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.

eyeroller of the day: dry off wart-free

i'm too sexy for cervical cancer. or so says this towel.

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.

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 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.

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.