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.