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 Café – Saturday. 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 Café – Saturday. 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.
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