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.
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.
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