they gave us those little moist towlettes that come in the waxy paper pouches, and a man wielding tongs and a basket of cookies thrust a chocolate chip and a pecan sandy each into our flustered hands. Not that i'm complaining, shove a cookie in my mouth before i've had my coffee and you're really doing me a favor. Anyway, i had banana nut pancakes that came with syrup and three different kinds of flavored butter. I think they were peach, strawberry - with big chunks of fruit mixed in - and a cinnamony one that tasted like cake batter. I was this close to greasing the inside of my purse to take them home. While i regret not trying the egg cream, everything was delish and the decor was cute, replete with plastic flowers and deck furniture kitch. The best part of dining experience was the warning upon leaving from the proprietor (Tom?), with regard to the impending West Indian Carnival taking place in the hood this weekend - to "be careful." Safety first i guess.
this is not my beautiful wife
I’m writing from the DC2NY bus on my way up to Brooklyn for Labor Day. The bus has Internet, its pretty cool. Apparently we’re also supposed to get a complimentary cookie and beverage, but these have yet to materialize. The bus does, however, have a DVD player and a copy of “Firehouse Dog” that no one – in the world – should ever have to watch.
Despite these setbacks, I’m stoked to get out of Dodge for a couple days. This week has seen passage of three events that I feel warrant some diversion:
Number 1, Thursday was my two-year anniversary of moving to DC. Without making any cheeseball, “long strange trip” musings, I’ll just say that while I’m glad I moved away from Portland when I did, the jury’s still out on DC. I’m white. I’m liberal, and I work for a non-profit. I make (way) less than $50,000 per year. What exactly am I doing here?
Number 2, I registered to take a GRE prep class. This theoretically means I plan to go back to school. I feel old and dumb and poor.
Number 3, I got a blackberry. My work didn’t get me a blackberry. I got it of my own free accord. More so, I was really excited to get it. I remember when (cue “long strange trip” theme) people started showing up on my college campus with cell phones and everyone was like “eeeeeew, corporate America, omygod, gross!” (I also remember referencing the Matrix in one of my AP American History essays as one of those watershed moments after which nothing would be the same – I got a 2). The times, they change.
All this is to say, am I a douchebag? Things to ponder. Happy Labor Day.
Despite these setbacks, I’m stoked to get out of Dodge for a couple days. This week has seen passage of three events that I feel warrant some diversion:
Number 1, Thursday was my two-year anniversary of moving to DC. Without making any cheeseball, “long strange trip” musings, I’ll just say that while I’m glad I moved away from Portland when I did, the jury’s still out on DC. I’m white. I’m liberal, and I work for a non-profit. I make (way) less than $50,000 per year. What exactly am I doing here?
Number 2, I registered to take a GRE prep class. This theoretically means I plan to go back to school. I feel old and dumb and poor.
Number 3, I got a blackberry. My work didn’t get me a blackberry. I got it of my own free accord. More so, I was really excited to get it. I remember when (cue “long strange trip” theme) people started showing up on my college campus with cell phones and everyone was like “eeeeeew, corporate America, omygod, gross!” (I also remember referencing the Matrix in one of my AP American History essays as one of those watershed moments after which nothing would be the same – I got a 2). The times, they change.
All this is to say, am I a douchebag? Things to ponder. Happy Labor Day.
a day at the beach
I went to a show at the RNR Hotel last night and didn’t recognize a single hipster. I did, however, smell incense burning and even spotted a couple flowy skirts mixed in with the high-waisted jeans and bottlecap glasses. It was surprisingly refreshing.
Despite momentary cringes and bouts of narcolepsy, I noticed each of the bands' singers had really interesting voices. And because this is how my brain works, I will now give you my highly subjective, mostly worthless low down:
Tiny Vipers = Delores O'Riorden+Cat Power. I felt her pain. then ran away.
Papercuts = Stereolab+Brian Jonestown Massacre+Peter, Bjorn, and John. My friend and I actually bought both their albums, one each with intent to trade. The last time I bought a CD at a show, it was 1995 at some hick festival in kansas city and this Zendik crazy blindsided me.
Beach House = Grace Slick.
Singing "mary had a little lamb" from the bottom of a well. backwards.
She even looks like her kinda.
Sundays rule.
Despite momentary cringes and bouts of narcolepsy, I noticed each of the bands' singers had really interesting voices. And because this is how my brain works, I will now give you my highly subjective, mostly worthless low down:
Tiny Vipers = Delores O'Riorden+Cat Power. I felt her pain. then ran away.
Papercuts = Stereolab+Brian Jonestown Massacre+Peter, Bjorn, and John. My friend and I actually bought both their albums, one each with intent to trade. The last time I bought a CD at a show, it was 1995 at some hick festival in kansas city and this Zendik crazy blindsided me.
Beach House = Grace Slick.
Singing "mary had a little lamb" from the bottom of a well. backwards.
She even looks like her kinda.
Sundays rule.
they call him the bodhisattva
So I went back to KC this weekend and toured the new Bloch building of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Its really a gorgeous addition and adds about 3 times as much space, mostly underground and built into the side of the earth. I particularly enjoyed Kiki Smith's zodiac-as-blanket/chess-board, whose description began with "Constellation is a meditation on the infinity of space and our human desire to know and tame it – to make it our own." Mom and I nearly peed ourselves over that one.
When the tour was over, I scampered away to the old building to explore all my dorky childhood favorites. That biblical figure in red and fur was Caravaggio's St. John the Baptist in the Wilderness.
Also, Church's Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, which is giant in real life, always impressed me.
Then of course, the Chinese room. With this guy.
All I could think of was Patrick Swayze in Point Break, preaching, "They only live to get radical, so they'll never appreciate the spiritual side." That's culture.
When the tour was over, I scampered away to the old building to explore all my dorky childhood favorites. That biblical figure in red and fur was Caravaggio's St. John the Baptist in the Wilderness.
Also, Church's Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, which is giant in real life, always impressed me.
Then of course, the Chinese room. With this guy.
All I could think of was Patrick Swayze in Point Break, preaching, "They only live to get radical, so they'll never appreciate the spiritual side." That's culture.
going going back back
This weekend i'm going home to see the new addition to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art with the whole fam to celebrate my grandfather's 89th birthday. I have a special warm and fuzzy place for the Nelson in a corner of the airless frozen blackspace where my heart should be. My grandfather used to be a docent there for like a million years and would take me on special tours. We'd stand beneath the ornately inlaid ceiling they raped from some ancient chinese temple and brought, tile by tile, to the middle of kansas and count the dragons. I don't really remember much else. They also have a semi-famous painting of some biblical figure cast in dramatic (chiaroscuro? i made that up) lighting with a deep red, fox-hair lined robe that was hot shit for some reason. Now they built a whole new wing, don't know what's in it, i'll find out.
bland of horses
Also saw Band of Horses at the 930 Club last night. After daintily gorging myself on butter leaf lettuce, fresh pesto fettuccine, and carrot cake w/ cream cheese frosting, I waddled my way from Georgetown to U St in some of the steamiest evening heat of the summer. It blew, but I was glad I’d had a chance to walk off a bit of my food-pregnancy before standing in close proximity to other humans, lest I hurl my delicious $30.07 fare on their shoes.
The show was sold out, but since I’m the bomb and got mad connex (shut up Abby), a friend and I were on the list. Which was only good for 2 out of 3 friends, and, unable to scalp one more, 2 gave 3 his ticket and gentlemanly skulked home to drink more Shiner bock and rejoin a game of Texas hold-em. Good man.
The show kind of sucked anyway. I don’t really know the band all that well, except for that one song and a couple others I’d heard on mixes and Pandora. But a lot of it sounded the same: vocals verging on twangy with really loud guitars that would build and build until I could’ve sworn they were going to launch into lightning crashes. The highpoint was the second song of the encore, which they should have ended with. It was some cover that sounded a bit like if Skynnard did “you can’t always get what you want.” Low points were the meatheads directly behind us, yelling at the singer, “I love your beard!” which devolved quickly into “I love beer! Wooooooo!”
I have higher hopes for the upcoming:
Le Loup, Bellman Barker, and others @ RNR hotel – Friday, August 10
Georgie James, Perfect Souvenir @ Fort Reno – Monday, August 13
Bonde do Rolle, Plastic Little @ the Cat – Tuesday, September 11
The show was sold out, but since I’m the bomb and got mad connex (shut up Abby), a friend and I were on the list. Which was only good for 2 out of 3 friends, and, unable to scalp one more, 2 gave 3 his ticket and gentlemanly skulked home to drink more Shiner bock and rejoin a game of Texas hold-em. Good man.
The show kind of sucked anyway. I don’t really know the band all that well, except for that one song and a couple others I’d heard on mixes and Pandora. But a lot of it sounded the same: vocals verging on twangy with really loud guitars that would build and build until I could’ve sworn they were going to launch into lightning crashes. The highpoint was the second song of the encore, which they should have ended with. It was some cover that sounded a bit like if Skynnard did “you can’t always get what you want.” Low points were the meatheads directly behind us, yelling at the singer, “I love your beard!” which devolved quickly into “I love beer! Wooooooo!”
I have higher hopes for the upcoming:
Le Loup, Bellman Barker, and others @ RNR hotel – Friday, August 10
Georgie James, Perfect Souvenir @ Fort Reno – Monday, August 13
Bonde do Rolle, Plastic Little @ the Cat – Tuesday, September 11
The empire waist strikes back
It’s Restaurant Week and I am officially getting fat. But it’s cool because I’ve discovered the secret to stuffing your face whilst still looking chic (what else is there really). Two words: empire. waist. y’all. (ok three).
Really, restaurant week is the best. I mean, when else can I get a normally $60+ meal for half that and rub elbows with DC-ites I’d normally never get close to (read=out-right avoid). I’ll be doing both this week, with reservations, one already last night, at Agraria, as well as on Thursday at the Monocle for lunch.
I am especially stoked for Thursday to see if I recognize anyone old and white and governmenty and possibly overhear a bit of palm-greasing at the number one good ol’ boys’ club on the Hill. My roomie and I, who both work in policy/political research mind you, are going to wear our sluttyest rompers and spend the afternoon shooting gin gimlets, laughing shrilly, and eating steak with our hands. At least that’s what I’d like to do if life were at all fair, and I didn’t have to work both before and after lunch.
Were that you lasted always, sweet, sweet restaurant week.
Couldn’t quite get your shit together in time? Fear not, some places are extending the deal into next week. Details here.
Really, restaurant week is the best. I mean, when else can I get a normally $60+ meal for half that and rub elbows with DC-ites I’d normally never get close to (read=out-right avoid). I’ll be doing both this week, with reservations, one already last night, at Agraria, as well as on Thursday at the Monocle for lunch.
I am especially stoked for Thursday to see if I recognize anyone old and white and governmenty and possibly overhear a bit of palm-greasing at the number one good ol’ boys’ club on the Hill. My roomie and I, who both work in policy/political research mind you, are going to wear our sluttyest rompers and spend the afternoon shooting gin gimlets, laughing shrilly, and eating steak with our hands. At least that’s what I’d like to do if life were at all fair, and I didn’t have to work both before and after lunch.
Were that you lasted always, sweet, sweet restaurant week.
Couldn’t quite get your shit together in time? Fear not, some places are extending the deal into next week. Details here.
i would. die 4. prince.
seriously girlfriend, if you didn't get enough prince this week (and u knowz i di-int), you best get yourself to the Cat this Saturday for DJ Dredd's Prince vs. Outkast dance partay. Its exactly what it sounds like, and these are always fun. I went to Prince vs. Pharell on my birthday this year (when was that Abby? oh, you know, always) and, to my surprise, Pharell killed it hands down. But then, including everything he's produced and only marginally contributed vocals to, its easy to see why. But its not really a competition because, lets face it, with a full night of alternating Prince and Outkast tracks, everybody wins. And by "wins" i mean grinds up on you like a purple velvet-wearing, john-waters mustachioed, 4foot11 dog in heat. yeeuh.
when doves die, or, when fatty cries (whatever)
Well my weekend was pretty awesome, especially the bit where I ate my way through Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn. I. am. friggin. full. y’all. So instead of venturing out tonight to any number of way more fun things to do, I’m going to be gettin all hot and sweaty (huhuhuh, perv). It’s become a battle of wills between my fat ass, Bally’s, and the effing Circulator during rush hour (god curse you), but I’m going to the gym tonight if it’s the last thing I do. Even though a part of me is dying inside that I’m going to miss the entire run of Purple Rain at the AFI. But you go. Sing along to “the Beautiful Ones” as you seductively caress the thigh of the person sitting next you. I’ll be fine, really, someday. Last chances are tonight at 9:10pm and Thursday 7:00pm. (Why don’t you just go Thursday Abby? Because I’m going to Fort Reno for the Aquarium and Benjy Ferree and ENDLESS CAKE, that’s why, smartass). If you’re not so into Prince (wtf?!), you could check out the gentle croonings of Georgie James' sometime bassist, and Bar Pilar’s most huggable sometimes bartender, Paul Michel tonight at the Cat. And if you’re still not satisfied with those choices, then you can go poison some birds or something, weirdo. I wash my hands of you.
magick, thou hast ravished me
I have a problem with theater. Namely, I hate it. I like the idea of theater, and I’d like to not hate it, but I just don’t know how. Every once in a while I’ll give it another try, hoping that something will click and I’ll come out with a newfound appreciation for the arts, a glimpse of its raison d’etre, a deeper insight into the soul of man and beast. Usually I end up in an uncontrollable rage.
I remember liking a production of Sweeney Todd that my high school put on. And I saw The Tempest at the Old Vic with Derek Jacobi as Prospero, which was good as well. And I totally bawled at Rent on Broadway (so lame, I know). Aside from these, I can’t think of other examples of theater I’ve genuinely enjoyed.
Like last night, for instance, I went to see the Pabst and Popcorn Hour presentation of the “Tragedy of Dr. Faustus” at the DC Center for the Arts as part of the Capitol Fringe Festival. Going in, it already had two strikes against it: A) the theater bit, and B) the popcorn bit. I also hate popcorn. In high school I worked at the AMC Town Center in Leawood, KS, enduring daily scaldings at the hands of a demonic popcorn maker. You had to watch that fucker like the boiler at the Overlook; it would creep, and creep, and then explode, and you’d be covered in boiling oil, screaming and running in circles as your face dripped off. Even now, the smell of popcorn always makes me a little ill.
But I was willing to forgive all this just to sit in a darkened room and drink all the PBR I wanted for $10. I have to admit, I laughed at times, like when a demon impersonates Dubya, or during the various references to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But most of the time I spent shielding my eyes and twitching. My problem is that I get intensely embarrassed for the actors. It’s the same reason I can’t watch Curb Your Enthusiasm. Larry David is hilarious, I know this. But I just cringe and want to yell out loud, “Stop it! You’re making everyone uncomfortable!” (Does anyone else have this problem?)
Most everyone else seemed to be having a good time, however, so I would half-recommend it on that account. There are only a few more shows scheduled for this weekend, so catch it while you can. For more info, visit http://www.damnedfaust.com/.
If, however, like me, you’d rather eat a steaming pile of dick cancer than go to the theater, you might check out the following going on around town:
Rock Prom with the Dance Party @ the Cat – Friday
Garage Sale @ Arena Stage (a theater, egads! don’t worry, no performance involved) – Saturday
d.c. space benefit @ 9:30 club – Sunday
I’ll be in NYC, avoiding theater at all costs.
I remember liking a production of Sweeney Todd that my high school put on. And I saw The Tempest at the Old Vic with Derek Jacobi as Prospero, which was good as well. And I totally bawled at Rent on Broadway (so lame, I know). Aside from these, I can’t think of other examples of theater I’ve genuinely enjoyed.
Like last night, for instance, I went to see the Pabst and Popcorn Hour presentation of the “Tragedy of Dr. Faustus” at the DC Center for the Arts as part of the Capitol Fringe Festival. Going in, it already had two strikes against it: A) the theater bit, and B) the popcorn bit. I also hate popcorn. In high school I worked at the AMC Town Center in Leawood, KS, enduring daily scaldings at the hands of a demonic popcorn maker. You had to watch that fucker like the boiler at the Overlook; it would creep, and creep, and then explode, and you’d be covered in boiling oil, screaming and running in circles as your face dripped off. Even now, the smell of popcorn always makes me a little ill.
But I was willing to forgive all this just to sit in a darkened room and drink all the PBR I wanted for $10. I have to admit, I laughed at times, like when a demon impersonates Dubya, or during the various references to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But most of the time I spent shielding my eyes and twitching. My problem is that I get intensely embarrassed for the actors. It’s the same reason I can’t watch Curb Your Enthusiasm. Larry David is hilarious, I know this. But I just cringe and want to yell out loud, “Stop it! You’re making everyone uncomfortable!” (Does anyone else have this problem?)
Most everyone else seemed to be having a good time, however, so I would half-recommend it on that account. There are only a few more shows scheduled for this weekend, so catch it while you can. For more info, visit http://www.damnedfaust.com/.
If, however, like me, you’d rather eat a steaming pile of dick cancer than go to the theater, you might check out the following going on around town:
Rock Prom with the Dance Party @ the Cat – Friday
Garage Sale @ Arena Stage (a theater, egads! don’t worry, no performance involved) – Saturday
d.c. space benefit @ 9:30 club – Sunday
I’ll be in NYC, avoiding theater at all costs.
up in ur beltway, dishin ur insidr memwarz
Saw Bob Novak speak at Politics and Prose last night. I’d been to one of these talks at P&P just once before to see Laura Sessions Stepp rail against the young women of today. After sitting through an hour and a half of condescending tripe, in which she nearly labeled all unmarried females under-30 who date casually as sluts, I stepped to the microphone and tore her a new one.
With hopes of a similar reaming, I ventured up Connecticut Ave to see what the Prince of Darkness had to say. Like before, the place was brimming with old people. Upper NW DC seems a refuge for senior social clubs that, with naught to do but wait for death, shuttle their withered, scaly bodies from cultural event to stodgy cultural event, prolonging their subtle slide into the grave. And they took all the goddamn seats, forcing my companion and I to wobble on the edge of a book display and watch (with satisfaction) as they got up every 10 minutes to empty their colostomy bags.
Apropos, Novak is one old motherfucker. I was flipping through his 600-page book while waiting for the event to start, and there was a photo retrospective in the middle, like when a book gets turned into a major motion picture and they stuff all the promo pictures in the center spine. If Bob Novak was a major motion picture, he’d be the 2000 Year Old Man. Or Jurassic Park. As in he looks like a velociraptor, squawking and flailing his scraggly little claws at the end of his tiny dino-arms. Eh, I kind of secretly love Jurassic Park. I digress.
He read excerpts of his book, detailing how each successive president, save Reagan, ultimately failed as a person and a national figure, ending each point with “and that’s the first time you’ll find that printed anywhere,” as if anyone gave a shit. Things got slightly more interesting with the Q&A, except not a single person asked about the Plame affair. I mean, come on DC! Its Bob Novak! He’s right there! Take a shot! So I poked and prodded and promised my companion a beer if he’d ask how fighting with Zappa to censor dirty records fits with Novak’s newfound love for freedom of speech since he got mixed up with Joe Wilson and the whole crazy bunch. So he stood in line and just as he got up to the mic, the old bag who owns the place (apologies if that’s your mom) shut it down. Then, in a poof of smoke, Novak flapped away to the sound of the flying monkey theme from the Wizard of Oz, and we went next door to Comet to drink PBR and stuff ourselves with pizza like the young folks do.
Since I’ll be missing everything fun in DC this weekend while I sweat it out back home in Kans-ass shitty, you must do for me this thing:
Stare blankly at art/just drink and look hip at the Hirshhorn After Hours – Friday.
Enjoy FREE BEER AND FRIES at Belga Caf̩ РSaturday. Sigh, this one hurts most.
Feed your inner dark hippie with Blitzen Trapper @ the Rock n’ Roll Hotel – Sunday.
With hopes of a similar reaming, I ventured up Connecticut Ave to see what the Prince of Darkness had to say. Like before, the place was brimming with old people. Upper NW DC seems a refuge for senior social clubs that, with naught to do but wait for death, shuttle their withered, scaly bodies from cultural event to stodgy cultural event, prolonging their subtle slide into the grave. And they took all the goddamn seats, forcing my companion and I to wobble on the edge of a book display and watch (with satisfaction) as they got up every 10 minutes to empty their colostomy bags.
Apropos, Novak is one old motherfucker. I was flipping through his 600-page book while waiting for the event to start, and there was a photo retrospective in the middle, like when a book gets turned into a major motion picture and they stuff all the promo pictures in the center spine. If Bob Novak was a major motion picture, he’d be the 2000 Year Old Man. Or Jurassic Park. As in he looks like a velociraptor, squawking and flailing his scraggly little claws at the end of his tiny dino-arms. Eh, I kind of secretly love Jurassic Park. I digress.
He read excerpts of his book, detailing how each successive president, save Reagan, ultimately failed as a person and a national figure, ending each point with “and that’s the first time you’ll find that printed anywhere,” as if anyone gave a shit. Things got slightly more interesting with the Q&A, except not a single person asked about the Plame affair. I mean, come on DC! Its Bob Novak! He’s right there! Take a shot! So I poked and prodded and promised my companion a beer if he’d ask how fighting with Zappa to censor dirty records fits with Novak’s newfound love for freedom of speech since he got mixed up with Joe Wilson and the whole crazy bunch. So he stood in line and just as he got up to the mic, the old bag who owns the place (apologies if that’s your mom) shut it down. Then, in a poof of smoke, Novak flapped away to the sound of the flying monkey theme from the Wizard of Oz, and we went next door to Comet to drink PBR and stuff ourselves with pizza like the young folks do.
Since I’ll be missing everything fun in DC this weekend while I sweat it out back home in Kans-ass shitty, you must do for me this thing:
Stare blankly at art/just drink and look hip at the Hirshhorn After Hours – Friday.
Enjoy FREE BEER AND FRIES at Belga Caf̩ РSaturday. Sigh, this one hurts most.
Feed your inner dark hippie with Blitzen Trapper @ the Rock n’ Roll Hotel – Sunday.
dots and loups
Sometimes I would give a pound of flesh to lie on my couch with my cat on my chest, paint my nails, eat an entire pizza, and watch season 2 of Laguna beach straight through. Such was the mood of this intrepid blogger yesterday, when after a Tuesday marathon of CalTort, Ratatouille, and yellow fever, I achieved only nominal shut-eye. Result? Me=walking dead at work next day and seconds after 5pm, plummeting into much needed evening nap.
But then I got a grip and went out again. An attractive friend coaxed me into meeting at DC9 for the DCist’s “Unbuckled 6” show featuring the XYZ affair and local upstarts, le loup. I won’t go into detail, as you can read and view DCist’s take here. My two cents are this: both bands are really, really good. I spent the night standing on top of a booth, gingerly bouncing, and playing the “which-band-does-this-band-sound-like” game. The XYZ affair was easier; answer = Weezer. Wait, no, Queen. Shit. Le loup proved even more difficult, and after many hesitant mental comparisons (there’s 7 people and like 20 instruments similar to Architecture in Helsinki, the one dude sounds kinda like Ben Gibbard, etc.), I caved and acknowledged their sound is all their own. They’re also cute, earning them the “icing/cake” award in my book of things I like in a band (and life, duh). It was fun.
U can haz fun too?
Tonight: get yer pretty on at Cusp then check out Mary Timony and Co. at Fort Reno.
Friday: piss yourself at the AFI’s midnight screening of the original ‘Friday the 13th’
Saturday: Mos Def at 930 club. Just sold out, but I got mine bitcheeeez! Don’t hate cuz you ain’t! (shut up Abby). Also, Bastille Day parties all over.
Sunday: soothe your head with hangover brunch somewhere delicious like Bourbon or Levante’s.
Ready go.
But then I got a grip and went out again. An attractive friend coaxed me into meeting at DC9 for the DCist’s “Unbuckled 6” show featuring the XYZ affair and local upstarts, le loup. I won’t go into detail, as you can read and view DCist’s take here. My two cents are this: both bands are really, really good. I spent the night standing on top of a booth, gingerly bouncing, and playing the “which-band-does-this-band-sound-like” game. The XYZ affair was easier; answer = Weezer. Wait, no, Queen. Shit. Le loup proved even more difficult, and after many hesitant mental comparisons (there’s 7 people and like 20 instruments similar to Architecture in Helsinki, the one dude sounds kinda like Ben Gibbard, etc.), I caved and acknowledged their sound is all their own. They’re also cute, earning them the “icing/cake” award in my book of things I like in a band (and life, duh). It was fun.
U can haz fun too?
Tonight: get yer pretty on at Cusp then check out Mary Timony and Co. at Fort Reno.
Friday: piss yourself at the AFI’s midnight screening of the original ‘Friday the 13th’
Saturday: Mos Def at 930 club. Just sold out, but I got mine bitcheeeez! Don’t hate cuz you ain’t! (shut up Abby). Also, Bastille Day parties all over.
Sunday: soothe your head with hangover brunch somewhere delicious like Bourbon or Levante’s.
Ready go.
seeing stars (kinda)
Went to see Mickey Avalon at the 9:30 Club last night. Were probably the oldest people there (again). Doorman asked to check my bag and assured me “I only have to check ID if you’re 21 or older.” Thanks, dipshit.
The club was about a third full, mostly prepubescent douchebags in an array of popped collars and brightly colored tube dresses. And really structured hair, like, super shellac-ed, the kind that stands up in front with zebra highlights. Upon seeing us, a friend working the food counter downstairs remarked, “You guys came for this shit?” Not a promising start to the evening.
Too bad it was the best show I’d been to in a long time. Mickey Avalon is this white boy from LA who hangs around cory kennedy types and does sort of rap/rock, but not the numetal Kid Rock kind. Primarily, he raps about A) his dick; B) bulimic girls he sleeps with; C) cocaine. And he’s joined on stage by these two smokin’ hot chicks in skin tight, black leotards and fishnets and red, patent leather stripper heels who slink around the stage smoking and bending over for the crowd’s benefit. Some choice lyrics include: “my dick don’t fit down the chimney/ yo dick look like a kid from the phillipines,” or, “somethin’ smells fishy and I don’t know what/ but I got a hunch its ya lady.” I know, right? Head. Exploding.
We grabbed a spot against the railing upstairs way on the left side of the stage (the better to hate on everyone, obvs). This proved providential, seeing that who sidles up next to me in an oversized Mickey Avalon tee, cargo shorts, and unlaced skate shoes? Simon Rex. For the uninitiated, Rex was a Calvin Klein model turned MTV VJ turned “pornography personality” turned absolute joke. And now, apparently, he’s rapping as part of the opening “act” on Mickey Avalon’s tour. His stage name is Dirt Nasty. Dirt. Nasty. Right.
Being the amateur starfucker I am, I rack my brain for a casual intro, like, “which one of the twins are you banging?” or “I loved you on the Grind.” Before I can speak, he oozes back downstairs to join the others on stage for a rousing rendition of, what else, “My Dick,” to close out the show. After which I’m pretty sure they went backstage to do blow off the ass of some 14-year old.
Recommendations for upcoming chances to dryhump a pseudo-celebrity:
Smashing Pumpkins tonight at 9:30 Club. May have to do more than that just to get a ticket since they sold out seemingly before they went on sale.
Mos Def at 9:30 Club Saturday. Nuf said.
Prince vs. Outkast dance party at the Cat, August 4. Neither will actually be there, but I will, molesting someone to “erotic city.”
The club was about a third full, mostly prepubescent douchebags in an array of popped collars and brightly colored tube dresses. And really structured hair, like, super shellac-ed, the kind that stands up in front with zebra highlights. Upon seeing us, a friend working the food counter downstairs remarked, “You guys came for this shit?” Not a promising start to the evening.
Too bad it was the best show I’d been to in a long time. Mickey Avalon is this white boy from LA who hangs around cory kennedy types and does sort of rap/rock, but not the numetal Kid Rock kind. Primarily, he raps about A) his dick; B) bulimic girls he sleeps with; C) cocaine. And he’s joined on stage by these two smokin’ hot chicks in skin tight, black leotards and fishnets and red, patent leather stripper heels who slink around the stage smoking and bending over for the crowd’s benefit. Some choice lyrics include: “my dick don’t fit down the chimney/ yo dick look like a kid from the phillipines,” or, “somethin’ smells fishy and I don’t know what/ but I got a hunch its ya lady.” I know, right? Head. Exploding.
We grabbed a spot against the railing upstairs way on the left side of the stage (the better to hate on everyone, obvs). This proved providential, seeing that who sidles up next to me in an oversized Mickey Avalon tee, cargo shorts, and unlaced skate shoes? Simon Rex. For the uninitiated, Rex was a Calvin Klein model turned MTV VJ turned “pornography personality” turned absolute joke. And now, apparently, he’s rapping as part of the opening “act” on Mickey Avalon’s tour. His stage name is Dirt Nasty. Dirt. Nasty. Right.
Being the amateur starfucker I am, I rack my brain for a casual intro, like, “which one of the twins are you banging?” or “I loved you on the Grind.” Before I can speak, he oozes back downstairs to join the others on stage for a rousing rendition of, what else, “My Dick,” to close out the show. After which I’m pretty sure they went backstage to do blow off the ass of some 14-year old.
Recommendations for upcoming chances to dryhump a pseudo-celebrity:
Smashing Pumpkins tonight at 9:30 Club. May have to do more than that just to get a ticket since they sold out seemingly before they went on sale.
Mos Def at 9:30 Club Saturday. Nuf said.
Prince vs. Outkast dance party at the Cat, August 4. Neither will actually be there, but I will, molesting someone to “erotic city.”
its called speedstick. its not expensive.
I have about half a brain synapse firing spasmodically and so will not be telling tale of any shenanigans of late. I will, however, be crawling on hand and knee into bed and deep unconsciousness as soon as possible. While I’m doing that, y’all should do the following and tell me how it was:
See the Fiery Furnaces tonight at the Cat. Apparently they suck live, but who cares. They’re adorable and the brother looks like John Mayer and Bruce Campbell’s indie love child.
Or, if you’re not so much the leaving-your-computer-and-interacting-with-other-humans type, watch this viral video and tell me if it’s offensive or not. Cuz I think its pretty fucking hilarious.
See the Fiery Furnaces tonight at the Cat. Apparently they suck live, but who cares. They’re adorable and the brother looks like John Mayer and Bruce Campbell’s indie love child.
Or, if you’re not so much the leaving-your-computer-and-interacting-with-other-humans type, watch this viral video and tell me if it’s offensive or not. Cuz I think its pretty fucking hilarious.
freedom isn't free but this shit is
Fort Reno last night was awesome. I’d been forewarned that the lineup of former Fugazi members would bring a world of pain, and not in the punk rock sense. Indeed, Joe Lally played seemingly the same dirgey number over and over, only punctuated with periodic groaning and twinges of tuneless sax. The Evens started off on a slightly more upbeat note, with some songs that I might have called “power punk pop,” lest someone reach through my computer and punch me in the face. But around the hour and a half mark, Ian MacKaye started preaching and I lost it. “This song is about frat boys who just trash the place they live in and leave it to us to clean up after… oh, and I might be talking about the US government” (commence seated head-banging). My eyes rolled so far back in my head that I actually went blind and passed out.
Now, you may be thinking, “Abby, that sounds terrible. In fact, I’m considering making the trek out there just so I can napalm the shit out of that fort, ensuring no other boring twats can play ever again.” But I’ll stop you right there. What makes Fort Reno awesome is not the musicians, nor the sweaty summer evening air, nor the mosquitoes nor dirty grass nor lack of port-a-potties. It’s these two things:
1. Babies. There is nothing cuter than punk-rock families with punk-rock babies. Moms with full sleeves of ink carrying fuzzy-haired toddlers in camo onesies. Little girls in pink summer dresses chasing pit bulls with spiked collars in circles in the grass. At one point a group of them climbed up on the speakers behind the stage and were jumping up and down and waving at the crowd like tiny little groupies. It was like Pancake Mountain came to Tenleytown. Sigh.
2. Slutty high school kids. Wilson high was fully representing last night with teenagers sitting in packs clumsily pawing at each other. The girls had stringy hair and shirts five sizes too small that barely covered their navels. The boys wore even tighter black bike pants and ironic tees from PacSun. And they couldn’t fucking sit still, like there were rainbow parties going on in the back.
My girlfriends and I reclined on our blanket, quietly judging them and thanking sweet baby Jesus we grew out of that phase of horny awkwardness. And to prove it, we made tracks to Bar Pilar to flirt with the cute boys behind the bar and talk about makeup. Take that high schoolers.
Check out more local DC awesomeness twice weekly FREE at Fort Reno through August.
Oh, and if you don’t have plans for the holiday, take a look at these places to catch the fireworks. I strongly urge you NOT to go anywhere near the Mall unless you want to get caught in a clusterfuck of tourists. Happy 4th.
Now, you may be thinking, “Abby, that sounds terrible. In fact, I’m considering making the trek out there just so I can napalm the shit out of that fort, ensuring no other boring twats can play ever again.” But I’ll stop you right there. What makes Fort Reno awesome is not the musicians, nor the sweaty summer evening air, nor the mosquitoes nor dirty grass nor lack of port-a-potties. It’s these two things:
1. Babies. There is nothing cuter than punk-rock families with punk-rock babies. Moms with full sleeves of ink carrying fuzzy-haired toddlers in camo onesies. Little girls in pink summer dresses chasing pit bulls with spiked collars in circles in the grass. At one point a group of them climbed up on the speakers behind the stage and were jumping up and down and waving at the crowd like tiny little groupies. It was like Pancake Mountain came to Tenleytown. Sigh.
2. Slutty high school kids. Wilson high was fully representing last night with teenagers sitting in packs clumsily pawing at each other. The girls had stringy hair and shirts five sizes too small that barely covered their navels. The boys wore even tighter black bike pants and ironic tees from PacSun. And they couldn’t fucking sit still, like there were rainbow parties going on in the back.
My girlfriends and I reclined on our blanket, quietly judging them and thanking sweet baby Jesus we grew out of that phase of horny awkwardness. And to prove it, we made tracks to Bar Pilar to flirt with the cute boys behind the bar and talk about makeup. Take that high schoolers.
Check out more local DC awesomeness twice weekly FREE at Fort Reno through August.
Oh, and if you don’t have plans for the holiday, take a look at these places to catch the fireworks. I strongly urge you NOT to go anywhere near the Mall unless you want to get caught in a clusterfuck of tourists. Happy 4th.
Get coffee, fuck bitches
I’m in acute deadline hell. Not unlike having a baby, the panic attacks have been coming half-hourly like contractions. With my “Bat Mitzvah Party” playlist of guilty pleasures on repeat for the last week, I’ve probably listened to “Juicy” more times today than there are members in Junior M.A.F.I.A. All this is to say, I’ve done little else the last few days than cry in public and drink copious amounts of coffee. So while I could write about crying (just ask), coffee is much more delicious and doesn’t usually end with people glaring at you as snot runs off your face.
And so with the imminent closure of two of DC’s most beloved independent venues for drinking coffee and more (Sparky’s and Warehouse Next Door), a recap of good (by DC standards) coffee shops seems in order now more than ever. Here are some of my personal faves, all of which have free internet (good for the typing while sipping and weeping):
Big Bear Café: This just opened up a block from my house in Shaw and shares street space on Sunday mornings with the newly established Bloomingdale farmer’s market. Only gripes so far are intensely strong coffee (doesn’t change color with milk) and ubiquitous lite jazz on the stereo. I was about to congratulate a barista friend on Sunday for his good work changing up the music, but just as I opened my mouth, the owner abruptly switched off “California Love” and the fucking jazz started up again. So I cut her.
Ebenezer’s: This is near my work and convenient to folks near Union Station or the Senate side of the Hill. Owned by a church, they host special events like book signings and free dance classes sometimes. They also feature all fair trade coffee and these delicious little things called “magic bites,” which taste like almond joy crack and make me insane with pastry lust.
14 & U: At the corner of (guess where) 14th and U, NW, this is where, while drinking cocoa and eating homemade baklava on St. Paddy’s day, I first met crazy wandering Marc, a DC institution (Marc, not the coffee shop). Don’t worry, if you don’t know him, you will soon. Just look behind you.
Murky Coffee: One in Arlington and one near Eastern Market. The one in Arlington boasts a venue upstairs featuring periodic all-ages shows, including “Metal Night” this Wednesday that promises to fully rock.
Tryst: Can be kind of a meat market and internet is only free on weekdays, but the comfy couches and animal crackers that come with my chai still win me over. There’s also live jazz sometimes, and they have a full bar which is awesome when you feel like livening up your cocoa with a little rum. Or a lot.
Now back to work. whimper whimper.
And so with the imminent closure of two of DC’s most beloved independent venues for drinking coffee and more (Sparky’s and Warehouse Next Door), a recap of good (by DC standards) coffee shops seems in order now more than ever. Here are some of my personal faves, all of which have free internet (good for the typing while sipping and weeping):
Big Bear Café: This just opened up a block from my house in Shaw and shares street space on Sunday mornings with the newly established Bloomingdale farmer’s market. Only gripes so far are intensely strong coffee (doesn’t change color with milk) and ubiquitous lite jazz on the stereo. I was about to congratulate a barista friend on Sunday for his good work changing up the music, but just as I opened my mouth, the owner abruptly switched off “California Love” and the fucking jazz started up again. So I cut her.
Ebenezer’s: This is near my work and convenient to folks near Union Station or the Senate side of the Hill. Owned by a church, they host special events like book signings and free dance classes sometimes. They also feature all fair trade coffee and these delicious little things called “magic bites,” which taste like almond joy crack and make me insane with pastry lust.
14 & U: At the corner of (guess where) 14th and U, NW, this is where, while drinking cocoa and eating homemade baklava on St. Paddy’s day, I first met crazy wandering Marc, a DC institution (Marc, not the coffee shop). Don’t worry, if you don’t know him, you will soon. Just look behind you.
Murky Coffee: One in Arlington and one near Eastern Market. The one in Arlington boasts a venue upstairs featuring periodic all-ages shows, including “Metal Night” this Wednesday that promises to fully rock.
Tryst: Can be kind of a meat market and internet is only free on weekdays, but the comfy couches and animal crackers that come with my chai still win me over. There’s also live jazz sometimes, and they have a full bar which is awesome when you feel like livening up your cocoa with a little rum. Or a lot.
Now back to work. whimper whimper.
shorty what you drank
This week I had my one-year review at work, the anticipation of which took a few years off my life, but in the end, went better than expected. So much so that I, in fact, was promoted and given a raise ($5 roughly, but still). To celebrate, I put on my summery-est summer dress, rounded the troops, and headed to the basement of St Ex to listen to Motown and drink 40s of Old English until I couldn’t remember where I worked anymore. Woke up in a hedge in Rock Creek Park the next day and got fired. Kidding.
In related sure-fucked-myself-up-there news, my right foot really hurts. I don’t know what I did to it, but it feels like I might have a stress fracture? Bruised bone? Angina? Not a clue. A friend of mine got four free tickets to the Nats game Wed, and I had high hopes of sitting in the upper balcony, wearing my furs, smoking, drinking beer from plastic bottles, and bitching about how Guliani won’t get off my tip. Instead, I spent the night huddled behind the opposing team’s dugout, stealing peanuts from the guys next to us who kept leaving to get more nachos, and whining about my throbbing foot. I have no idea who won (or who they even played for that matter). I left at the 7th inning to hobble home and down half a bottle of Ibuprofen. Its not like I play sports or exercise (bah!), so how did this happen to me? Good thing I have a cushy desk job where I can convalesce while I work (aka=read Perez Hilton).
Anyway, dinner at Coppi’s last night took my mind off my infirmity for a while. This is the perfect date restaurant. We shared a bottle of organic Chianti (don’t remember which, it had a rooster on the neck) that was like heaven and had me on my ass before we’d finished the little plate of tomato-rubbed foccacia they give you. I ordered the Insalata di Spinachi Novelli with roasted red peppers instead of bacon, and we shared the Margherita pizza with fresh basil. Between the wood-burned smell of fresh bread and the Italian wine, the old-timey bicycle décor and the always flattering candle lighting, if you don’t want to have sex with your dinner partner after a meal at Coppi’s, there’s seriously something wrong with you.
Tune in next week when I get my foot checked out and I check into rehab. Happy Friday.
In related sure-fucked-myself-up-there news, my right foot really hurts. I don’t know what I did to it, but it feels like I might have a stress fracture? Bruised bone? Angina? Not a clue. A friend of mine got four free tickets to the Nats game Wed, and I had high hopes of sitting in the upper balcony, wearing my furs, smoking, drinking beer from plastic bottles, and bitching about how Guliani won’t get off my tip. Instead, I spent the night huddled behind the opposing team’s dugout, stealing peanuts from the guys next to us who kept leaving to get more nachos, and whining about my throbbing foot. I have no idea who won (or who they even played for that matter). I left at the 7th inning to hobble home and down half a bottle of Ibuprofen. Its not like I play sports or exercise (bah!), so how did this happen to me? Good thing I have a cushy desk job where I can convalesce while I work (aka=read Perez Hilton).
Anyway, dinner at Coppi’s last night took my mind off my infirmity for a while. This is the perfect date restaurant. We shared a bottle of organic Chianti (don’t remember which, it had a rooster on the neck) that was like heaven and had me on my ass before we’d finished the little plate of tomato-rubbed foccacia they give you. I ordered the Insalata di Spinachi Novelli with roasted red peppers instead of bacon, and we shared the Margherita pizza with fresh basil. Between the wood-burned smell of fresh bread and the Italian wine, the old-timey bicycle décor and the always flattering candle lighting, if you don’t want to have sex with your dinner partner after a meal at Coppi’s, there’s seriously something wrong with you.
Tune in next week when I get my foot checked out and I check into rehab. Happy Friday.
ohmygod, shoes
This weekend had three high/lowlights:
One. Boutiques on U St. I normally scurry past the shops between 10th and 17th, maintaining blinders so as not to feel the pangs of longing for the thrift outlets of my erstwhile home of Portland, OR. But this weekend I decided, you know what – fuck you, adorable boutiques on U St. I don’t care if your shoes cost more than a month’s rent. I’m going to browse your vintage jewelry and try on your designer dresses and god help you if you never have sales, because I may just buy something I can’t afford anyway. To my surprise, I found a skirt for $5 at Junction Vintage, a vintage, beaded necklace at Legendary Beast (upstairs from ShoeFly), and a cute, pocketed dress at Nana and didn’t have to file for disability the next day. Also found some adorable shoes at Meeps, but must have had a mild stroke at the time because I left without buying another pair of white leather, kitten-heels with ankle strap and cut-outs on the toes (as if one is enough). Overall experience rating = B
Two. Dine and Dip at the Omni Shoreham. Every Sunday through the summer, $21 gets you 3-course brunch with glass of champagne (we finagled two somehow, on our looks, I presume) and pool access until “dusk” (or “I’m never leaving” if you’re me). Service was disorganized and food was mediocre, and they make you eat first which definitely flies in the face of the 30-minute rule we all learned in kindergarten. But once we rolled ourselves out to the pool where the beautiful people were, all was forgotten in the face of new horrors. Seriously, it was like MTV Spring break took a dump on Woodley Park. Feeling irrationally threatened by the surfeit of abs and tans, I dragged my chez lounge over to the one tree near the patio, caked myself in SPF 9000, and retreated under my pashmina with Death in Venice (note=possibly the poorest choice of poolside reading ever, aside from maybe the Iliad, and soon abandoned for US Weekly). Overall rating = C+
Three. Free movies on Mondays at Galaxy Hut. First of all, I love Keanu Reeves. The man has played Ted in every movie he’s ever been in since he actually played Ted in a movie that once. In what was to be this showing of 1991's Point Break, he plays college football star turned F.B.I. agent! turned surfing/bankrobbing/skydiving Ted-of-all-trades. There is nothing wrong with this movie, it is a perfect, perfect thing. Plus, Gary Busey plays his detective partner and Patrick Swayze plays a surfing Bodhisattva – which, if you’re haven’t already quit reading to run out the door and rent it right now, should be all I really have to say if you have any sense at all, dear reader. So you can understand my shock and chagrin when, just as my friend and I curl up in a booth and are about to light up (inside! so novel, Virginia!), the opening credits of North Shore start rolling. We immediately walk out and burn the place down. Overall rating = F------- you fucking suck, North Shore, I hate you.
One. Boutiques on U St. I normally scurry past the shops between 10th and 17th, maintaining blinders so as not to feel the pangs of longing for the thrift outlets of my erstwhile home of Portland, OR. But this weekend I decided, you know what – fuck you, adorable boutiques on U St. I don’t care if your shoes cost more than a month’s rent. I’m going to browse your vintage jewelry and try on your designer dresses and god help you if you never have sales, because I may just buy something I can’t afford anyway. To my surprise, I found a skirt for $5 at Junction Vintage, a vintage, beaded necklace at Legendary Beast (upstairs from ShoeFly), and a cute, pocketed dress at Nana and didn’t have to file for disability the next day. Also found some adorable shoes at Meeps, but must have had a mild stroke at the time because I left without buying another pair of white leather, kitten-heels with ankle strap and cut-outs on the toes (as if one is enough). Overall experience rating = B
Two. Dine and Dip at the Omni Shoreham. Every Sunday through the summer, $21 gets you 3-course brunch with glass of champagne (we finagled two somehow, on our looks, I presume) and pool access until “dusk” (or “I’m never leaving” if you’re me). Service was disorganized and food was mediocre, and they make you eat first which definitely flies in the face of the 30-minute rule we all learned in kindergarten. But once we rolled ourselves out to the pool where the beautiful people were, all was forgotten in the face of new horrors. Seriously, it was like MTV Spring break took a dump on Woodley Park. Feeling irrationally threatened by the surfeit of abs and tans, I dragged my chez lounge over to the one tree near the patio, caked myself in SPF 9000, and retreated under my pashmina with Death in Venice (note=possibly the poorest choice of poolside reading ever, aside from maybe the Iliad, and soon abandoned for US Weekly). Overall rating = C+
Three. Free movies on Mondays at Galaxy Hut. First of all, I love Keanu Reeves. The man has played Ted in every movie he’s ever been in since he actually played Ted in a movie that once. In what was to be this showing of 1991's Point Break, he plays college football star turned F.B.I. agent! turned surfing/bankrobbing/skydiving Ted-of-all-trades. There is nothing wrong with this movie, it is a perfect, perfect thing. Plus, Gary Busey plays his detective partner and Patrick Swayze plays a surfing Bodhisattva – which, if you’re haven’t already quit reading to run out the door and rent it right now, should be all I really have to say if you have any sense at all, dear reader. So you can understand my shock and chagrin when, just as my friend and I curl up in a booth and are about to light up (inside! so novel, Virginia!), the opening credits of North Shore start rolling. We immediately walk out and burn the place down. Overall rating = F------- you fucking suck, North Shore, I hate you.
Stop Making Films: I’m talking to you, Kevin Costner
No time for details of my week (c’mon! no no, really kids), but here’s a bit of side-by-side action to tide one over. Shall we? Let’s.
Movies I saw this week that sucked so bad they were funny, but still not funny enough to not really, really suck = Mr. Brooks.
Films (see the difference, eh?) I’m going to see tonight that promise less sucking and more adjectives as well that mean “not sucking” = Stop Making Sense (SMS), at a special FREE outdoor screening as part of the AFI’s Silverdocs festival.
Mr. Brooks = Stars a washed up (get it? I’m hilarious) actor who once defended a post-apocalyptic floating kingdom in one of the greatest cinematic flops ever.
SMS = Stars the Talking Heads, one of the greatest American new wave rock bands ever.
Mr. Brooks = Features a psycho killer who’s totally boring and annoying at the same time.
SMS = Features the song “psycho killer,” which totally rocks and rolls… at the same time!
Mr. Brooks = After cringing through lines like “but I don’t want to kill the dancers!” from the main character - who sounds more like an angsty teenager than a murderer - to his devil-on-the-shoulder alter ego, I left the theater irate and not a little brain-damaged.
SMS = Directed by Jonathan Demme and featuring live concert footage from 1984 - including many a big suit – the film will leave the audience cross-eyed and painless.
Mr. Brooks = I will only see this movie once in my lifetime.
SMS = Well… you know.
Movies I saw this week that sucked so bad they were funny, but still not funny enough to not really, really suck = Mr. Brooks.
Films (see the difference, eh?) I’m going to see tonight that promise less sucking and more adjectives as well that mean “not sucking” = Stop Making Sense (SMS), at a special FREE outdoor screening as part of the AFI’s Silverdocs festival.
Mr. Brooks = Stars a washed up (get it? I’m hilarious) actor who once defended a post-apocalyptic floating kingdom in one of the greatest cinematic flops ever.
SMS = Stars the Talking Heads, one of the greatest American new wave rock bands ever.
Mr. Brooks = Features a psycho killer who’s totally boring and annoying at the same time.
SMS = Features the song “psycho killer,” which totally rocks and rolls… at the same time!
Mr. Brooks = After cringing through lines like “but I don’t want to kill the dancers!” from the main character - who sounds more like an angsty teenager than a murderer - to his devil-on-the-shoulder alter ego, I left the theater irate and not a little brain-damaged.
SMS = Directed by Jonathan Demme and featuring live concert footage from 1984 - including many a big suit – the film will leave the audience cross-eyed and painless.
Mr. Brooks = I will only see this movie once in my lifetime.
SMS = Well… you know.
just kidding DC i love you and i'll never leave you again
I volunteered to help a friend move on Saturday for nothing more than the promise of driving the U-haul. There was something about the thought of commanding a 10-foot tall monster truck, reeking of gas fumes, with plastic seats and hopefully sans AC that just. felt. right. So we metro all the way out to pick up the truck in West Hyattesville, which I think is somewhere in South Carolina, because we exit the station and trek past the kiss n’ride and find ourselves on a deserted state highway across from an auto shop and a liquor store called “the Smoky Hut.” My companion asks a shirtless man for directions to the U-haul place on Chillum Road (no, really) as I look on in terror and pray for a swift death.
Much like the DMV and the post office, U-haul is one of those havens of universally shitty service. You could be the only one there, and you’d still have to wait 45 minutes for the woman at the counter to glance up from her game of pong. So while my friend waits in line, I perch atop a stack of packing boxes to paint my nails and conspicuously eavesdrop on a pair of sweaty yokels in the next row over, haggling over a tasty cake. “I till yew whut,” the sunburned, obese one in the turquoise man-tank drawled, “We’ll mud-wrestle for it.” He didn’t actually say that. In my head he did. I couldn’t really hear.
A year later they give us the keys and inform us that our truck should be waiting right out front. We swing the door open and stand before the most beautiful site I’ve ever seen. Swathed in heavenly light, a rust-covered jalopy, front left corner of the hood crushed in, driver-side door open and radio blaring Reggaeton, beckons me hither. Mother of god, she was glorious. I fix my scrunchie and run my hands over the torn duct-taped wheel, tip the seat back 45 degrees, and peel the eff out. We stopped for slurpees on the way back to town, and I died of happiness.
Here is some other cool shit I did this weekend in DC that you can do too:
Ate a delicious frittata at brunch at Dos Gringos in Mt. Pleasant.
Ate a delicious hand-dipped donut covered in chocolate chips and peanuts (“The Sundae”) at the Fractured Prune on P St.
Drank whisky and saw the Sea and Cake at the Black Cat.
Drank coffee and utilized free wi-fi at Sparky’s on 14th St.
Listened to crazy Australian pop music at the Architecture in Helsinki show at the 9:30 Club.
Much like the DMV and the post office, U-haul is one of those havens of universally shitty service. You could be the only one there, and you’d still have to wait 45 minutes for the woman at the counter to glance up from her game of pong. So while my friend waits in line, I perch atop a stack of packing boxes to paint my nails and conspicuously eavesdrop on a pair of sweaty yokels in the next row over, haggling over a tasty cake. “I till yew whut,” the sunburned, obese one in the turquoise man-tank drawled, “We’ll mud-wrestle for it.” He didn’t actually say that. In my head he did. I couldn’t really hear.
A year later they give us the keys and inform us that our truck should be waiting right out front. We swing the door open and stand before the most beautiful site I’ve ever seen. Swathed in heavenly light, a rust-covered jalopy, front left corner of the hood crushed in, driver-side door open and radio blaring Reggaeton, beckons me hither. Mother of god, she was glorious. I fix my scrunchie and run my hands over the torn duct-taped wheel, tip the seat back 45 degrees, and peel the eff out. We stopped for slurpees on the way back to town, and I died of happiness.
Here is some other cool shit I did this weekend in DC that you can do too:
Ate a delicious frittata at brunch at Dos Gringos in Mt. Pleasant.
Ate a delicious hand-dipped donut covered in chocolate chips and peanuts (“The Sundae”) at the Fractured Prune on P St.
Drank whisky and saw the Sea and Cake at the Black Cat.
Drank coffee and utilized free wi-fi at Sparky’s on 14th St.
Listened to crazy Australian pop music at the Architecture in Helsinki show at the 9:30 Club.
DC i love you but you're bringing me down
Yesterday I went with a friend who works for EMILY’s List to see Hillary Clinton speak at a campaign fundraiser billed as a part of the “Club44” (as in “Club-we-almost-have-a-shot-in-hell-of-a-woman-becoming-the-44th-president”) Make History! Tour. Speakers slated to be there included a who’s who of strong, History!-making womyn-folk, including Madeline Albright, Geraldine Ferraro, and Billy Jean King - none of whom I showed up in time to hear, of course. I did, however, catch lukewarm performances by Babyface (of “Take a Bow” fame. *Swoon*) and Katherine McPhee (of American Idol semi-fame), who I guess were the only performers alive on the planet and available that day because I can’t otherwise think of a reason why a presidential candidate would choose to punish potential supporters like that.
I stood in a mild rage at the back of the crowd, having unsuccessfully tried to push our way to the front of the shoulder-to-shoulder mass with the (usually golden) line, “We’re just trying to get back to our group! They’re in the front row, I swear!” One of my arms could’ve been severed and dangling from the shoulder socket, and the lady progressives would have body checked me to the asphalt before they let me get to the first aid tent if it meant getting in front of them. There were also no snacks, as I had been promised, and this was a deal-breaker.
Before I clawed my friend’s eyes out from snacklessness and a general sense of whiny exasperation, Hillary thankfully took the stage. She spoke of Hope. She spoke of a New Direction. I fell asleep. I think someone near the front might have clapped, and when I came to, KT Tunstell was over the loudspeaker, ushering the addled crowd out and away from the site of Club-shame-and-disappointment. Maybe I’ve been in DC too long, or not long enough, or I don’t have a clue, but politics can be so booooring sometimes. If she gets the nomination, I'll probably vote for her. But, I mean, meh.
The only clear option available by which to recover the evening was to immediately go to the Wonderland, listen to that one Scissor Sisters song on repeat on the jukebox, and have a former marine “accidentally” throw his hefewiezen on my white wide-legged pants, allowing him to buy my drinks all night. Suhweet.
I stood in a mild rage at the back of the crowd, having unsuccessfully tried to push our way to the front of the shoulder-to-shoulder mass with the (usually golden) line, “We’re just trying to get back to our group! They’re in the front row, I swear!” One of my arms could’ve been severed and dangling from the shoulder socket, and the lady progressives would have body checked me to the asphalt before they let me get to the first aid tent if it meant getting in front of them. There were also no snacks, as I had been promised, and this was a deal-breaker.
Before I clawed my friend’s eyes out from snacklessness and a general sense of whiny exasperation, Hillary thankfully took the stage. She spoke of Hope. She spoke of a New Direction. I fell asleep. I think someone near the front might have clapped, and when I came to, KT Tunstell was over the loudspeaker, ushering the addled crowd out and away from the site of Club-shame-and-disappointment. Maybe I’ve been in DC too long, or not long enough, or I don’t have a clue, but politics can be so booooring sometimes. If she gets the nomination, I'll probably vote for her. But, I mean, meh.
The only clear option available by which to recover the evening was to immediately go to the Wonderland, listen to that one Scissor Sisters song on repeat on the jukebox, and have a former marine “accidentally” throw his hefewiezen on my white wide-legged pants, allowing him to buy my drinks all night. Suhweet.
preakness weakness
A friend and I drove to the Preakness Stakes near Baltimore on Saturday. I had been looking forward to a pleasant day at the races, watching as ponies swished their tails and ladies in white elbow gloves sipped mint juleps. Tiny jockeys sitting with their feet high in the stirrups would gaze into the bleachers to salute us, and we would wave our kerchiefs daintily and remark sideways, “I do believe this could be the year for Flyin’ First Class!” And screaming – there would be lots of screaming, and jumping up and down as the horses thundered past, colored mantles flying in the sun.
As we neared the racing complex, we stopped short of vehicular manslaughter when a group of college students stumbled onto the highway in front of our car, wheeling an open cooler of Natty Ice. As we screeched to a halt, one obviously intoxicated girl stopped in the middle of the lane and peered at us through the windshield with a look that I would only describe as “piercing,” had she been able to focus her eyes for even a moment on any one spot. Or perhaps “glacial,” if not for the wide swaths of under-boob sweat seeping visibly through her Juicy Couture tube top. It was then that I began to feel uneasy.
We cautiously drove on, past aggressive ten-year olds standing on private lawns and brandishing hand-painted signs that advertised “Parking – TODAY ONLY $45.” Men wielding rickety shopping carts like a shirtless army of Sherpas offered to haul our beer/lawn chairs/friends-who’d-already-passed-out the quarter mile up the hill to the gates. As we hiked back to the grounds, I marveled at the emergence of this sweaty cottage industry around the margins of such a once-aristocratic sport. The sound of a Sparks cracking open snapped me out of my ruminations. My companion took a swig of the malty orange beverage and thrust the can into my hand. We drank with resolution.
We entered the race grounds in time to witness several cops escorting out an angry and sunburned spectator. Someone’s girlfriend weakly held back a similarly red-faced male who shouted after him, “That’s right, b*@%$! I know what time it is!” We found ourselves standing before what looked like a refugee camp. The war over, thousands of crushed beer cans and chicken bones only remained, scattered like casualties. We came upon our other friends as night ships to the lighthouse – beacons shining across a dark sea. With legs folded under eyeletted dresses and wide-brimmed hats shielding their fair faces, they obliviously munched away at brie and baguette as if picnicking at the Tuilleries. I dropped to the felt blanket in relief and tried not to think about the vomit-dappled grass below.
The afternoon passed. The horses ran by every twenty minutes or so with people getting up to sway and cheer vehemently for nothing in particular. By the time the main race rolled around, a fight had broken out nearby, ending with the loser back-boarded and carried away, apathetic security looking on. At one point, we ventured to the other end of the field to a shanty town of porta-potties, posing for photos on the way with the most ridiculous among the crowd. I sleepily flicked through the evidence on my friend’s digicam as he drove back to DC. My favorite is a shot of me flanked by two “brahs” in matching yellow tees that read “Bangin’ chicks at Preakness ’07.” I’d never been so happy to be home.
As we neared the racing complex, we stopped short of vehicular manslaughter when a group of college students stumbled onto the highway in front of our car, wheeling an open cooler of Natty Ice. As we screeched to a halt, one obviously intoxicated girl stopped in the middle of the lane and peered at us through the windshield with a look that I would only describe as “piercing,” had she been able to focus her eyes for even a moment on any one spot. Or perhaps “glacial,” if not for the wide swaths of under-boob sweat seeping visibly through her Juicy Couture tube top. It was then that I began to feel uneasy.
We cautiously drove on, past aggressive ten-year olds standing on private lawns and brandishing hand-painted signs that advertised “Parking – TODAY ONLY $45.” Men wielding rickety shopping carts like a shirtless army of Sherpas offered to haul our beer/lawn chairs/friends-who’d-already-passed-out the quarter mile up the hill to the gates. As we hiked back to the grounds, I marveled at the emergence of this sweaty cottage industry around the margins of such a once-aristocratic sport. The sound of a Sparks cracking open snapped me out of my ruminations. My companion took a swig of the malty orange beverage and thrust the can into my hand. We drank with resolution.
We entered the race grounds in time to witness several cops escorting out an angry and sunburned spectator. Someone’s girlfriend weakly held back a similarly red-faced male who shouted after him, “That’s right, b*@%$! I know what time it is!” We found ourselves standing before what looked like a refugee camp. The war over, thousands of crushed beer cans and chicken bones only remained, scattered like casualties. We came upon our other friends as night ships to the lighthouse – beacons shining across a dark sea. With legs folded under eyeletted dresses and wide-brimmed hats shielding their fair faces, they obliviously munched away at brie and baguette as if picnicking at the Tuilleries. I dropped to the felt blanket in relief and tried not to think about the vomit-dappled grass below.
The afternoon passed. The horses ran by every twenty minutes or so with people getting up to sway and cheer vehemently for nothing in particular. By the time the main race rolled around, a fight had broken out nearby, ending with the loser back-boarded and carried away, apathetic security looking on. At one point, we ventured to the other end of the field to a shanty town of porta-potties, posing for photos on the way with the most ridiculous among the crowd. I sleepily flicked through the evidence on my friend’s digicam as he drove back to DC. My favorite is a shot of me flanked by two “brahs” in matching yellow tees that read “Bangin’ chicks at Preakness ’07.” I’d never been so happy to be home.
what, indeed
About a month ago I went to see Ratatat play at the 930 Club. A friend dragged me to their show last fall at the Black Cat before I knew anything about the band. I spent most of the night scowling at the bar, covering my ears, and trying to avoid being knocked in the head by a frenetic middle-aged man (who I later learned was the guitarist’s uncle). It was only toward the end of the show that I found myself loosening my earmuffs to really listen. It reminded me of the scene at the beginning of A Clockwork Orange when Alex has just wailed on someone, and he goes home and lays down to listen to “Ludwig Von” and falls deep into a psychopathic euphoria. Minus the wailing. Or maybe a different kind of wailing coming from the mix of guitar, bass, and sometimes a synthesizer/drum machine/piece of equipment whose mechanics I don’t pretend to understand. There’s no singing, but every so often they throw in a loop with the sound of a wildcat screeching or a Biggie sample. And the whole time, the two tragically indie band members are bending over their guitars in parallel, spread legged and knock-kneed, with stringy hair mostly obscuring their faces like skinnier versions of Wayne and Garth. I left that night intrigued (and slightly deaf).
So when they came back to DC a month or so ago, I decided to try them out again, but this time I couldn’t wrangle any of my friends to come with. Upon walking in I’m immediately aware that I’m one of the oldest persons there. I station myself propped against the bar to the right of the stage, and do my best “I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to see a band alone what motherfucker” lean and vaguely scan the crowd. There’s one of those suburban, quintessentially teenage couples in front of me. The girlfriend’s greasy blonde hair hangs over a spaghetti strap tee that stops a good nine inches above her waistline, leaving a clear view of back fat that squidges over the sides of too-tight, low rider jeans. Her BF stands behind her in a baggy spitfire hoodie and cargo shorts, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other punching the air with devils horns raised. There is no music playing.
The fear hits me – I may need to resign myself to the ugly reality that I like a teenybopper band. “How did you get here?” I want to scream at the pimply-faced tween next to me, “cause I know you didn’t drive!” Before I have a chance to find out, the band comes on stage and the crowd goes suitably wild.
My stronghold at the bar is almost instantly breached. The dude in front of me to the right, who’s roughly seven feet tall and a buck o’five, stretches out his bony arms, weeping with scabs, past either side of my face and shrieks “ERICA!” What can only be “Erica” hurtles through the crowd to our corner, and they jump madly up and down, throwing ‘bows left and right. This continues for about a week, until I’m holding back by a hair my blind seething desire to quickly and silently snap their necks between my gnarled-with-rage fingers. It’s too loud to say, “Excuse me, but you and your tweaker friend are trampling my ballet flats. Can you please step off?” So, after a few of my not-so-subtle “I’m right here” nudges go unacknowledged, I place my hand on her shoulder to steady myself and slide out from behind her. The death stare I get is only matched by the slew of curses that follows. “Well, just loooook at theeeese bitches! Standing with their haaands in their pockets, nooooot dancing! Who the f@#$k do theeeeeey think they aaaaare!” Just then the guitars blare into the first song, and I turn toward the stage, leaving her smeary maw noiselessly opening and closing like a fish.
Somehow I keep my cool and enjoy the show. But then, I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to a see a band alone what motherfucker.
So when they came back to DC a month or so ago, I decided to try them out again, but this time I couldn’t wrangle any of my friends to come with. Upon walking in I’m immediately aware that I’m one of the oldest persons there. I station myself propped against the bar to the right of the stage, and do my best “I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to see a band alone what motherfucker” lean and vaguely scan the crowd. There’s one of those suburban, quintessentially teenage couples in front of me. The girlfriend’s greasy blonde hair hangs over a spaghetti strap tee that stops a good nine inches above her waistline, leaving a clear view of back fat that squidges over the sides of too-tight, low rider jeans. Her BF stands behind her in a baggy spitfire hoodie and cargo shorts, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other punching the air with devils horns raised. There is no music playing.
The fear hits me – I may need to resign myself to the ugly reality that I like a teenybopper band. “How did you get here?” I want to scream at the pimply-faced tween next to me, “cause I know you didn’t drive!” Before I have a chance to find out, the band comes on stage and the crowd goes suitably wild.
My stronghold at the bar is almost instantly breached. The dude in front of me to the right, who’s roughly seven feet tall and a buck o’five, stretches out his bony arms, weeping with scabs, past either side of my face and shrieks “ERICA!” What can only be “Erica” hurtles through the crowd to our corner, and they jump madly up and down, throwing ‘bows left and right. This continues for about a week, until I’m holding back by a hair my blind seething desire to quickly and silently snap their necks between my gnarled-with-rage fingers. It’s too loud to say, “Excuse me, but you and your tweaker friend are trampling my ballet flats. Can you please step off?” So, after a few of my not-so-subtle “I’m right here” nudges go unacknowledged, I place my hand on her shoulder to steady myself and slide out from behind her. The death stare I get is only matched by the slew of curses that follows. “Well, just loooook at theeeese bitches! Standing with their haaands in their pockets, nooooot dancing! Who the f@#$k do theeeeeey think they aaaaare!” Just then the guitars blare into the first song, and I turn toward the stage, leaving her smeary maw noiselessly opening and closing like a fish.
Somehow I keep my cool and enjoy the show. But then, I’m a mature music fan who’s secure enough to come out to a see a band alone what motherfucker.
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