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Biking update

2011-11-16T21:47:00.001Z

So last weekend, on a beautiful day at a time of year when beautiful days can no longer be taken for granted, some friends coaxed me out into the wilds of Maryland for a bike ride. Taking my bike somewhere other than the trails I can reach directly from my door in DC is something I haven't done in many years, and the change of scenery was very welcome.

The trail they chose was the Baltimore and Annapolis Bike Trail, which doesn't exactly start in Baltimore or end in Annapolis, but rather begins at BWI (right under the flight path) and ends at Route 50, on the outskirts of Annapolis. The total trip is 32 miles, along a converted railroad line that runs through a range of towns both sketchy (one town had two bailbondsmen on the main street) and charming, and through a host of backyards and farmland. The day could not have been more idyllic, with red and golden autumn leaves everywhere.

By the end of the ride we were all famished, so we chose to negate any health benefits accrued from the ride by stopping at the Dunkin Donuts in Glen Burnie.

Reading update

2011-11-11T14:34:00.002Z

After devouring the incredibly addictive Girl With a Dragon Tattoo and its two equally addictive sequels, I've moved onto things slower paced yet just as enjoyable, in the form of The Long Valley, a collection of short stories by John Steinbeck. This one is especially recommended for anyone who is a fan of East of Eden and The Grapes of Wrath, in that it was written before them and you can see Steinbeck's unmistakable style in each short story. As a bonus, the version of the book I got (at Idle Time Books in Adams Morgan) has an introduction talking about Steinbeck's life and what went into these stories.

Quick getaway to the Apple

2011-09-05T22:58:00.000Z

Feeling a bit of remorse for not having taken any vacations all summer, I resolved to get out of town for a few days, and over Labor Day we hopped an Amtrak up to New York City. It turned out that a week after Hurricane Irene, the weather couldn't have been more perfect for such a trip.

We just had a few concrete ideas to build the trip around, but it came together pretty well. One of those was the "Lists" exhibit at the Morgan Library and Museum, a collection from the Smithsonian of lists by famous and semifamous artists, writers, and other people. It sounds pretty dry, but it was fascinating, and reading through these documents, most handwritten or typed, many with scribbled annotations, doodles, and other illustrations, made one reflect on how much richness there is in written communication, that is, on paper; and how much we are losing as we move away from that.

The library itself was pretty fascinating too, a sumptous building occupying much of a Manhattan block, built by legendary Robber Baron J.P. Morgan in the 1800s with wealth that even today still seems almost inconceivable.

Another highlight that day was the High Line, a park built on an abandoned railway line through Manhattan's Meatpacking District, which has now been extended several more blocks up to 30th Street. I never get tired of this strange park -- there is something uniquely refreshing about this sea of tranquility amid the bustle of the city all around.

From there we walked to a great little Tex-Mex bar in the West Village and downed a couple of margaritas, and from there walked to Bell Book & Candle, an interesting restaurant on West 10th Street that is notable for growing its own vegetables on the rooftop. I had the hanger steak (not grown on the roof) with a roof-grown salad; both were yummy.

The next day we caught an M Train over to Long Island City. I'd been lucky enough to happen upon an article about 5Pointz in the New York Times days before the trip, and this temple to graffiti became one of our destinations. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but it turns out it was totally worth the short subway ride. A taste of it is in the slideshow here:

After that we walked over to nearby MoMA PS1, which wasn't quite as fascinating, possibly because a good section of the museum was temporarily closed while we were there, but also because a large amount of the exhibits were video-based, which isn't something I usually enjoy in a museum.

That evening we headed over to Barbone, a great little Italian restaurant on Avenue B near 11th. They have a lovely little terrace out back, and the night we were there it was lively but not oppressively crowded. My girlfriend had the black pepper pappardelle braised short rib ragu, and I had a special consisting of homemade penne and a lamb sausage-based sauce -- both were delicious and washed down with a healthy amount of wonderful Italian red wine.

On our last day we had breakfast in Greenacre Park, a tiny and tranquil urban park with a waterfall, and watched with amusement as the caretaker chased away one European tourist after another who were trying to ignore the "no photography" sign.

In between these stops was lots and lots of walking. We were completely exhausted by this point, and the Amtrak Northeast Regional and two empty seats awaiting us in Penn Station were a welcome sight. It had been a good trip.

Caribbean Carnival 2011

2011-06-27T11:18:00.002Z

After many years in DC, I finally made it to DC's Caribbean Carnival, which winds down Georgia Avenue NW every year. It felt like DC's own Mardi Gras, although with fewer beads. Adding to the air of festivity was the smell of hundreds of barbeques emanating from the sidewalks and side streets. Slideshow:

Later in the day we popped down to RFK to watch DC United play Houston -- an exciting game that led to a disappointing draw. We ended the perfect summer evening drinking margaritas outdoors at La Lomita down at 13th and Penn SE.

Heavy Metal Parking Lot

2011-06-19T18:00:00.001Z

On Friday, we popped over to the AFI Silver Theatre to catch the 25th anniversary showing of Heavy Metal Parking Lot. The 17 minute video was shot in the parking lot of the Capital Centre before a Judas Priest concert in 1986, and for anyone who remembers that era, and especially for those with fond memories of the Pringle chip-roofed arena with the delightfully affectatious European spelling of "Center," it is a perfect snapshot of those times.

As a bonus, they'd rounded up some of the people actually featured in the film, who appeared on stage in their much older forms. Also screened was "Heavy Metal Picnic," a documentary about a field party in Potomac Md, which is essentially a 90 minute sequel -- about 45 minutes too long, unless perhaps you were in the movie, which it seemed like about 3/4 of the audience had been.

The full video of HMPL is available at the link below:

http://www.snagfilms.com/films/title/heavy_metal_parking_lot/

Satisfaction

2011-04-26T11:25:00.001Z

In the fall, I embarked on a project to turn my basement into a livable apartment. It's something I had been thinking about ever since I moved to this house -- I constantly felt nagged by the fact that my huge, spacious basement was serving as little more than a storage area for a few boxes, and a free range zone for my cat.

Of course I could have turned my basement into a speakeasy, as I did for one night in early days of the year 2010 (caution, loud):

but I decided it was better to go with something practical instead. I estimated it would take about two months to get this project done, but it ended up taking six months after various things I hadn't really thought about, such as the intricacy of moving pipes around that were too low, and waiting for multiple DC inspectors at various stages in the project, were factored in.

The kitchen came from Ikea -- and despite a false start, once I got the hang of this it was easy to design, order, have delivered, and assemble, and amazingly inexpensive for what seems like pretty good quality.

The most important thing of all, I had a good contractor, and a good architect, and despite the extra time required it all turned out OK and within budget.

Movies update

2011-02-21T21:36:00.000Z

I finally got around to seeing The Social Network. I think it took me so long to get around to seeing it because it was hard to believe a movie about Facebook could actually be interesting. Anyway, I don't know how closely or not it follows reality, but it's a gripping tale. The striking thing for me is that despite all the press about Mark Zuckerberg's negative image, he actually comes off as a sympathetic character, especially when he is compared to the people around him who are out to get him.

Animal Kingdom was another good one, brought to my attention by this New York Times article "Movies Worth Another Look." It certainly was worth another look -- an intense movie about a small Australian crime family's battle against the ruthless Melbourne police force, and their brutal struggle among each other and against the cops to survive.

Then there was King of Kong, which I came across scrolling through Netflix streaming offerings one night. A documentary about the world of competitive video gaming and a race to be the world's Donkey Kong champion didn't seem particularly compelling, except Netflix's audience had given it an almost perfect score. Out of curiosity I turned it on and was instantly drawn in. The fact that the guy who held the title of Donkey Kong champion is kind of a douchebag lends the movie a sense of drama that might not have otherwise been there, as one quickly ends up rooting for the guy who's trying to unseat his title.

The demise of Commonwealth

2011-02-19T23:30:00.000Z

From various blog reports, I learned this week that Commonwealth Gastropub on Irving Street NW was closing. The news was sad, but not entirely unexpected -- I've watched over the last year as Commonwealth declined from a great neighborhood restaurant to a place I tended to avoid due to an intangible feel of decline, and repeated food quality issues.

I have seen this decline happen before in many a restaurant, but seldom has the arc been so fast. When Commonwealth first opened, around two years ago, it was initially way too crowded and it was always impossible to find a table there. But then it settled into a comfy place characterized by friendly, attentive staff, a really solid basic food menu, some great specials, and great beers on tap. The beer selection was never big, but who needs 50 beers if there are two or three really good ones.

It was great for about a year, and it became a favorite of mine. But then they started getting orders wrong more frequently. They were always gracious about fixing things that went wrong but it just kept happening. And this is entirely impossible to measure, but the bar no longer seemed quite as cozy a place to hang out. The quality of service became less consistent. I went there less and less.

This week's reports mentioned that the owner was closing the place in order to concentrate on her other restaurant, Hank's. And therein, I think, lay the clue to the problem. There is only one person who will ever treat a business as their baby, and that is the owner. If the owner is focused on other things, the business will eventually slide.

I know people who will avoid chains for reasons of snobbery, or make complex distinctions between locally owned small chains and national chains. But that's all just theoretical silliness. The real point is that a business owner who owns more than one business can't spread that love around evenly, and sooner or later the customers will feel it. When I think about my favorite places in DC, you know who the owners are, and they are there all the time. Sadly, I don't think Commonwealth got that kind of attention after its first year.

Capital Bikeshare, one month on

2011-02-13T17:44:00.000Z

It's been about a month since my Capital Bikeshare key arrived in the mail, and I have to say after riding their heavy red bikes regularly since then, it is one of the coolest things to happen to DC in a long time.

The brilliance of the thing is that it appeals to the inner lazy person in all of us. We all hear that we should ride bikes because it's better for the environment, and better for our health. But the bottom line is that once you get used to the system, there is no easier, faster, and cheaper way to get around town, and you start using them for that reason above all.

I think the key to getting the most out of it is flexibility, and mixing it with other modes of transport as needed -- buses, Metro, taxis. Sometimes I'll ride it just for a few blocks to get to a bus stop more quickly. No bus? I'll ride the rest of the way. Sometimes I'll pass a bus, park it at the next stop and catch the bus. Sometimes if I'm going out, I'll ride it down to 14th and U or wherever, park it, and then catch a cab going home at the end of the night.

There are times I take them out several times a day, for short hops. They're just right there, and there is nothing more convenient.

I've always favored ultra light, stripped down bikes for myself, but I've come to appreciate a bike where you don't have to tuck your trousers into your socks, and which you can ride in the rain without getting a muddy stripe up your back. And it's nice not to worry about locking it, and coming back from it. When you leave it, you're done.

One interesting aspect is the spontaneity of it definitely favors helmetless riding, which has taken some getting used to for me. The bikes are not capable of going very fast, which might mitigate an impact somewhat, but mostly I'll just have to remember not to crash on my head.

Even in the bitter cold of winter, the system is very popular, but it seems to be at perfect equilibrium right now -- I always find a bike when I need one, and there is always a space at the other end. I wonder what it will be like when the weather turns nice -- I think the usage is going to soar. I hope there are plans to add a lot more spaces.

The city seemed on edge tonight

2011-02-10T00:38:00.001Z

It all started as a pretty normal night. I was pretty psyched to get out of work when there was still a hint of daylight, and I hopped on a Capital Bikeshare bike to begin my commute.

I rode the bike all the way to 14th and U, and then I parked it. I love riding my own nimble bike up hills, but the Capital Bikeshare bikes feel like riding a stationary exercise bike, which is no fun on a hill. I could see a Metrobus lumbering towards me in the distance, and I had plenty of time to get to the stop.

The bus was insanely crowded, and I started wishing I'd walked the rest of the way home. People were having trouble getting to the back door, and yelling at the driver as he tried to pull away from each stop.

Then I heard an altercation begin way up at the front of the bus. I could see some pushing and shoving, and a guy was yelling. The driver started yelling at the guy to get off, and the guy kept yelling "he grabbed my neck." Finally after a long delay and a lot of yelling at the driver, he got off.

I'd lost my patience with the bus by this time, so I got off through the back door, happy to be out of the crush of people and walking in the cool night air. The guy who'd been thrown off the bus kept chasing the bus and yelling threatening words at the driver at each stop.

I wanted to tell this grown man, "stop acting like a child and show some dignity," but I decided it was better not to inflame the situation any more, and it wasn't really worth receiving a punch in the face or worse. At one stop, the guy caught up with the bus again, got in front of it, and wouldn't move. The driver began leaning on his horn, at which point I noticed that a cop parked across the street had taken note.

At the same time, a yuppie who was walking ahead of me felt the need to get involved and yelled something to the cop pointing to the guy and the bus, pointing out the obvious. Seconds later I looked behind me and saw the lights of the stopped bus, and the flashing lights of the cop car. And no doubt on that bus were a lot of people wondering why one man's inability to let things go was going to make them all late for dinner.

Robert Lighthouse

2011-02-04T00:08:00.000Z

Among the fixtures of old DC used to be Robert Lighthouse, always reliably outside the Dupont Metro, playing blues, accompanied by his dog. For a time, he also did gigs at Madam's Organ. He had an odd story -- he had come to the U.S. from Sweden, driven by his love of the blues. The times I saw him, he played the music like he'd lived in the Mississippi Delta his whole life. Then, he seemed to disappear.

So naturally I jumped at the chance when a friend emailed me a link to a notice about him playing at a fundraiser. It was a benefit for Palestinian children, and so badly advertised that the flyer didn't even say where the church was. I almost went to the wrong one, assuming it was the church up in Columbia Heights that always hosts political stuff.

It turned out it was the Unitarian Church at 16th and S, which I'd never been to before, so that was cool in itself. I got there shortly after the show was supposed to start. It was being held in an auditorium in the basement, and it was as quiet as -- well, as quiet as a church. My friends were looking around nervously for me, feeling a little spooked by the somber surroundings and the lack of any people. I helped myself to free coffee and an Oreo, and settled in.

People gradually filtered in and sat among the neat rows of chairs. Lighthouse began to play his acoustic guitar and sing, miked through an old crackling amplifier that looked like it was homemade. The music was as soulful and mesmerizing as ever. Maybe more so.

He played for an hour, and then there was a break during which we were harangued by a woman about the Palestinian cause, and treated to an incredibly badly organized powerpoint by another guy from an aid organization. I am guessing that most if not all of the people were likely sympathetic to the message, but the blunt delivery seemed kind of over the top for a room full of people who had mostly come to hear some music.

The crowd itself was odd. A woman looking like Andy Warhol kept running up to the stage with a huge digital SLR camera, crouching like a pro photographer, except I noticed she always went for the same angle. Since Lighthouse was seated in a chair, there can't have been much difference between each shot she took. It was as if she was trying to capture each song he played with her camera. A man behind me kept grunting loudly. Another man was trying to use his Blackberry while Lighthouse was playing in the quiet room, while a third man was shouting at him so loudly that everyone turned around.

Through all this, Lighthouse kept going, playing from the heart. It occurred to me that from the streets of DC, to the boozy room of Madam's Organ, to undoubtedly a million other places, it would take a lot to throw him off his stride.

http://www.robertlighthouse.com/

The Argonaut

2011-01-24T21:06:00.000Z

Coming out of the H Street Playhouse one afternoon, we were hungry and looking for a place to eat. Too many of H Street's establishments these days feel like a hipster theme park, and none seemed like exactly the right choice to address a gnawing, animal hunger.

But then there was the Argonaut, newly restored and reopened for only a few days. It's sometimes a better idea to let a newly opened restaurant hit its stride, but the choices seemed few, so we went.

I'd actually never been there before the fire that shut it down, so I have nothing to compare it to. But the new establishment stands apart -- literally, in that it's on the edge of H Street, and actually it feels like it's on the edge of the town. There is a reason for that, it is at the start of Bladensburg Road, and as you drink your beer, gazing out the window at the traffic -- lots of people going somewhere else -- you can imagine what it was like back when places like Bladensburg really were separate towns instead of part of a sprawling metropolis.

Despite being newly opened, the Argonaut feels like its been there a while, and so does the clientele. Nary a hipster to be seen. The staff was exceedingly friendly and managed a busy room well, they had a good beer selection, and my cheeseburger was delicious. It was hard to ask for anything more as we looked out on the reflection of the setting sun on the newly laid streetcar tracks, out on the edge of town.

Capital Bikeshare

2011-01-05T04:09:00.000Z

Capital Bikeshare continued to taunt me, as the winter deepened. Everywhere I went, there were the rows of shiny red bikes, saying "ride me." In fact, they seemed to multiply. There was a rack by my office, a rack by my home, and then I noticed a rack by Wonderland as well. How could I resist?

I finally signed up, and my key showed up last night. Today, I used it three times. At lunch time, I rode to another section of town, usually beyond my lunch radius, and had some hummus and tabouleh at a Marvelous Market.

Later in the day, I checked out another bike and rode uptown, to get my hair cut. I had to admit, riding one of these heavy, lumbering bikes uphill took some doing, but in a low gear it was slow but still faster than taking the bus, and once I resigned myself to moving at a slow speed, I barely worked up a sweat.

After my haircut, I had to consciously decide not to check out another bike, although it would have been so easy. But I do enjoy walking, I had the time, and I didn't want to miss out. But now, it's a choice.

For my final ride of the day, I checked out a third bike and rode up to the rack outside Wonderland, and walked the rest of the way to Meridian Pint. All of these rides cost nothing beyond the $75 annual fee. Nothing could be easier.

New Year's Day + 1

2011-01-03T12:32:00.000Z

Anyone who's lived in DC a long time knows that sometime in early January, we are usually treated to a brief respite from the winter cold weather. That happened on New Year's weekend, and so Sunday I paid homage to the thaw by getting on my bike and riding, with my camera in my bag ready to capture some scenes of the new year. I'd planned to head south, downtown, but as I headed down my street, something told me to ride north instead. So I turned up 13th and followed the rolling hills northward.

As I got up towards Brightwood, I saw this:

This lovely tower has always reminded me of DC's own Eiffel Tower, and I'd always wanted to photograph it. So this was my chance. I took a few shots, feeling a little paranoid that in this age of homeland insecurity, someone might question me, especially since it's right on the lot of a police station. But a number of cop cars went by without even glancing at me, and it turned out the biggest problem was getting my camera up to my eye while wearing a bike helmet.

I still had no idea what the tower actually was, so when I got home, I did a little Googling. It's called Hughes Memorial Tower. In my memory, it seems to have been there forever, but it was built in 1989, the year I first moved into the city, and it was built without regard to DC's height laws, and apparently it sometimes showers the neighborhood with chunks of falling ice in winter. But from a distance it's still beautiful.

Risky Business

2010-12-29T00:18:00.000Z

I recently watched "Risky Business" on Netflix streaming video for the first time since the movie originally came out (1983). There was a time when one might watch 80s movies primarily to laugh at the era -- the hairstyles, the music, etc. But this movie seems to reach from the past for something more.

Maybe that's because it has always been a classic and beautifully made, especially when you get beyond the most famous goofy scenes that everyone remembers. The movie purports to be funny but there is a powerful, sad dark thread running all the way through it, moreso thanks to the moody music of Tangerine Dream which is the backdrop to many of the scenes. Things work out well for Joel, Tom Cruise's character, but you're not so sure that it's going to be so good in the long run. I never knew this, but according to a 2008 New York Times review apparently a happier ending than the director intended was tacked on by the studio. It makes sense. And that's kind of how life felt in those days, even if things were going well at the moment, the future felt very much in doubt.

I also remember how I received it at the time -- the signature line "sometimes you just gotta say 'what the fuck'" seemed profound advice in the eyes of the sheltered high school kid I myself was at that time. And it's still true, sometimes you do just gotta say what the fuck, but from my adult eyes now there's also the knowledge of experience that some times that attitude can land you in a world of crap.

Then there's the thing that is increasingly striking in this and other movies from that time too. They're still current enough to not seem like ancient history. But yet it is such a different world -- there are no cell phones, no internet, no Google. People still have to find each other if they want to talk. Where did all the time go that is now filled by looking at different screens? It feels like we've gained a lot of technology, but lost a whole lot more of everything else.

Louis

2010-12-16T01:58:00.001Z

On a bleak rainy Sunday, December 12, 2010 we lost Louis. He angrily entered the world in 1994, what seems a staggeringly long time ago now, and his quiet but ferocious intensity enabled him to cling on to far more than his alloted 9 lives. Some might have said that he was hard to love, but he was loved nonetheless. He will be missed.

A strange happening in the night

2010-11-23T23:21:00.000Z

Last night I found myself awakened from a deep sleep, momentarily wondering where I was and what was going on.   Through the curtain, the light seemed like the sun out, and as I became more awake I realized there were big trucks running out in the street.   I finally focused enough to look at the clock, and at 3:45 am, none of that seemed right.

I got up and looked out the window, and to my surprise I saw the street was blocked by fire vehicles, and most surprising of all, there was a ladder truck in front of my house, with floodlights on, and the ladder was pointed right at my house.

At that point it seemed like a good idea to find out what was going on, so I stumbled around in the dark until I could get dressed, and went outside. In those few minutes, the firemen had already done what they had to do, and were starting to pack up.

"What happened," I asked one of the firemen.

"Nothing," came his gruff reply.

I was still too sleepy not to accept that answer, so I just said "OK," and went back inside.   By the time I got back to my bedroom they were gone and the street was dead quiet, as it should be at that hour.   Now unable to fall asleep, I thought about it some more and realized they had been using the ladder to get to the tree in front of my house. Something had been in that tree for months -- I assumed a kite, but wasn't really sure -- and now it was gone.

It seemed improbable that fire trucks had been called to remove a kite at 3:45 am.   But maybe it was something more than a kite, and maybe it had been deemed a hazard. I also know they have to stay busy during down times, and they have to keep the equipment in use and stay in practice -- maybe fishing stuff out of trees in the dead of night is one of the ways they do that.

Into the Winter of Discontent

2010-11-17T11:44:00.000Z

Yesterday around 4:30, I was thinking how much it sucks that it gets dark early now, long before it's time to leave work, when a colleague expressed basically the same thought to me. We were both walking to a meeting together, and the person we met said the same thing.

Later that evening, I was leaving work and out on the sidewalk I overheard one person say the same thing to another.

And on an S9 headed uptown, with rain streaked windows turning the streetlights outside into blurry stars, the people in front of me were having the same conversation.

It seemed like the reality and weight of the cold, dark months ahead had hit the whole city, all at the same time.

In-flight movie update

2010-11-14T17:05:00.000Z

Coming home on a recent trans-Atlantic flight, I watched the following movies on a tiny seat-back screen:

The Other Guys, a funny police movie about the travails of two NYC cops who labor in the shadows and the contempt of their more dramatic colleagues. Perfect airline fare, in that the laughs came easily and the plot was simple enough to allow for occasional distractions, but I'd probably watch it again on a bigger screen.

Winter's Bone, a murder mystery set in the Ozarks amidst a extended family consumed by the meth epidemic. It was intense, sad, and gripping. I will definitely see it again in a non-airline context.

Keeping Fear Alive

2010-10-30T22:04:00.001Z

I must admit, I'd been a little skeptical of the Stewart/Colbert rally when it first was announced. I was concerned that while Comedy Central fans streamed to Washington for a day of feel-good entertainment, teabaggers would be at home in their communities, doggedly going through voter rolls and knocking on doors.   And I also imagined that the Mall might fill with the legions of heterogeneous, snickering twenty-something hipsters that I thought might attend a joke rally like this. Not necessarily my kind of peeps.

Today, though, I was out for my morning breakfast at Sticky Buns and early in the morning, crowds were already gathering and heading southward (though temporarily distracted by a giant dragon mounted on a truck at 14th and Irving). It evoked some of the same feeling that had come with the Obama inaugural. So I decided to head down and check it out.   I ignored the ill-considered and questionable advice given by WABA to not ride a bike to the event, rode down easily and parked near the FBI building and walked the rest of the way.

The crowds were impressive -- such that it was impossible to get anywhere near the stage, and I could barely hear anything (although I did hear a few strains from Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train -- whoo!) All that was left to do was wander around people-watching. But that was OK, because with Halloween upon us, there were plenty of oddities to view, and it was a beautiful day.

Although Stewart and Colbert left the purpose of their rally ambiguous, the people that came took ownership of it. Above all, the day was a huge rebuttal to Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, and the teabaggers, by a diverse crowd representing all ages, all walks of life, and seemingly from all over.   This gathering effectively refudiated the claims by the right to represent the "real America."

Was it worth it?   Signs still point to a disastrous teabagger takeover on November 2.   But if today's events reminded even some people of the spirit of 2008, makes the media a little less accepting of Tea Party claims to represent the heartland, and motivates people to vote who might not otherwise have bothered, then yes, it was worth it.

Here's the slideshow:

It happened on the Northern Line

2010-10-26T13:06:00.001Z

I recently took an overseas trip, and one of the stops was London.    It's been a couple of years since I've been there, and I'd forgotten about one of the city's nightly rituals -- closing time, when the pubs empty out and the Underground experiences a third rush hour of drunken revelers.

I was waiting at a Northern Line station (Camden Town?) for a train. The tone had already been set at the entry to the subway station, where two girls were walking the wrong way on the escalator, while a third girl took pictures, while the subway station manager yelled at them ineffectively over a loudspeaker.   Their backward walking disoriented me, and caused me momentarily to step onto the wrong escalator, which sent them into hysterics.

Down on the platform, the mood was boisterous. All that was needed was a spark, and suddenly that spark came, in the form of a single guitar chord ringing through the station.   Everyone turned to the man with the guitar, who launched into a Johnny Cash song. The party was officially on:

As he played, people sang along and danced while others called out requests. Somehow, simply because I'd been standing there, I was everyone's best friend and was drawn into the circle.   A train was approaching, and we all felt a bit sad to leave the party behind, until someone had the idea to ask him to join us on the train, which he did:

With each stop, people came and went and the party continually metamorphosed. The dancing continued, if anything more wildly on the narrow train because each time the car lurched people were thrown into each other.   I never had a moment to realize I'd gotten on the wrong train    The requests kept coming, moving from Cash to Elvis: "Suspicious Minds," "Blue Suede Shoes," "Burning Love."   And a couple of times the lurching train threw the musician into sitting passenger's laps, yet he never missed a note and kept playing.

Finally, he had to get off the train, everyone's stop came up, and the party came to an end. We bid polite goodbyes, without the music, strangers once more, and I went about figuring out how to get back on the path to home.

Note -- the guitarist gave me a little flyer, which reveals that he is Daniel Jeanrenaud, "the one and only Camden Cat," playing at the Blues Kitchen in Camden Town every weekend.

How to Build a Flower Planter II

2010-10-07T01:47:00.000Z

Back in 2007, as the proud new owner of a backyard, I built wooden flower planters for my garden.   Unfortunately, they didn't hold up so well -- by this year, they were looking pretty ratty, and more importantly, nothing I planted in them ever seemed to live long. I think that's probably because of my poor decision to put a plastic liner in the planter -- even though I put holes in it, the drainage was bad.

So this year I decided it was time to build a bigger, brick planter.   I read up a bit on masonry, calculated how many bricks I needed, and ordered 300 bricks from Home Depot.   The delivery was an interesting process -- they arrived on an 18-wheeler, and the driver had a forklift on the back, and he used the forklift to lower itself and transport the bricks down the narrow alley to the back of my house, where he expertly placed them in my driveway.

Then, as is my nature, I let them sit for a month, while I considered and reconsidered the original design.   The design in my mind changed, from a single layered brick wall as wide as my driveway, to a double-layered brick wall that wasn't so wide.   Finally, I was spurred into action when some douche tried to do a U-turn in my driveway and hit my pile of bricks, knocking them off their pallet.

On the hottest weekend in August, I began working, and I quickly learned that what I'd envisioned as a one-weekend project would take much longer. And it was good I went slowly, because my initial bricklaying technique was awful.   Gradually I learned, though.   The most important thing was getting the mix of mortar right, which took a little practice. Another thing I wish I'd learned earlier was that mortar comes in unwieldy 80-lb bags, and it took many, many of these bags to build the planter, which I lugged back from Home Depot every few days a couple of bags at a time. I should have had them delivered along with the bricks.

Every evening after work, I'd lay a few bricks.   Now what was spurring me was the onset of fall. I was determined to enjoy this planter, with plants in it, before winter.   By mid September I finally put the top layer of bricks on (it turned out I actually needed 360 bricks, so I filled a shopping cart at Home Depot with 60 bricks and brought them home), and after cleaning it up, it didn't look so bad.   I filled it with 20 cubic feet of soil from the garden store, and stuck a few plants in that I picked up at Merrifield Garden Center.   I am wondering how it will endure the frigid winter, but so far it's a nice addition to my garden.

Under construction:

And the final result:

Sharing a bike

2010-09-24T02:26:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago, a Capital Bikeshare stand appeared overnight like magic, within easy distance of my home.   Then, not too long after that, another one appeared right near my office.   It was as if it was being set up specifically for my needs.

I didn't think much more of it, though, since I ride my own bike to work almost every day.   But then one morning I was riding to work and something went "snap" in my wheel. A spoke had broken, and suddenly a wheel was now a pretzel.

I'd been a little leery of the bike sharing concept, particularly since I was sure that in the morning, it must be hard to find parking spaces at the bikeshare stands downtown, since most people would be going that way.     But now I had every incentive to give it a try.

This morning I popped my credit card into the slot, and in no time, I had my bike.   The first thing that struck me was how heavy it is, but my own bike is super light and nimble, so perhaps for normal people it's not that different.   I had to adjust the seat a bit, and the whole bike still felt weird, in the way riding someone else's bike feels weird.   Its three gears are very low, so even in high gear you can't go very fast. But that's OK, because the brakes are spongy and don't stop you quickly, either -- definitely designed so a novice won't hit them too hard and go flying over the handlebars.   Slow, heavy, spongy -- it feels like driving the bicycle equivalent of a Metrobus.

That's all good though -- this bike isn't for going for long weekend rides in Rock Creek Park, it's for getting from Point A to Point B.   It does that really well.    Perhaps because of the novelty of it, it also is a conversation starter -- a woman asked me about it as I was taking it out, and a guy on a bike asked me how I liked it at a traffic light down on 19th.

I got to work, and there were a couple of slots left at the rack (I still think running out of space is a potential problem) so I returned the bike and it locked. It felt strangely liberating walking away, knowing there was nothing I had to come back for.

Before summer's too far gone

2010-09-16T01:59:00.000Z

Late summer saw a couple of cool trips. In August we headed out to Seattle and Washington's Olympic Peninsula. Seattle is a chill city and the Peninsula is just beautiful, and even getting there and back is awesome on ferry rides out of Puget Sound.

And over Labor Day it was NYC, including a visit to the U.S. Open out in Flushing:

A stop at Cranky's Cafe, Long Island City, Queens:

A visit to the High Line, a park built on an abandoned elevated railroad in Manhattan:

And a long walk up 10th Avenue:

Tales from the Fringe

2010-07-12T01:50:00.000Z

I've already seen two plays from this year's Capital Fringe Fest, and both, although very different, were well worth seeing.

The first, Things I wrote Before My First Kiss, consists of two plays the director/producer actually wrote when she was 12, and submitted to 21 Jump Street and Doogie Howser. She was a far better writer at age 12 than I will ever be, and the two plays are funny and engrossing (as are the "commercial breaks" built into the show).

The second was Ten/Thirty Four, which retells the D.C. riots of 1968 through the actual words of witnesses and participants. This story holds particular fascination to me, as when I first arrived in the DC area in 1980, the scars of the riots were still very much visible (and remained visible until only a few years ago).    This play is intense and gripping, and the actors do a good job of conveying the anger and passion of that time.

After both plays, I found myself thwarted in pursuit of a half smoke.   The first play, we saw on Saturday night, and we went by "Fort Fringe" at 6th and New York afterwards. I ordered a half smoke off the menu along with a yummy Peak Organic.   The scene there was fun -- an outside bar, perfect weather, and friendly people including many of the actors and participants in Fringe.   But they'd run out of half smokes, and instead I had to make do with a hot dog.

We saw Ten/Thirty Four on Sunday, and we popped by The Passenger on 7th St for lunch after.   The place was in sleepy lunchtime mode, and I ordered a half smoke with chili off the menu.   The chili was delicious, and the sausage was good too, but it definitely was not a half smoke.

The 4th of July

2010-07-05T23:31:00.001Z

As usual, the official fireworks on the Mall this year served only as a catalyst for the real show -- a huge spontaneous celebration around the city, as every block seemed to try to outdo every other block with its own impressive pyrotechnic displays.

For the first time this year, we watched the fireworks from Cardozo Hill, and for the second time this year found the hill closed to traffic and full of people (the first being the Great Blizzard of '10).   Apparently the Washington Post and numerous bloggers had identified the hill as a choice spot, which means that many people flooded in from far beyond the neighborhood.   Unfortunately, while this hill affords an incredible view of the city in general, because of a few critically located buildings and trees, there are actually very few good places to stand and see the fireworks unobstructed.

Nonetheless, everyone enjoyed their obstructed views with good spirits, and the cheers grew louder as the fireworks crescendoed into their grand finale. And even as the official display was winding up, the neighborhood denizens were cranking up their own efforts.

On my street, rival groups staged displays which must have taken months of efforts to procure, and many thousands of dollars as well, with fireworks shooting high up in the sky, some as impressive as anything on the Mall.   (Of one guy at 13th and Columbia, we asked how much the Xerox-box sized incendiary he'd just lit off cost, and for just one such box, $84 and purchased down in North Carolina). At the same time, people of less means, or less willingness to drive hundreds of miles to smuggle the best stuff back into the District, made do with the stuff you can buy legally in DC, fireworks that shot plumes up above one's head, but not high in the sky.    They were still impressive, and the effect was like a garden where you have trees higher up, and then shrubbery underneath.

And then there were the real outliers, like the guy we saw run out of the shadows in the alley across the street and toss something and run the other way, like someone tossing a grenade.   "That guy just threw an M-80!" my friend exclaimed, and no sooner had he said it that there was a blinding flash and a window-rattling boom that took our breath away. I was glad it hadn't beeen any closer to us.

Interestingly, the bottle rockets which were ubiquitous in years past -- you're supposed to stick them in bottles or the dirt, but people hold them in their hands and launch them that way instead, as if it wasn't dangerous enough already -- were nowhere to be seen this year, at least not in my section of Columbia Heights.

To make sure this felt uniquely like 2010, one of our neighbors blew a vuvuzela, which when blown solo sounds more like a plaintive buffalo than the swarm of angry bees it usually sounds like from World Cup matches. It was a perfect accompaniment to the rockets whistling by overhead in every direction.

DC is well known for its do-it-yourself spirit, but that's usually associated with nerdy indy music kids. But the annual 4th of July celebration proves that spirit runs much deeper than that.

Columbia Heights Farmers Market

2010-07-04T16:54:00.001Z

The Columbia Heights Farmers Market has been in operation for a few weeks now, so it's now possible to make a fair assessment.   And unfortunately, each week I come away feeling disappointed, with many of the things I need still on my shopping list still there, and despite my best intentions I end up going to Giant or the Dupont Circle farmer's market to complete the list.

Specific things that are hard to find there but are readily available at other markets -- this is basic stuff -- lettuce, onions, peppers.   Yes, this Saturday there was one guy selling lettuce, but it was in a tub with water in the bottom, on the ground, and it seemed like every person that came by with their dog let the dog stick its snout in the tub. Not appetizing.

On the positive side there is one stand selling sausages which are absolutely delicious. And I've gotten really good tomatoes there too.   There are two places selling really good bread.   So there is enough to keep me coming back, but I wish it could be a one-stop shopping experience.

We in DC's paper and e-mail pushing culture tend to romanticize people who work the land, but farmers are flawed people just like everyone else is -- but I never expected this point to be proven like it was on Saturday, when a woman at one stall started hollering at an elderly woman in a flowered hat who was asking for her change, saying she'd already given it to her. The amount in question was only a few cents, and this was a battle she was just never going to win. The elderly woman quietly stood her ground, until the proprietor realized she was wrong, and finally grudgingly accepted without an apology and gave the lady her change.    At the same stall, a guy was talking loudly on his cell phone, standing directly in front of the produce, while a couple of people including me struggled to get around him to get to the goods.   At first I thought it was an inconsiderate customer, but he finished the call and started moving stuff around and I realized he worked there, too.

I ought to point out that everyone else at that market is incredibly nice. And it's a great addition to the neighborhood -- but I do hope that they find a way to up the variety a bit (and keep the dogs out of the produce).

Meridian Pint

2010-07-03T16:00:00.000Z

Popped by the long-anticipated Meridian Pint (11th and Park) on its second night of operation last night. I must admit, I've had my doubts about this place -- it's been planned for up to 3 years, and it sounded like it would be huge, in a relatively cozy neighborhood where huge restaurants don't really seem to fit.

The good news is that while it is indeed big, it doesn't feel out of place. And on a Friday night, despite a large crowd, it didn't feel uncomfortably packed.

An efficient, friendly and cute waitress brought me my beer, a Hopping Frog Double IPA. I was briefly annoyed to realize I'd inadvertently ordered the most expensive beer on the menu ($20!) until I tasted it -- it was delicious, and it came in such a large bottle that one could make a whole night of it, which I did.

The place seems to be running incredibly smoothly for only its second night, which no doubt is testament to the fact that the owner has been doing this for many years (at Asylum). It's got a good feel, and last night I realized that it fills a needed gap in the neighborhood. I look forward to going back.

The long reach of the vuvuzela, Part II

2010-06-27T12:40:00.000Z

On a balmy Washington afternoon, I was vaguely aware of the ongoing U.S. - Ghana game, but without cable TV, and without enough energy left to even refresh a web browser due to a horrific case of post-travel jet lag, I wasn't doing much about it. But late in the afternoon, I heard an unmistakable sound: a lone vuvuzela, blown triumphantly from the window of a car passing down my Columbia Heights street. At that point, I knew that Ghana had won, eliminating the U.S. from the World Cup.

I went online, and confirmed my suspicion about what that sound meant. I must admit, I had mixed feelings -- Ghana's loss would've meant the elimination of the last African team; but America's team had conducted itself with dignity and professionalism that seems rare nowadays, and the World Cup suddenly held a little less interest with them out. It had been a good run.

Nowhere / Everywhere

2010-06-26T17:21:00.003Z

Nowhere / Everywhere, originally uploaded by alex.DC.

Changi Airport, Singapore

The long reach of the vuvuzela

2010-06-20T10:28:00.001Z

I'm spending a few days in Jakarta, Indonesia, which actually is the ancestral home of this blog. Last night I took advantage of a relatively cool, post-rain evening and went for a walk in one of the few areas of the city that actually is walkable, and crowded with hundreds of food stands and warungs, informal outdoor restaurants serving up delicious foods and smells.

The Ghana vs. Australia game of the World Cup had begun, and everywhere I walked, people had little TVs propped on crates or whatever, with gaggles of people standing around watching raptly. The normally intense traffic had thinned noticeably as the game got underway, and for for once the predominant sound in Jakarta was not traffic, but the South African vuvuzela played from cheap TV speakers, sounding like a million humming insects coming from every direction.

Cool stuff

2010-06-12T21:24:00.001Z

So much stuff is passing by so quickly, it's hard not to capture it all without becoming a full-time blogger, which I am full of resolve not to do.

So last night we headed down to Rock & Roll Hotel to catch Olivia Mancini. I'd seen her before, but this was the first time with a full band. She was great, and the band was great. And the answer to a question I'd been pondering finally came to me: how did someone with that much talent appear out of nowhere, and the answer is she didn't, she used to play in another favorite band of mine, Washington Social Club.

Another thing dawned on me, which is why the name of the band the Andalusians sounded familiar to me -- I remembered that their CD had been handed to me during the Third Battle of Manassas, in 2008. Sadly, I didn't remember this in time to make an effort to catch their set as well, and so we missed them.

Then today I headed over to Malcolm X Park to eat my sandwich, and I saw a wedding in progress down by the lower part of the fountain. Out of respect, I didn't take pictures. But I could afford no such respect to another unusual sight that greeted me when I climbed the steps to the top part of the park, and I whipped out my cameraphone:

Yes, the 2010 Seersucker Social. I had no idea what this actually was until I got home and looked it up, perhaps because I haven't been following Gwadzilla closely enough.

One-beer Monday

2010-06-10T01:29:00.000Z

As part of my ongoing resolution to get out more, I decided to treat myself to a one-beer Monday.    After checking what was going on at several clubs, I settled on DC 9, where Burnt Ones and MillionYoung were playing.

Burnt Ones, from Indiana, described themselves as "minimalist/psychedelic/thrash," and did not disappoint.    Minimalist in terms of the lineup: two guys (guitar/bass) and a girl on drums.   Loud, huge sound reminiscent of My Bloody Valentine and Jesus and Mary Chain (and T Rex).   I stuffed napkins in my ears, and enjoyed.

MillionYoung couldn't have been more different, lounge-y sparse pop, with a glowing Mac featuring prominently as the third member of the small band. And yet they were good --- and the two bands worked together.   Not for the first time it struck me that whoever is booking bands at DC9 is doing a good job.

Finishing my beer, I headed out into the coolish evening. A rarely-seen 64 was waiting at the light over on 11th, and the driver held up for me. I thanked him as I boarded and the bus began its way up the hill. It had been a good night.

Day 1 after Lasik

2010-06-05T20:32:00.000Z

I woke the morning after my operation, and as habit would have it, picked my phone up off the floor next to my bed to check the time. I held it close to my face, as I usually did before I put on my glasses.   I couldn't see it -- it was all blurry.   But then I looked at the clock across the room, and I could read it, something I'd never been able to do before.

I walked around the house, looking at stuff.   My distance vision was OK, things up close were still blurry.   I couldn't read email, which was probably good because someone (not my doctor) had told me that you should try to avoid stuff like that at first.   Throughout the day, my vision improved, which was kind of an amazing thing to notice.   By mid afternoon, when I went to my post-op checkup, I could read my phone without much effort.    The only thing I noticed was going down into the Metro -- in the dark, there were halos around all the lights and things were blurry. Kind of like looking through glasses after they'd been accidentally smudged with makeup.   The doctor said I was coming along great, though.

In the evening, I kind of wasn't even thinking about this anymore.   The eyes felt a little bit uncomfortable, but no worse than contacts used to feel. I was told that would go away eventually too (and I certainly hope it does -- it doesn't always).   We set out for Room 11 for a bite to eat and some wine.

Passing Wonderland on the way to Room 11, we saw there were empty spots at the benches. It was so lovely outside that we decided to change our plans and stop there.    We ended up sitting with some friendly people, and chatting about random stuff (one woman was trying to tell me that nuclear radiation never killed anybody).   It was the best kind of Wonderland night, people from the neighborhood, relaxed and not too crowded, and no 'tude on anyone.

Two of the people we were sitting with wore glasses, and at one point in the evening the classic geek ritual of swapping glasses and joking about each others' prescriptions began.   Having worn glasses since I was 6, I suddenly felt a sense of sadness that I was now an outsider in the Bespectacled-American community. These were my peeps and I could not longer be fully accepted among them. I realized, not for the first time, that change, even when it is overwhelmingly for the positive, always brings loss as well.

Checking a few boxes

2010-06-03T15:18:00.000Z

Sometimes it takes me years, literally, between the time I start thinking about doing something and the time I actually get it done. When I finally get it done, it's very satsifying. A few examples:

Installing a rain barrel: this one was so easy. The one hard part was hacksawing through my downspout to install the diverter, which is an ingeniously simple device that diverts rain water to the barrel until it is full, and after that it goes down the spout. You can get these at Home Depot now, and the whole process took about 15 minutes. One rainfall was enough to fill it up, and now I have ample water to water my yard on dry days. I expect this to pay for itself in one month -- during the summer my monthly water bill goes up by almost $50 from watering the yard. And the plants love rainwater.

Planting the treebox alongside the sidewalk in front: I resisted this because I knew it would be hard work, and it was. There is a beautiful old tree growing in the treebox, and the dirt around it is almost as hard as concrete. Digging through that was exhausting work. Once I'd succeeded I mixed the dug up dirt with compost and garden soil, and put a few flowers in and put down some mulch. Not only does it look nice, but I'm hoping that it will also mean improved soil and rainwater for the tree. That was actually my main motivation.

Getting LASIK: Ever since I stopped being able to wear contact lenses, maybe 10 years ago, I've been thinking about LASIK. The idea of it creeped me out a bit, though, and kind of scared me. I almost did it two years ago and then a bunch of articles came out right before my surgery date about underreported problems. But yesterday I finally did it. The procedure takes about 10 minutes, and you're conscious throughout, and it's bizarre and disturbing as hell. No pain because they numb your eyeballs. But as soon as you're done, you can already see without your glasses, although it's nowhere near perfect. They warn you that it takes some time for it to "take" fully -- this morning it's much better. It's pretty cool to be able to wake up and see clearly for the first time since around age 6.

Someone got Iced outside my window

2010-05-31T20:21:00.001Z

The other night I heard a commotion outside my window. That in itself was not unusual, except for the voice yelling, "you've been iced, dude!"

It turned out that they were playing the latest frat-boy drinking game: "the rules are simple: If a person sees a Smirnoff Ice, he or she must get down on one knee and chug it, unless they happen to be carrying their own Smirnoff, in which case they can "ice block," or refract the punishment back onto the attacker," explains CNN Money.

I might roll my eyes at fratboy-types infiltrating the neighborhood, and wonder how much longer into the night it would take these oblivious public drinkers before they became the next mugging statistic. But given the fact that in the not-too-distant past, people have been getting iced here for real, I had to admit that overall this represented an improvement.

And then, much later that night, around 3 am, I awoke to the sound of angry people yelling. "I'm not moving my car!" a lady was yelling. It turned out that a woman had stopped in the middle of the street to let off a passenger, blocking the whole road; people behind her had understandably gotten angry; and she had reacted by digging her heels in and refusing to move. It took about 10-15 minutes for a cop to arrive on the scene, with a major crosstown route blocked by one stubborn woman that whole time, and it appears he was writing her a well-deserved ticket. The most remarkable thing is despite all the yelling, nobody honked their horns, apparently conscious of the fact that the street was lined with homes in which people were asleep. Consideration even in the face of extreme inconsideration.

Rock Creek Park

2010-05-28T02:09:00.000Z

I'd forgotten until yesterday that my daily bike ride home could be done through Rock Creek Park, instead of through the urban core. It's such a treat. On a hot day like today, the park is always noticeably cooler, and the noise of the city subsides. The smells of nature are striking too, the trees, the creek, the plant life. It smells and feels different each time I ride through. Today it was threatening to rain, and with the darkening skies and every big drop that hit me, I contemplated exiting at one of the various points -- Pennsylvania Avenue, P Street, Calvert Street -- but instead kept going. I made it up to Peirce Mill, and as I sat on the picnic bench taking on this quieter, greener world around me, I felt glad I'd stuck it out. I'm going to make it a daily experience as long as summer lasts.

The Heights

2010-05-21T02:48:00.000Z

I have to admit, I've never been a particular fan of The Heights, a restaurant located in the very center of Columbia Heights.    Each time I've tried it, the food has been mediocre, the place feels like a chain (actually it is, although a local one), but most irksome to me has been their unyielding policy of never allowing customers to sit at a table until the full party is there (Bistrot du Coin is guilty of that too -- one time they made my mom who is in her 70s stand because my dad was looking for a parking spot).   That is something you expect at a Fuddrucker's, not at a genuine neighborhood restaurant.

On the other hand, the location is incredible.   So I really want to like the place.   Last night, they were advertising that a portion of proceeds would support the new farmer's market that will open in Columbia Heights soon. A good cause. We decided to give it another try.

It started out well -- one of us arrived slightly earlier than the other, and was seated without fuss. A huge improvement if that particular practice has been dropped.   They brought out some yummy fresh bread. So far so good.

Then I ordered the chicken kebab, which comes with a side salad, and the waiter tried to upsell me so aggressively that I thought there was something wrong with the standard dish.    The waiter seemed pretty mellow otherwise, and an upsell like that can only increase the tip by a fraction at most, so I can only guess this is another policy of the restaurant.

The meal itself was OK -- the chicken kebab was actually really good, but the "Jasmine rice" that came with it seemed no more tasty than Uncle Ben's, and the veggies that came with it were weak.   A much better kebab dish can be had at Skewer's down at 17th and P, or at Moby Dick.   This may seem fussy, but one still can have high expectations for a $60 dinner in this town.

I guess I'll try The Heights again in another year, and continue to hope that it's changed.

Seeing spots in Columbia Heights

2010-05-16T15:48:00.001Z

The invitation came to me via Facebook, through a friend of a friend. "Cheetah Aid DC, 2010."   I generally ignore 90 percent of Facebook invites, but this one caught my eye -- a chance to see a real live cheetah, in Columbia Heights, at a fundraiser to help cheetahs (http://cheetahaiddc.com/ch/).

I mentioned it to my girlfriend, but I didn't get the point across very well, initially (Hey, wanna go to a $50 a person fundraiser and see a cheetah?)   So I had to spell it out:

"There's going to be a real live cheetah.

On the roof top of a beautiful new building.

In Columbia Heights.

With an open bar.

And food.

And a DJ."

At that point, she was sold.   We went up to the rooftop of the Park Triangle Apartments on Kenyon, paid our $50, and joined a small crowd that was beginning to gather, availing ourselves of some white wine at the bar.   Like any rock star, the cheetah was late, so we relaxed on the patio chairs and speculated on how the cheetah would arrive. In a cage? Free roaming? By the elevator?

Happily, he arrived only on a leash, with a couple of handlers.   They told us that's how he traveled, and he actually was staying in a hotel room with them.   He was the size of a very large, super-sleek, muscular dog.   Remarkably, he was purring, loudly -- we were about 10 feet away from him and could hear him clearly.   In mannerisms, he was in every way exactly like a giant housecat. He gladly jumped on to a table so everyone could get a better look, as his handler fed him little morsels of chicken.

The people gathered there were pretty much a self-selected sample of lovers of cats of all sizes, and all were mesmerized by his presence.   And I think we all were slightly disappointed that we weren't allowed to cuddle him.

Columbia Heights Creepout

2010-05-07T02:36:00.001Z

While weeding my front yard a few days ago, I came across a huge kitchen knife, lying amidst the vinca vines.   Although there was no blood on it or anything like that, there was something about it that creeped me out intensely.

And, what to do about it? I couldn't figure that out.    None of the answers seemed that easy. I didn't want it in the house. I couldn't just toss it in the trash because it could slice through the bag and hurt someone.

Call the cops?   That's what one might do if one found a different kind of weapon, like a gun, lying in one's yard. But sometimes a knife is just a knife, and I could imagine an officer, showing up at my door, pissed off because he had to write a report about something as lame as a kitchen knife found in a yard.

Still, my imagination wouldn't let go of it. Why would someone be carrying a giant kitchen knife on the street?    Why would they toss it over a hedge into someone's yard?

I scanned the web for any news reports of a stabbing. Nothing.   Of course, a non-lethal stabbing probably wouldn't make the news. It sat there for a few days while I thought about it, and I realized that even creepier than the knife's appearance, was the prospect that someone might come back for it and I'd find it gone.   That was enough to cause me to wrap it in newspaper and duct tape so it wouldn't hurt anyone, and finally throw it out.

It happened in a bar on the far side of town

2010-05-04T22:38:00.000Z

I was sitting in a mostly empty bar on a cool, drizzly evening, far across town on the H Street Corridor. The music that was playing was typical hipster indie stuff, circa 2010, with the occasional outlier like Guns n Roses thrown in.

A few stools down from me, I overheard a woman ask the bartender, with enthusiasm in her voice: "Did you make this mix?"

The bartender, who with her world-weary manner struck me as a woman who had spent a significant amount of time in "the industry," answered, "actually, it's the jukebox."

"Oh," said the woman. "Because whoever chose those songs has incredible taste."

"Actually," said the bartender, "it's on random play right now.   So it's just playing the top 20 most popular songs."

"Oh," said the woman. "Well you're lucky to work in a place where you get to hear such great music."

"It's the same 20 songs over and over again. It's like working at The Gap," said the bartender.

"Well at least it's good music." the woman replied.

"To be honest, I don't really like it."

"Oh.   Well, what do you like?"

"I like country. I don't like this stuff."

"You should listen more closely to some of it, though," the woman persisted, although puzzlement was beginning to creep into her voice.   "There are overtones of country in a lot of it."

"It makes me want to blow my brains out," said the bartender.

At this point a man who had been sitting silently at the bar with an amused expression on his face spoke up. "I don't think she likes this music," he said to his friend.

Bumper nuts

2010-05-01T16:36:00.000Z

Yesterday, coming home, I found not one but two vehicles blocking my alley. I would probably have let this go, except for the fact that one of the vehicles, a pickup truck, had bumper nuts hanging from the bumper. (Look them up if you don't know, but perhaps not at work). So the guy was blocking my way, AND a confirmed douche. I called the city without hesitation.

About a half hour the cops showed up and the plot thickened -- it turned out that both vehicles were stolen and abandoned, and the thieves had driven the two vehicles down the alley to get away and apparently fled on foot when they realized it was a dead end.

So while I initially had thought the day's lesson was that bad taste can cause a stranger to cut you less slack and get you ticketed, apparently the real lesson is bad taste can get someone to call the cops and find your stolen truck.

Nationals 5, Dodgers 1

2010-04-24T17:40:00.002Z

I'm not a huge baseball fan, but on the other hand, there's no better way to spend a beautiful Friday evening in the spring hanging out with some friends, drinking beer, and watching a perfectly-mowed field that some people are playing a game on. We had one Dodgers fan amongst our group, so a bit of a debate ensued, but as one person accurately pointed out, "it's really just a matter of which team sucks slightly less." And before the game there was the party that occurs across the street, basically a giant beery frat party with a band that I heard never actually saw. But it's all fun when you're with your peeps.

Past the 7th inning, it was pretty clear how the game was going to turn out, and one of our group, one of the few real sports fans among us, retreated to the bar to watch the Capitals game that was going on at the same time. We had more beer to drink and high-cholesterol food to consume, so we stayed through the 9th inning as the crowds thinned.

After the game I rode my bike home from the stadium, westward along K Street to avoid South Cap, and then northbound up 4th Street SW. With the Nationals victorious, legions of people thronged back towards their cars and homes, as fireworks echoed in the sky. As I rode through the mostly empty streets of Southwest, I wondered how the locals felt about this regular fireworks display well past 10pm.

Further uptown, I rode past the eastern edge of Chinatown as Caps fans were also getting out of their game at the Verizon Center. The Caps had lost, so these folks didn't seem in quite as good a mood. But it was still a beautiful night. I continued up 14th Street at a rapid pace, energized by the mood of the evening, the cool night air in my face, and the beer calories I was burning off.

Cork

2010-04-23T12:09:00.001Z

I finally checked out Cork this week, after wondering about it since its inception. On a beautiful night, the place was crowded, but efficiently run -- we were steered to the bar while waiting for the table, where I had my first glass of red wine, which was yummy. It didn't take long for them to get us a table and the waiter came and found us rather than yelling our name out as some places do, (about 3/4 of a glass worth of time), and he helped catch the busy bartender's attention to close us out.

For dinner I ordered the steak, which came on a huge plate that made it look tiny. But it was good, and it was actually a bit bigger than it looked, and I'm not into huge portions anyway. The second glass of wine was something the waitress recommended, which she said had a "crunchy red fruit" taste, which sounded like wine b.s., but it was good nonetheless.

Besides the excellent service and the good wine and food, the place has a nice atmosphere, and not overly precious as I'd feared a wine bar might be. We left knowing we'd be back soon.

Rites of Spring

2010-03-10T12:26:00.000Z

With the temperature climbing delightfully up into the 50s this weekend, I took my bike out into Rock Creek Park for the first time since last fall. The park was winter-brown and barren of leaves, and yet somehow it felt like spring -- perhaps the sound of the creek rushing by still swollen with snowmelt. I was reminded how much I love this park, where I have been riding my bike since I was 14 or so, back when a ride from Maryland into DC seemed like an epic journey. The park has changed in so many little ways since then, but in so many big ways, it is the samee.

Out on 14th Street, the sidewalks were filled with people, including some, improbably, wearing shorts -- a bit premature for that, I'd say.

As another sign of spring's imminence, a huge girlfight erupted outside my window with what sounded like a dozen teenagers screaming a host of obscenities at each other in shrill voices. Eventually a few male voices joined the mix, too. Ah, the sound of summer to come.

And then last evening I was sitting on my deck and I heard a cacophony of honking, and looked up and saw geese flying high above in an almost perfect V formation. "The geese are returning to DC," I thought, until I was reminded that no, geese fly north in the springtime, and they were probably just passing through from some warmer winter spot in the south on a long journey northward. A timeless ritual, even more timeless than teenagers exploding in unnecessary drama on the first warm days before spring.

Movies update

2010-03-09T12:15:00.000Z

Three movies I've seen recently:

Revolution Road: I was expecting something like "Mad Men," because it's set in almost the same era. But it's like the downscale "Mad Men" -- our protagonist played by Leonardo DiCaprio works in a cubicle, not an office. And he's not as dramatically messed up as Don, but still just as unhappy. His wife, played by Kate Winslet, has a much more ferocious independent streak than Betty Draper. It's hard to imagine, but ultimately this movie is far more depressing than "Mad Men," which is depressing enough. But it's beautifully done.

Mean Streets: The 1973 Martin Scorcese classic of small-time gangsters in New York. It's great to watch the antics of a young Robert DeNiro and Harvey Keitel as they try to make it in their gritty world, often acting more like kids than grown-ups. The movie takes an ambling pace towards its sad conclusion.

Paris, Texas: This is a movie about staggering loneliness, and it makes constant, beautiful use of the American southwest as a backdrop to communicate that, along with Ry Cooder's haunting guitar lines. A slow-moving story, but it never loses its grip.

It's getting old

2010-02-11T22:17:00.001Z

On Tuesday evening, with the first flakes of the new storm already falling, I decided to combat cabin fever by meeting some friends at Wonderland for a beer.

Well into the first pint, the owner came by and mentioned that a free beer was in the offing for anyone who shoveled the sidewalk out in front, and I foolishly accepted, thinking it would be a quick and easy task. I hadn't counted on the fact that the snow had already been packed hard by people walking by, and even less so had I expected Wonderland's snow shovel to be basically a glorified kitty litter scoop, with only half a handle. The half-handle meant you had to shovel bent over, which made me feel every one of my 43 years. I gave up halfway through, and although my friends jokingly suggested that I was now entitled to half a free beer, I knew better than to try to claim reward for a job not finished.

Later that night, I walked home (I'm happy to say I was not among the fools who threw snowballs at cops at Wonderland later that night -- what is wrong with people this year?), and the snow was thickening, but by midnight, it appeared to have stopped. A lot of fuss over nothing? But the Capital Weather Gang and others still insisted that a huge storm was on the way.

By Wednesday morning I saw what they were talking about, with howling winds and snow so driving that at times outside the window just looked like a wall of white. Not a soul was even trying to move in this weather -- the street was completely empty.

Only by 2pm did I dare to go out and shovel. It was still coming down but not as hard. A man walking by called out to me, because in snowstorms, people call out to each other -- the shared adversity temporarily brings people together. "Still coming down," he yelled.

"I know," I yelled back. "It's a losing battle."

"Ya gotta do it now or it'll be worse later," he called through the storm.

"That's what I'm thinking," I called back as I tossed a shovelful and it blew back in my face.

After that, I struggled over to Tynan Coffee and Tea, just to see something other than my whitened street. 14th Street was an odd scene, dark silhouettes walking through blowing snow. The snow felt just like beach sand beneath my feet -- on the beach, that's when you take your shoes off to get more traction, but I wasn't going to do that.

Getting to Tynan felt like a trek, and I must have been an odd sight -- snow all over my face, my glasses were steamed up so I couldn't see, and I realized when I was trying to order that I was out of breath. "Take your time," the woman behind the counter said. Thankfully there were a couple of empty seats left and I hung out just long enough to warm up a bit before beginning the struggle back home.

Arriving home, I noticed to my chagrin that an outdoor lamp at the front door that I'd installed in December, and was quite proud of, had been knocked loose and bent by the snow and wind. It was still up there but it looked pretty precarious. That put me in a bad mood. I was pretty much over this weather.

The Great Blizzard of 2010

2010-02-08T02:59:00.002Z

A day like Saturday is so rare. The entire city at peace, under a blanket of white snow. Because of that, I spent as much of my day outside as I could, despite the cold. The first time, in the morning, the snow was still falling -- driving actually, right into our eyes -- we walked as far as we could before it got painful, over past Sherman Avenue, then up Sherman and westward on Kenyon.

Walking over to 14th, the only place open seemed to be Starbucks, and through the window I spotted an astonishing collection of hipsters, gazing into their glowing laptops, gathered together as if for comfort in the raging snowstorm.

Feeling nearly frozen by this time, I went home and did some shoveling, which depleted any energy I had left. By 4pm, the snow was tapering off, and it was time for more shoveling, including a path through the deep snow of my back yard so the alley cats could get to their food dish. And then I set out on another walk, down the 14th Street hill.

By this time, the storm had largely lifted, and so had the city's mood. The major artery of 14th street had no traffic, and was filled with people walking, partly because they could, and partly because they had to. The snow was packed hard, and not for the first time I found myself wishing I owned some skis. An investment that might pay off one day every five years it, but so worth it to zip down 14th Street!

A man was walking down 14th Street on the other side, and in a booming West Indian voice he was shouting, "God has blessed us with this snow!" As he went on, I thought about the problem with attributing such widespread events to divine provenance -- we seemed blessed by the beauty of the day, but by the same account were the people without power and heat damned? He kept going on and got in a few "hallelujahs," and a couple of guys shoveling out a car that I was walking past muttered "hallelujah" in response each time he yelled it.

U Street, thankfully, was devoid of people playing cops-and-snowballs -- just people walking around enjoying the day. Although most places were shut, I was pleasantly surprised to find Bar Pilar open, and briefly contemplated stopping for a beverage until I saw that it was completely packed.

I kept walking, and entranced by the beauty of Rhode Island Avenue, overhung with trees white with snow and ice, I turned towards Logan Circle.

From there, I continued down 13th Street, and as one might expect, there were far fewer people walking around closer to the Central Business District.

Franklin Square Park reminded me of something out of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, when the kids first discover Narnia as a frozen winter wonderland.

By this time, the sun was setting, and I turned back up 14th. It was getting considerably colder and I was sore all over from walking and shoveling, and I wasn't relishing the long walk back up the hill to Columbia Heights. Happily, I found Polly's open, with seats at the bar aplenty. I popped in, but sadly the kitchen wasn't open so I only stayed for one beer. But the beer, the fireplace, and a random cell phone call from an old friend were enough to give me the energy to continue on my journey, back up the hill.

It had been a good day.

To see these photos and the rest of my photos from the blizzard as a slide show, click here.

Steppin' Out into the snow

2010-02-05T20:43:00.006Z

A little before noon this morning, the first flakes of what promised to be a huge snowstorm began falling. It was 37 degrees outside, and the flakes were so small, and melting instantly on the ground, it would have seemed inconsequential were it not for forecasts of up to two feet.

I felt pretty prepared, even though I'd run out of ice melt in the last minor snow. There was no way I was going to joined the frightened masses lining up at the Giant, buying toilet paper and milk, and whatever else it is that panic-buying hordes buy. I'd just have to rely on shovel alone, and ice be damned.

Knowing that something huge was approaching us, a general air of anxiety seemed to pervade the city: the lines at Giant, the many people off work, the heavier than normal traffic, the worse than usual driving.

"Snowpocalypse," and its close relatives, "snOMG," and "snowmageddon," momentarily clever terms way back in December 2009, had become some of the fastest cliches in history, relegated to that status by a million echoing blogs and the media that follow them. All that was left to describe what was coming was the traditional and somewhat inadequate "big-ass snowstorm."

Around 2, I headed out to drop off some dry cleaning and have lunch. I walked passed Chipotle on 14th. More crowded than ever as people stocked up their stomachs as well as their cupboard's. Julia's Empanadas was empty though, as usual -- hard to understand since the empanadas are pretty good. The snow was still kind of inconsequential as I walked in.

By the time I left Julia's though, maybe a half hour later, things had changed. The flakes were bigger, and I noticed that in the short time I'd been inside, it had gotten considerably colder -- in fact, almost slipping on the sidewalk a couple of times I realized that the stuff was starting to stick. It became clear how this was going to get serious.

On the way home I walked into the CVS on 14th. Joe Jackson's "Steppin' Out" was playing:

We...
So tired of all the darkness in our lives
With no more angry words to say can come alive
Get into a car and drive
To the other side

Amazingly the store was almost totally empty. Even more amazingly, they had a few bags of icemelt left in a forlorn pile. I grabbed a couple and headed to the register. "Need a bag?" the cashier asked, as the hypnotic bass line from Joe Jackson's song played in the background.

"Yeah," I said, but thought to myself, "that's gonna need two bags." Sure enough he plopped the two bags of icemelt into a single CVS bag, and they immediately fell through the bag from the weight. He and his coworker had a chuckle about this, and he put them back into individual bags instead.

My last bit of anxiety assuaged by the unexpected icemelt find, I stepped back out into the thickening snowfall. Joe Jackson was still playing as I walked out of the CVS:

We...
Are young but getting old before our time
We'll leave the T.V. and the radio behind
Don't you wonder what we'll find
Steppin out tonight

Untold Stories of 2009, Part 1

2010-01-31T19:17:00.000Z

Before this year gets too far along, I need to document a few things that I missed writing about during 2009.

Part I: How to Lose Weight Without Trying

I usually don't think too much about my weight. In fact, a couple of years ago my scale broke, and then I really stopped thinking about it. But then, last year, my girlfriend got a Wii Fit, and it weighed me as a part of registering my character. It told me I'd lost 15 pounds.

15 pounds seemed pretty extreme, especially since I hadn't actually been trying to lose weight. Plus I'm on the slim side naturally so I don't really have a wealth of extra pounds to shed. I didn't entirely believe the Wii but I confirmed its reading elsewhere. Searching the web "unexplained weight loss" was a bad idea, and fed my natural hypochondria.

And then after a trip to Asia in the fall, I went to my dentist for my regular checkup, and he said to me, "you lost weight. If you lose any more you'll look gaunt." By that time I was convinced I had come down with some rare, fatal condition.

I went to the doctor in November and he told me there was nothing wrong with me. Not wanting to look "gaunt," I increased my diet (the arrival of the new Chipotle in Columbia Heights certainly helped). And as of this month, I am back to slightly below normal, which is right where I want to be. So I'm backing off the tortillas.

I still don't know what that was all about. I suspect it was two things, mostly the fact that I rode my bike to work every day last year. Now it's too cold to ride so I'm taking the bus. The second was on two successive trips, I ate something bad. No faster way to lose weight than food poisoning!

Watching BHO with the GOP

2010-01-28T23:44:00.001Z

I wasn't going to watch the State of the Union address -- these things from either party are usually boringly predictable, with perhaps the one unfortunate exception of the infamous "Axis of Evil" speech in 2002. But then I got an offer that was too tempting to resist from one of my friends. "Come watch BHO with the GOP!" It was State of the Union party for conservatives at a Georgetown bar. The idea of going deep into this alien culture was certainly appealing from a sociological perspective, and carried far more potential entertainment value than the official "watch parties" that Obama support groups set up, which sounded about as exciting as an Apple product launch.

I felt out of place even before getting in. The doorman outside said to me, "what event are you here for?" There was only one event. "I'm here for the Obama thing," I said. That didn't seem effective, and he gave me a dismissive look. I tried again, feeling a bit like Tareq Salahi scamming his way into the White House. "I'm here for the State of the Union Address." Those were the right words, and he waved me in.

Initially as I waded into the bar full of conservatives, I thought I could feel eyes drilling into me from all directions. But then I realized that they couldn't tell my political affiliation from looking at me. True I wasn't in a suit, and I suspected my black jeans and hand-woven scarf were particularly out of place, but maybe they just thought I was an edgy Republican. It was weird to be hanging out a bar in a crowd full of suits. And Republican women, they seemed to favor pearl necklaces, high heels, and stockings. Intriguing!

15 minutes before the speech, a guy behind the bar was on a microphone, calling out the rules for a drinking game. Sarah Palin briefly appeared on the screen (tuned to Fox News, of course), and the room cheered. Then the speech began, and I was surprised to hear shushing from around the room. The din eventually rose back up to almost normal bar levels, but for the most part, except for a guy who appeared to be the sole dim bulb in the room who kept yelling "***hole" and "liar," people were mostly respectful and there was even some applause at times. This was a classy crowd, despite their inexplicable politics.

The fun was enhanced because there was an open bar and we were well positioned to access the free drinks as well as to chat with our fellow speech watchers, few who realized that they were in the presence of a registered Independent and a registered Democrat.

After the speech ended, everyone turned to their conversations and their drinks -- it appeared to be rapidly turning into a conservative hookup fest, their hormones perhaps stimulated by seeing an hour of the man they love to hate -- and the GOP's rebuttal speech was completely ignored. Walking back from Georgetown we spotted a girl who I'd seen at the bar making out in a doorway with a guy from the party, and another couple who appeared to be going home together. Young Republican love, blossoming in the afterglow from Obama's rousing oratory.

Rosa Mexicano and Up in the Air

2010-01-24T17:18:00.004Z

This weekend we popped down to Gallery Place to see "Up in the Air," with a dinner at Rosa Mexicano beforehand. I've been to Rosa Mexicano before, a small chain that originated in New York, and the food was delicious. What kept me from coming more often was the crowds, the noise, and the small distance between tables. Of course, none of these things are unique to Rosa, and it's often why I usually only go out on weeknights these days.

Still, a reservation seemed to solve all these problems at once. We were seated within minutes of arriving; we had a nice table by the window; and the room we were in was a quieter part of the restaurant. The only remaining annoyance was the initial aggressive upselling effort by the waiter. Since that happened last time too, it must be standard procedure. He backed off after a couple of failed efforts (on the guacamole and water.)

I had the Alambre a la Mexicana, which the menu describes as Grilled cubes of beef tenderloin, chorizo sausage, onions, tomatoes and serrano peppers over house rice with tomatillo and tomato-chipotle sauces. Every bit of this was absolutely delicious, and I almost cleaned my plate despite the large portions. The waiter warned me about the serrano peppers, and so my first bite was very careful. It was hot, but not that hot, so I forgot about the warning. I must've gotten some seeds with another bite of food, because a few minutes later not just my mouth but my whole head was on fire, and my heart rate picked up. My mouth kept burning while my head changed from hot to cool, and the flavor of my next bites of food seemed enhanced while a calm came over me. It was awesome.

"Up in the Air" is the best movie I've seen in a long time -- not only does George Clooney do a great job in the lead role as Ryan Bingham, a corporate downsizer and motivational speaker who eagerly counts his frequent flier miles as they clock up to an unheard-of level, but the other characters are great too, especially the corporate sidekick he is saddled with, played by Anna Kendrick, who does a perfect job as an ambitious know-it-all 23 year old who hasn't yet figured out that life usually doesn't go according to plan. Ryan Bingham's existence in the no-mans land of planes, airports, hotels, reminds me of the way my own life has been in the years when I've racked up frequent flyer gold status, although unlike him I never relished it, and always looked forward to coming home. Washington Post has a good review here.

Spook Country

2010-01-18T23:33:00.000Z

I just finished reading Spook Country, by William Gibson. Although Gibson is usually cast as sci-fi, this book is set in the present -- or actually past, 2006. Gibson is one of my favorite authors, despite the fact that his plots and the characters are sometimes weak, and what I like about him is his ability to create fascinating artificial worlds. Perhaps that makes sense for an author credited with coining the term "cyberspace." The world of Spook Country is one of hipsters blending high tech and art ("locative technology," which was something new in 2006 but which you can now use on an Iphone), ex-CIA and KGB agents, murky, barely-defined threats -- in other words, exactly the world we live in. Wikipedia says it "captured the zeitgeist of post-9/11 American society," and despite the sometimes weak plotline, that by itself made it worth the read.

Saturday night in Columbia Heights

2010-01-18T00:02:00.000Z

Thanks to a blog tip, on Saturday we checked out the "Columbia Heights Salon Series," a series of mini art exhibits held in private homes a bit north of Park Road NW.   I didn't really know what to expect, and to my semi-skeptical girlfriend I justified it as "it'll be interesting to get to see the inside of some cool houses."

It turned out to be much more than that. For starters, there was a wine tasting at each house, so we got a little tipiser with each stop.   Some of the art was cool too, my favorites being in the house titled "Casa de Canvas," the first place we stopped on Holmead.   The last house, on Otis Place, "Installation Station," was the funnest -- by the time we got there it had turned into a full-fledged party with a DJ spinning tunes and stuff you could write on the walls.   And yes it was fun to see the inside of houses in our neighborhood, and walking from house to house felt like trick-or-treating on Halloween.

Afterwards we popped by Commonwealth, just at the end of the crowd surge and just in time to slide into a ready table without a wait.   The burger was good as usual; my girlfriend got something that turned out to be different from what she was expecting, and didn't eat much of it. The waiter noted that and comped us without any discussion at all, proving once again that Commonwealth is a class act.

Haiti

2010-01-15T03:07:00.000Z

I am subscribed to a service that sends me global earthquake alerts. Anything over 5.5, I get a text message.   I get a lot of them, and most of them don't mean anything, and from what's in the message I can kind of guess what the impact is going to be. At 5:17 pm on Tuesday, I was sitting in my cubicle, trying to decide when to leave work and whether or not I should go to the gym, when I got a message -- 6.5 earthquake in Haiti.   That couldn't be good, I thought, although I also felt some surprise that Haiti was even vulnerable to earthquakes.

A moment later a revised SMS came in. 7.3 magnitude.    Well, maybe it's off the coast, I hoped. I went to the US Geological Survey website (www.usgs.gov).   The map showed a big red square, right in the middle of Port au Prince. Really, really bad.   And unfortunately the news in the coming hours confirmed my worst fears and then some.

Not much else to say about the awfulness of it all. The important thing is, how to help, and that's to give money to an organization one trusts. Charity Watch has a listing of top-rated organizations (http://www.charitywatch.org/hottopics/Haiti.html). And the Red Cross has what's got to be the easiest donation scheme of all -- text "Haiti" to 90999 on a cell to send a $10 donation to support Red Cross.

At the end of "Mad Men"

2010-01-13T03:08:00.001Z

A while ago I mentioned my newfound addiction to the AMC show "Mad Men." I followed this addiction through to its logical conclusion, getting all the way to the end of the available DVDs at Netflix, at the end of Season Two. Now I'll have to wait.

I loved this show for its cooly complex characters, the intricate plots, the throwbacks to a time the far edges which I sort of remember from childhood. But there was something about it that got me down, as well, and watching one episode too many could put me in a seriously bad mood.

This puzzled me, because my previous TV addiction had been "The Wire," which I also watched from beginning to end, and despite the depictions of soul-destroying mayhem in every episode, it never left me feeling the same way.

On reflection, I think there were two things about this. First, it's hard to imagine any of the characters from "Mad Men" that I'd want to get to know in real life. They are fascinating and complex, but icy cool. One wants to keep one's distance. By contrast, even most of the bad guys in "The Wire," one develops a connection with. Omar, D, Proposition Joe -- these are people one could hang out with and get to know. There's good mixed in with most of them (and bad mixed in with most of the good guys).

More importantly, in "The Wire" there is almost always a ray of hope somewhere (even though it frequently is cruelly cut short). In "Mad Men," the characters' lives spin in small circles around each other, devoid of any happiness or even hope for happiness. The only one who seems to be enjoying life is Bertram Cooper, the owner of the entire ad agency. It's only not lonely at the top.

Nothing changes on New Year's Day

2010-01-02T18:46:00.001Z

Because I am highly averse to planning for New Year's Eve, each year I only decide what to do in the last days or hours before the holiday. Usually it works out -- in years past a friend or other has thrown a party, and we go, and a good time is had. This year it was clear that nobody else was going to do it, so at the last minute I decided to host a party. I expected a small gathering of fellow late-planners, but the turnout was amazing. I may have to do it again.

New Year's Day was crisp and beautiful, and not brutally cold, so we went for a late afternoon walk through Columbia Heights and the adjoining neighborhoods of Park View and Pleasant Plains. One of the great things about this time of year is how beautiful the afternoon light is, with the sun low in the sky:

The Breakup

2009-12-24T15:10:00.000Z

Because it takes me a long time to get around to anything, I'd been thinking about making the change for more than a year.   Usually, the thought would be strongest each month when Comcast's bill arrived. At those rates it almost would've been cheaper to travel to New York to watch The Daily Show and Colbert, the only things I watch with any regularity these days.

I'm actually not much of a couch potato at all, but when I moved a couple of years ago, having cable in my new digs seemed like a good idea. I think one reason it was hard to give up was I had personal investment in its installation: I watched the cable guy risk life and limb as he clambered up and down the ladder to precarious heights to reach the cable wires strung through my alley, and I helped him steady the ladder, and then later when he couldn't finish the job and said I needed to make another appointment for the interior wiring, I decided I was going to do that myself and learned how to cut and crimp coaxial cable connections, and eventually installed a signal amplifier, and felt a great sense of personal accomplishment when I was finally able to get a crisp digital signal on my screen.

As time passed, I began to realize that it was possible to stream almost anything I wanted to watch over the Internet, and that by hooking a computer up to my TV I could basically get the same stuff cable got me.   But it took this excellent article to confirm my thoughts about that approach.

Even after that, it took a few more weeks to call Comcast.   The arrival of a new cable bill did it though, and I called.   Of course they asked me if I was sure, and didn't I want to downgrade instead?   I held firm, and they told me to drop the cable box off at their office.

Like a junkie throwing away his works, I felt pangs of self-doubt about what I was doing even as I pulled into the parking lot of Comcast's offices on Michigan Avenue, NE.    Inside what i saw was their mission statement about excellent customer service emblazoned on the wall, belied by the DMV-like atmosphere, right down to "no restrooms available to public" signs hanging everywhere, and the bulletproof plexiglass that the clerks sat behind. To hand over the cable box I had to pass it through a secure box where I had to close the door on my side before the clerk would open the door on her side. I no longer had any doubts about my decision.

The Amazing Douchebag Melee of 2009

2009-12-22T23:29:00.002Z

As an unfortunate coda to the mostly delightful Snowpocalypse, we have the Amazing Douchebag Melee of 2009.   When I first woke up Sunday morning to read the story of the altercation between Internet flash-mobbing snowballers and an undercover cop at 14th and U, my first thought was, "almost all the people involved in this story must be douchebags."

That thought only deepened as I learned more.   It's hard to tell who came out looking the worst in this story.   There is the obvious, which is the undercover cop pulling out a weapon in a situation which clearly didn't require one, greatly escalating matters and helping turn this into a national story.   But that's where most people seem to want to both start and stop, and treat his action -- he didn't point it at anyone, and nobody got hurt or even arrested -- as one of the gravest injustices ever to befall the District.

But what about the people who threw snowballs at his car, and continued to snowball him when he got out and even after he identified himself?   Or, the people who thought it would be a good idea to have hundreds gather at a major intersection in the first place.   On the website where this was organized, a couple of people at the beginning suggested "why don't we do this in a park," which was a very sensible idea that was ignored.

The many videos posted on Youtube certainly show the cop's inappropriate actions, but they also show the crowd acting like jerks and trying to inflame the situation. More people have cameras than do not, and you can almost hear the thinking, "OMG, I can't wait to blog about this."

The blogosphere has been echoing with the handy catch phrase, "it's all fun and games until someone brings a gun to a snowball fight," which conveniently ignores that it probably was not fun and games for anyone just trying to get through that intersection under difficult conditions and running into a huge crowd throwing stuff.   Anyone who really thinks snowballs are harmless deserves to get hit in the face with one when they're not expecting it.

The sense of outraged entitlement that one gets from reading some of the comments from the Internet lynch mob -- how dare someone interrupt our fun -- is just astonishing, especially for anyone who has known this neighborhood for a long time.    14th and U is so much more than a playground for yuppies and Trustafarians.

Just about the only non-douchebags in the story seem to be the uniformed DC cops who responded to the initial 911 calls about a man with a gun.   They quickly figured out what was going on, restored calm, including calming down their undercover colleague, and didn't arrest anyone, which is remarkable restraint given that throwing stuff at unconsenting people legally counts as assault.

I think in the end one of the few in the media, mainstream or otherwise, to see this right was Petula Dvorak of the Washington Post: Everyone Was Wrong.

Still Screaming

2009-12-21T15:18:00.001Z

Last night I popped by the Black Cat to see the reunion of that legendary harDCore band, Scream.   It's been many years since I've seen them -- the last time being a much earlier reunion, back in the 90s at the old 930 club, with Dave Grohl on drums, back when Nirvana was at its azimuth and perhaps half the people at the sold out show were probably there for that reason.

Last night's show was billed as the original lineup, with Kent Stax on drums.    I'd forgotten how good they sounded, and I'd completely forgotten that some of their music is infused with a reggae touch, a la Bad Brains, making it much more interesting than vanilla hardcore.    "Does it sound like DC?" singer Peter Stahl called out to the audience at one point and the crowd yelled back. Reggae mixed with punk. Yes, that's what DC sounded like.

I ran into someone I knew back in the day (it was the night to do that), and I said I regretted not seeing them more back then, and she said "really, I saw them all the time, with so and so and so and so at such and such place" and I realized I was always with those peeps and therefore probably saw them all the time too.   That part of my life, late high school and early college, is a blur, and it struck me as I listened to how good they sounded that I probably never had fully appreciated them before.

For some of the reggae-ish numbers, a saxophone joined the band, and Dave Grohl actually joined them too, slipping quietly onto the side of the stage and playing a low-key role on guitar, and appearing to love every minute of it.    For the encore Brian Baker also appeared on the stage, looking remarkably like Mike Myers' Austin Powers character as he added in his signature melodic lead guitar to the mix.

News flash: I've been informed that it wasn't Dave Grohl on the second guitar, just a guy who kinda looked like him.

Dispatches from the ongoing Snowpocalypse

2009-12-19T21:11:00.000Z

After years of seeing apocalyptic snow forecasts turn to disappointment, I'm a bit of a skeptic when it comes to this kind of thing. But sometime yesterday, I decided it might be time to start taking the predictions seriously.

My first stop was Nash's sporting goods, up 14th.   I bought myself a pair of waterproof Timberlands. For the last couple of years I've been caught out in snowstorms with nothing more protective for my feet than a pair of sneakers, and even if I'll only need these boots once a year I was determined not to endure that kind of misery again.

Next stop Target. Alas, the panicking masses had already been there and the long johns were completely sold out.    I wandered over to Giant, forgetting what snow forecasts do to grocery stores. It was mobbed so I headed home empty handed.

Last night, with the snow starting to fall, I let my cat McLovin out of the house to see how he'd react, and he bounded around with great glee, leading me to speculate that his ancestry may trace back to northern climes. But this morning, trying to go out again with his paws sinking in deeper than chest level, he was soon begging for mercy from under the porch, and I had to go outside and carry him back in.   I worry about how all the feral cats of Columbia Heights are doing and hope they all found warm hideaways to spend the day.

The most striking thing this morning was the near total silence -- besides the normal muffling effect of snow, traffic had almost completely ceased.   Out on 14th, cars were struggling along single file at low speeds, with the exception of the occasional douchebag in an SUV travelling way too fast.

I shoveled my walk, and by this afternoon there was scarcely any evidence of that and I had to do it again. This was serious stuff.

Here is a slideshow of what the Snowpocalypse looked like in Columbia Heights, this morning and afternoon:

The skate kids have found the Civic Plaza

2009-12-18T20:18:00.000Z

It looks like the skater kids have found the 14th and Park Civic Plaza. When I first saw them there, I kinda hoped it was a fluke. I've seen them there a couple more times since then, and I was thinking, "I hope they've found a way to use materials that these kids won't mess up." Anyone who has seen the way the granite at Freedom Plaza has been carved up and gouged knows how quickly skateboarders can damage a place. It's worse because they put some kind of wax on the edge of things so their boards can slide along it easily and Freedom Plaza has that stuff all over it.

Well, today I was walking through the fountain, and there were a couple of guys doing maintenance there. And I heard one of them complaining to the other about the damage from skateboarders, and pointing out a gouge in the new granite. And I noticed there's already a chipped tile in the fountain's mosaic. If that keeps up that fountain's not going to stay in good shape for very long.

Intimations of mortality

2009-12-16T22:51:00.000Z

So I recently had a physical for the first time in years, and although almost everything was normal it turns out I have high cholesterol. This startled me, because I've never had a problem with it before, and kind of assumed I was immune to it. Hence I never really paid much attention to what I ate. Since finding this out, I've been obsessed with it, I think because this is the most recent sign that I am in fact mortal, something I've long been in denial of.

There are a few things in my life that are gonna have to change. No more Five Guys. Ever. Thankfully the new Columbia Heights Chipotle (which I hesitate to mention again because it has been the focus of a weeks long blogging frenzy: first the subject of obsessive neighborhood blogging, then a backlash, then a snark attack by a blogger who mistook the blogosphere for reality ) is here to replace Five Guys as my main fast food stop. Here's my choice:

Nutrition Facts

Amount Per Serving

Calories 700

Cal from Fat 210

% Daily Value*

Total Fat 23g

35%

Saturated Fat 9g	43%
Trans Fat 0g

Cholesterol 30mg

10%

Sodium 2230mg

93%

Total Carbs 102g

34%

Dietary Fiber 17g	68%
Sugars 9g

Protein 27g

Vitamin A	0%	•	Vitamin C	0%
Calcium	0%	•	Iron	0%

*	Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet. Your daily values may be higher or lower depending on your calorie needs.

INGREDIENTS: 13" Tortilla,Tomato Salsa,Red Tomatillo Salsa,Black Beans,Rice,Cheese

(I should probably drop the cheese). Oh, and then there's alcohol. I'm going to need to drink a lot more wine and beer.

Coffee talk

2009-12-15T16:31:00.000Z

Yesterday, walking to Tynan Coffee and Tea, I passed right through the midst of an illicit transaction. The signs were all there: the three guys, feet shifting around nervously, eyes shifting around equally nervously, the hands at waist level, exchanging something literally on the down low. But the most memorable thing was the foul breath of one of these characters, stinking strongly of baloney. Not the thing one wants to encounter first thing in the morning, and it spoiled my appetite for some time after.

And then this morning, at the Java House, the usual background sound of well-connected yuppies going on endlessly about this or that policy, fascinating only to themselves, mixed in with background sounds of espresso being made. The din was suddenly interrupted as a truck driver burst in the door and started yelling at the top of his lungs. All fell silent. He was yelling at an East African cabbie who was buying coffee at the register, that his cab was blocking the street. "I'm just buying coffee," the cabbie said, "I'll be out in a minute."

As the trucker continued to yell, a DC cop who until now had been spending his shift drinking coffee and chatting with the staff sprang into action. I thought he was going to go see if the cab was really blocking the street, but instead he waved the trucker off. "Don't get disorderly in here," he said, an implicit threat. He had to say it a couple more times before the trucker ended his tirade and stormed off, fuming, and people returned to their conversations after some nervous laughter.

Repeatedly thwarted

2009-12-14T03:29:00.001Z

Columbia Heights' newest restaurant, Chipotle, opened on Friday.   Neighborhood blogs have been buzzing about it for weeks, which suggests that it's been a slow few weeks in Columbia Heights news (thankfully).    The fuss kind of reminded me of the way Manhattanites revealed themselves to be somewhat less sophisticated than they imagine themselves to be a few years back when Five Guys opened its first fast food outlet there, and people reportedly lined up for two hours.

Anyway, none is happier than me that it's here (although I have to admit I would've preferred a Baja Fresh).   I frequently crave a burrito, one of the simplest, most satisfying meals one can imagine. I go for the basics -- beans. Rice. Cheese. Salsa.    Commenters on the aforementioned blogs have rightly mentioned that there are already many places in the 'hood to get a burrito, but it's really not the same thing, and I actually don't think Chipotle will pose competition for these places.

Sadly though, I have yet to indulge. Thursday night it looked open but it was just a pre-party for the building above them, to thank the residents for putting up with the construction.   Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I walked to Chipotle. Huge lines each time.    I'm not one to stand in line for my food, at least not a long line -- I walked to Pete's and Five Guys instead.   As for Chipotle, I'm wondering if this is just opening week excitement, or if this is the way it's going to be.

Taxi Driver

2009-12-06T16:57:00.004Z

In honor of the first snow/sleet of the winter, we stayed in and watched "Taxi Driver" last night. This 1976 Martin Scorcese flick follows the lonely downward spiral of Travis Bickle as he imagines himself as the sole defender against New York's corruption and sleaze, even as he immerses himself in that world. Watching the film I am always struck by what a hardscrabble world the New York City of the 1970s was, and while one can miss the grittiness now that Times Square is a giant Disney theme park, the air of sad desperation that this movie rather accurately depicts is also gone. This is the movie that inspired John Hinkley, a delusional character in a similar vein as the movie's protagonist, to shoot Ronald Reagan in 1980 in a weird attempt to get noticed by Jodie Foster, who played a teenage prostitute named Iris. Amazing performances by much younger versions of Robert Deniro, and Foster.

In an interesting side note, the DVD, which came out in 1996, has a little clip at the beginning trumpeting the greatness of DVDs -- a strangely quaint thing now that the end of DVDs as a medium is clearly in sight.

As for the snow, this is what yesterday looked like on a crosstown trip past Catholic University to Home Depot to get icemelt:

Choir in the yard in the house next door

2009-12-03T02:45:00.003Z

On Tuesday night DAR Constitution Hall, an auditorium built for blue-haired old ladies, echoed with the manic rantings of Frank Black and the rock-steady bass and raspy, seductive voice of Kim Deal.    It was a real thrill to see the Pixies, only the second time in my life I've been able to see one of my all-time favorite bands.

As expected they played "Doolittle" straight through, with Kim Deal announcing the sides of the "record" and making a joke about getting into a fight about who would turn the record over at the end of Side 1.

It didn't detract from the greatness of the performance at all, but they messed up on a couple of songs... something went wrong in "Gouge Away" near the end. "Where is my Mind" was kind of sluggish. "Number 19" was as beautiful and haunting as ever, possibly my favorite of their songs, but it seemed at one point like Kim Deal and Joey Santiago kinda lost each other.   I actually like it when bands mess up, it makes them seem more human (and proves it's not lip-synched). And mostly it was a powerful show played in a solid workmanlike manner.

The Pixies reached out of the radio and grabbed me around 1990.   I bought the album based on one song that was on heavy rotation on DC/101, something I hardly ever do, and it was love after just a few listens. They sounded so fresh and different compared to all the other alterna-dreck coming out back then. Some of their fans may have morphed into the type of people who buy $500 box sets, but the music still sounds fresh.

A strange night over on the East Side

2009-11-30T00:28:00.001Z

First a party over by Stanton Park where none of us knew the hosts:

The party was billed as "Members of Laughing Man co-mingle with The Child Ballads:

Performance art was promised, and that included in its aftermath gummy bears all over the floor and slaughtered Barbies:

The whole scene, strewn Barbies, manic dancing, and sloppy but infectious music, made me imagine what a Velvet Underground party back in the day might have been like:

Afterwards, knowing there was no real hope of finding a cab, we peeled the gummie bears off our shoes and walked from Stanton Park up 14th St NE to H Street, and saw some cool stuff along the way:

... and over to Little Miss Whiskey's by 11th Street. First time in the place, and it's got a nice ambiance. There was a DJ upstairs, and unfortunately he kind of sucked -- not because of the music he was playing, there was a pretty good range of stuff -- but because he couldn't stay away from all the "I'm a DJ" gimmicks, from extremely jarring segues, to repeatedly stopping songs to let people sing, to phasing out of songs half or a quarter way through them. It was like being at a bad wedding reception.

Finally, it was time for that usual H Street ordeal, the struggle to find a cab on a vacant street, and a long, long ride home.

I got up at 5:00am for this?

2009-11-27T22:30:00.000Z

I continue to be fascinated by the topic of Black Friday. This morning I woke up at the ungodly hour of 5 am, and rode my bike over to DC-USA not to shop, but to see what I could see. As you can see below, it doesn't look all that much different from a typical evening on 14th Street.

Not sure if I would've seen more if I'd gotten there a half hour earlier, when they opened the doors, As last year, people did camp out, and port-o-potties were still lined up outside the Panda Express this afternoon.

A bit of girl-on-girl action

2009-11-26T16:27:00.000Z

Last night at Bar Pilar, I was standing there with a Peak Organic in hand, when a misunderstanding erupted right in front of me. One woman, a bleach-blonde, had gone to grab her purse, and another woman, a brunette with kind of a sexy librarian look, had mistakenly thought the blonde was grabbing her friend's purse that she was watching. The brunette quickly recognized her mistake and apologized, and that should've been the end of it.

Instead though, the bleach blonde, a grown woman, replied to her apology with a spate of teenage-ish eye rolling: "This is a Coach purse. Your friend doesn't look like she'd have anything as expensive as this."

The brunette was left speechless by this astonishingly vapid, catty response. And actually, I was shocked too. I haven't heard anything quite like that since high school.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The day before Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T22:38:00.000Z

On the day before thanksgiving, as usual the speculation swirled as to whether people would be let out early from work. And as is usually the case, we got word that we'd be closing at 3.

In general, Washingtonians are an industrious lot, overly so in many cases, and so a 3pm closing doesn't mean many people leave at 3. And I wasn't really planning to leave on the dot -- the persistent gloom of the day's weather had eliminated any real urge to leave early, and I wasn't planning on any pre-Thanksgiving travel.

But right as 3 rolled around, suddenly the most brilliant afternoon sun, golden yellow and low in the early winter sky, began pouring in through my office's west-facing windows. I took this as an unmistakable sign that it was time to go. There wasn't anything that couldn't be finished later, on a laptop, on a comfy couch, if necessary.

Outside it was cool, still wet from the rain, with dark clouds in the sky, sunlight everywhere and leaves scattered on the ground. I was in no hurry to be home, so I decided to walk, up 20th towards Dupont. I'd thought about sitting in the circle for a while, but the benches were wet and there was a girl taking candid photos of tourists -- sticking her camera right in their faces -- and I didn't want to be someone's Flickr art project. So I kept going.

Continuing up Connecticut, I popped into Kramerbooks in order to pick up David Simon's Homicide. It took a while to find, but I wasn't in a hurry and eventually the staff helped me out.

On one of the walls was a sign saying "Use cell phones or Kindles at your own risk," and it struck me that while over the years Kramerbooks' pickup scene has deservedly been the butt of many jokes, nonetheless, these are my peeps, and how much cooler to meet someone over shared interests like books, no matter how cheesy the pickup attempt ("say, is that Sartre you're reading there?"), than on something like Match dot com. The Internet age has nothing to offer that compares to the ambiance of a bookshop like Kramer's, the city's smarter and more eccentric geeks mingling in an air of slightly dusty books and coffee aroma with booze also close at hand.

Once I had my book I continued northward up Connecticut towards Florida, and as I walked I was reminded that despite the relentless yuppification of this part of town, it remains a cool neighborhood with its quirky charms and odd storefronts that you are amazed are still there (not the least of which is the amazingly sketchy Royal Palace, a place from another era of DC, which thankfully I have never set foot in).

I decided to cross over on Florida to 18th, figuring Adams-Morgan would be a more interesting walk. In late afternoon it was quiet, although people were already hanging out at the Diner, and at Tryst, which of course is never not crowded.

After that I followed Columbia Road home to Columbia Heights. At 15th and Harvard, a father was giving his two tiny kids on tricycles a lecture about not riding into the street. Good advices there, dad. A girl rode by me on her bike and for whatever reason, smiled at me, and I waved back. Nearly home, I looked at the time -- the whole walk had been about an hour. Maybe 20 minutes longer than a Metrobus ride, and so much richer an experience.

Cartman, Christopher Walken, and Lady Gaga

2009-11-25T12:18:00.003Z

Heavy Trash

2009-11-23T17:32:00.000Z

Late last night I popped out to DC 9 to see Heavy Trash, a rockabilly band that is Jon Spencer's latest project. I was never that big a fan of the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, but his newest band plays stripped down rockabilly and they were damn good. Hardly anyone who had room to move wasn't dancing.

It was pretty impressive to see Jon Spencer, a guy who has played much bigger shows in the past, at a tiny club like DC 9. A real treat since there's no way you could have a bad seat. At one point the owner was serving me up a Troegs, and I said "how are you doing," and he said "Jon Spencer is in my bar, how do you think I'm doing?" He was pretty psyched.

The evening was marred almost before it began, though. I was coming up the stairs and trying to get into the room, and people were congregating at the top of the stairs so you couldn't get any further. I tried to squeeze past towards open space, when I encountered what unfortunately seems a uniquely DC form of passive-aggression, the guy in a crowd who takes people trying to get past as a personal affront. This guy very deliberately and forcefully blocked my path even though he had chosen to stand right by the door in the traffic path. I had to force my way past, and he fought me every step of the way, so I jammed my elbow into his ribs, hard, as I went by.

A few minutes later, in another remarkable display of childishness, he walked past me and deliberately "accidentally" stepped on my foot. At this point I was both angry and surprised at this behavior, but as I saw him standing near the front of the stage completely stiffly, alone, seeing the band he'd come to see but obviously not enjoying himself at all and probably angry at the people dancing around him who were bumping him, I remembered that life is punishment enough for mean people. I soon forgot him (except as blog fodder) and the rest of the show was fun.

Late night police action

2009-11-22T15:40:00.001Z

Last night the sirens descended on the neighborhood from all directions, and as usual a helicopter arrived, beginning its search from the air. As its search beam swept the area, it flashed in my window several times. It was a little odd because gunfire is what usually provokes a response like this, and I hadn't heard anything. Still, to bring out the helicopter it can't have been something trivial.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me and I finally decided to look outside the window to see what was going on. It was difficult to tell, but in the dim light it seemed like the cops were leading someone away. To reinforce this perception, I noticed the helicopter was gone -- usually they spend a long time overhead after something has happened.

I do hope they were successful and caught their man (and manage to keep him in, the next challenge). One bad egg gone can make a big difference, and in the fight against violence, it would be a rare victory.

Mad Men -- art inspires life

2009-11-20T23:54:00.000Z

At the urging of a friend, I was trying a new drink. I'm basically a beer man but sometimes you want a drink, but you just don't want a beer, you know?

Wasn't quite in the mood for whiskey, either. Or any kind of mixed drink. He told me he'd become a fan of rye, and he suggested I try it out. Rye? I only knew of rye through phrases such as "good ole boys drinkin whiskey and rye." Never really thought about it before.

So the Marvin bartender served me up a tall glass of rye, on the rocks. I had a sip. "It tastes like whiskey," I said. My friend was appalled (or mock-appalled, anyway). "How can you say it tastes like whiskey," he asked. Perhaps my taste buds are just not that discriminating.

A girl asked me, "why don't you just get a mixed drink?" To which I replied, "I'm trying to seem sophisticated. Like the characters in 'Mad Men.'"

Then her friend said to me, "Mad Men isn't real."

"Huh?" I said, confused by this statement.

"Mad men. It's not really how it was." she said.

"Well sure," I said. "It's an exaggerated take on the era. But it seems pretty accurate."

She didn't seem convinced. And I remained puzzled by her point. Most so because I am actually old enough to remember the post Mad Men era, the early 1970s, from a child's eye view. I remember the grownups drinking freely, everyone smoking, and the women as secretaries and stewardesses. She looked about 23, so whatever impressions she had of the era, they'd been formed from reconstructed reality, not anything like the actual thing. It felt strange to have someone telling me what my past was like.

Days not to be taken for granted

2009-11-19T02:02:00.000Z

Days like Sunday and Monday, beautiful crystal clear fall days, can only be appreciated after a week of miserable rain like the week that preceded them. In the spring or summer, I might not have fully appreciated these days, but with the rain gone, so too my dark mood lifted. All of the aspects of normal life I might normally not think about were welcomed anew:

Things like biking to work on Monday for the first time in I don't know how long, my heart rate going before my first cup of coffee, the wind in my face. I noticed as I rode down New Hampshire that cyclists vastly outnumbered cars, and we were weaving around each other, the bike lanes suddenly irrelevant.

Or, sleeping 15 minutes extra because biking is that much faster than the bus.

Or, eating lunch outside, instead of at my desk in the office cafeteria.

Or, working in the yard. I even enjoyed raking leaves and picking up trash.

Today the gloom began to redescend as the clouds rolled in. Still biking, I rode home tonight and took note of the fact that traffic all over the city was a miserable clusterfuck of brake lights and drivers stewing angrily behind the wheel. Was it Public Enemy's flatbed show, or the motorcade that went by up Penn, or something else? It was hard to tell, but I didn't care as I sailed passed the stalled cars on my bike, still conscious that each moment is precious.

A drinks offer to the Internet

2009-11-17T00:50:00.001Z

If anyone can tell me who that band is that practices in the 1300 Block of Girard, and where I can see them play, I will buy you drinks at Wonderland, Commonwealth, or establishment of your choice. I've listened to them practicing weekly for two years now. They've sounded good, at least from afar, and it's been interesting to hear their music evolve over time. And by DC music standards, their longevity at over two years now is impressive. I must see them play, before they disband, or before the neighborhood gets too yuppified and they have to move.

I have posed this question before, without luck; perhaps bribery will improve the chances. And of course the band is eligible for a round under this offer, too.

DC Chillin

2009-11-12T22:31:00.003Z

In Chillin, Wale wants us to know how to pronounce his name, know that he drives a fancy car, and to remind us that we shouldn't snitch. Added to that, there's a reference to McLovin; a lot of cool shots of DC, especially Georgia and Kenyon; Ben's Chili Bowl figures prominently, and clips of the always-mesmerizing Lady Gaga are woven through the video. Her vocals, too, are the perfect counterpoint to the samples of Steam's "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye," bringing out the melancholy that dwells in that song as Wale goes on in the foreground.

This could've been the theme song of DC Summer 2009, and for all I know it was, I wasn't around enough this year to really know. Thanks to New Columbia Heights for bringing this to my attention.

Travel pics

2009-11-11T23:23:00.002Z

Here's a slideshow from my recent trip, featuring Padang, and Bukittingi, both in West Sumatra, Indonesia. Click the expand button in the lower right to view full-screen!

The one thing that might need some explaining is the series of tunnel pics -- these are a huge underground tunnel complex built by Japanese occupiers in World War II. An old man nearby told me they used slave labor, with huge numbers of prisoners dying. And then at the end of the war the soldiers killed themselves. A creepy place, even decades later.

Welcome home?

2009-11-10T15:36:00.000Z

Last night, I was walking through Columbia Heights, just a few hours after returning to DC, in the trance-like state that comes with the jet lag of 12 time zones, on top of the sleep deprivation of 28 hours of flying and transit time.

Something about 14th Street this particular evening had the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, a sense of menace that occasionally comes over this part of town when the kids aren't all right and something bad has either happened or is going to happen.

As if to confirm this sense, I walked past the 7-11 at 14th and Columbia. A man dressed almost completely in red was standing outside, muttering to himself repeatedly, "I need a gun, I need a gun, I need a gun, I need a gun..."

I decided it was time to walk a little faster.

Barack Obama

2009-11-01T08:11:00.001Z

I'm still in Indonesia (which is where I was assigned when I originally started this blog in 2005).   I'm currently in the city of Padang which was hit by a bad earthquake just a few weeks ago.

Sunday, my first day with a light workload, I decided to go for a walk across town despite the searing tropical heat and humidity.   Even the locals think that's crazy -- few others were out walking, and every now and then a passing motorcycle would offer me a ride.

I stopped at a kiosk along the way to refresh my thirst. I ordered some Tehbotol, Indonesian lightly sweetened ice tea. Without much language in common between us, the old man nonetheless tried to strike up a conversation.   "Dari mana," where are you from, he asked.

"America," I said.

"America," he replied. "Barack Obama."

In 2005, it would've been the same conversation, except for a politely neutral "George Bush."   It was interesting to me that this was also just as politely neutral.

"Barack Obama," I agreed.   "Tingal Jakarta." In extremely rudimentary Indonesian, I was noting he had lived in Jakarta. I was trying to get a better sense of how this guy felt about him.

He replied with a stream of Indonesian which I couldn't fully understand, but the gist of it was "yes, yes, he went to school in Jakarta when he was a kid."   I still couldn't get a sense for what he thought of our change in leadership but I didn't pick up any enthusiasm.   It seemed to me that in a way, things haven't changed -- Americans individually are almost always liked, but our nation's politics remain inscrutable to many in this part of the world.

A mouse in the house

2009-10-26T13:06:00.000Z

At 5 am, I was awoken by a rustling that seemed to be coming from directly under my mattress on the floor.   And then I thought I felt something brush past my fingers which were dangling over the edge. I lay there half awake for a while, trying to convince myself that I'd been dreaming, but eventually my mind went more towards all of the things that might be crawling around here in this lush tropical climate. I decided I'd better investigate.

I lifted the mattress, and at first in the dim pre-dawn light I didn't see anything. I put it back down, and then I heard another rustle. I turned on the overhead light, a flickering flourescent tube that wasn't much more help, and began the hunt in earnest, lifting the mattress again.   This time I saw it, an all-black mouse. Or more accurately, probably a rat, a small rat but a rat nonetheless.

Deprived of its hiding place, it scurried across the floor to the only other choice, my suitcase. It hid there until I moved the suitcase, and it rushed back to the mattress. I opened the door to my room in the hopes it would just go out, but it was afraid to move beyond its two hiding places.   And as I chased it, it started to get really scared, and was making frightened squeaking noises, which made me feel bad for it. Finally I had to move the suitcase off the floor, and hold the mattress fully off the floor as well. Deprived of any other choice, it rushed right over my feet and out the door.

I tried to go back to sleep, but after that, I was fully awake.

Travel update

2009-10-22T03:53:00.000Z

Another brutally long trip to Southeast Asia -- 12 hour flight plus 7 hour layover plus 8 hour flight plus 2 hour layover plus 1 hour flight.   It left a lot of opportunity for watching the little screen in front of my seat - fortunately there was a good selection. My favorites were:

* All the President's Men:   a1976 film starring Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman about Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein's role in the Watergate crisis at the Washington Post.   Inspired by the book of the same name.    It's always been a compelling story, but in this day of declining print journalism, the look inside the workings of the 1970s-era Post's newsroom becomes all the more fascinating, especially the fixation on accuracy and getting the story right, all of which seems quaint in this age of cable news and blogs substituting for journalism.    It was also interesting to get a long look at 1970s Washington, DC, and the many things that have changed since (such as no longer being able to drive past the White House).

"Mad Men":   They had the first six episodes available.   I watched one episode. And then another. And then four more in succession.   I am now hooked.

Things that'll make you feel old

2009-10-19T19:48:00.000Z

I was sitting at the bar at Marvin when this cute GU girl asked I'd help fend off this guy who wouldn't leave her alone. I'd noticed the guy already -- he kept trying to talk to her and kept putting his hands on her, even though she was being pretty clear about not being interested. Jerk.

So, I said sure. I figured she was going to ask me to pretend I was her boyfriend. But then she asked me if my friend and I would pretend that we were friends of her dad. Ouch!

Wild Things

2009-10-18T15:43:00.001Z

I saw "Where the Wild Things Are" at Gallery Place last night. I felt I had to see this one, both because I loved the book as a kid, and because I've always identified with the protagonist, Max.

Anyway, turns out the movie is visually stunning, always, and the feel is frequently true to the original book (as I remember it, it's been a while). It's often funny and at times scary.

My one complaint is the degree to which the monsters are moody, drama-prone, and generally emo, with way too much long, mournful gazing into eyes. I have trouble dealing with people who manufacture drama, but I'd be especially disappointed if I were to escape to a wild land and found monsters who were that overly sensitive.

Two welcome new hangouts in Columbia Heights

2009-10-17T19:53:00.004Z

Thai Tanic II (the original one is further down 14th). Popped by here on a Wednesday night. The place is big but it doesn't feel cavernous, and despite a lot of buzz about its recent opening, there was no problem getting a table. The staff was friendly and efficient. For some reason the evening seemed to be dominated by couples facing each other and not talking much.

Most importantly, though, the food was yummy. I with a tasty appetizer of tom ka jae (vegetable soup in coconut soup with lemongrass). Delightfully tangy and lemongrassy.

For my entree, I had some Nua Ka Ting, which is described as "beef slices marinated with wine, stir-fried in thai garlic chili sauce, topped with deep-fried basil leaves." This was essentially a big plate of meat, and if it weren't for the sauce, it might have been kind of boring. The sauce made the dish however -- it lived up to its three-pepper billing, something most Thai restaurants in the US are afraid to do. Delicious.

Also just opened is Tynan Coffee and Tea. It's got a clean modern interior, but still manages to feel comfortable and cozy. It's already attracted a fair number of Laptop People, but they don't dominate the place, in the way they used to make Mayorga sometimes feel like a tomb. It's locally owned, a huge advantage over the Starbucks across the street. I'll stay loyal to Sticky Fingers, but I have high hopes for Tynan as well.

What is left for Columbia Heights? We still need a place where you can get a good sub. Tynan's sandwiches are better than the Uptowner (I wish they'd step it up a bit), which is better than Potbelly's. But I still find myself wanting to head down the street to the Dupont Market which makes the best sandwiches I know of around here.

The Yard Sale Diaries

2009-10-15T22:15:00.000Z

On a recent crisp, beautiful autumn weekend, I helped my girlfriend hold a yard sale in her building's front yard in Columbia Heights. I've been getting killed by work lately, and I was a bit skeptical as to who actually buys yard sale junk, so I didn't contribute any of the ample unneeded stuff piling up in my own abode -- something I came to regret. But I was dutifully on hand when it came time to set up, at an hour I'd rather have been in bed.

The first surprise for me was how much fun it was. There was a steady stream of people all day, and at times we were pretty close to being slammed. There were a couple of oddballs -- a woman who came in and looked around and I said hello to, and she completely ignored me -- but almost everyone was nice, and most were from the neighborhood.

The second surprise was that people bought stuff I never would have imagined would have sold. I could see the Ikea shelves selling, and that they did, very quickly -- but stuff like a single halogen headlamp bulb for a Toyota. Who could've imagined a random yard sale goer would need that? Other items purchased included an old can opener, and a cracked motorcycle helmet, which a woman bought to send to her cousin in Vietnam. It was pointed out to her that it was cracked and therefore not good protection, but she said he doesn't wear one now, and therefore it was better than nothing.

It was interesting to see the different types of people who showed, of all ages and walks of life. The neighbors who were there more to chat than to buy stuff. The serious shoppers, the ones who came early in the day, including a couple of older women who were obviously doing the yard sale rounds and came by with carts and spent a good 45 minutes each picking out stuff. The people who just happened to be passing by and realized they couldn't pass up a 25 cent rusty wok.

Later in the day came the music geeks (and I use the term with all affection). My girlfriend had put out a collection of classic vinyl -- a history of punk in records, not just the stuff that everyone knows, but the stuff that fed into the stuff that everyone knows, and spun off of it. It pained me to see those records on sale, but she doesn't have a record player, and I have one but I never use it. I secretly hoped nobody would recognize her records for what they were worth.

The late-risers though, they knew their music. The first guy bought a bunch of records, and he apologetically paid with a Ziploc bag full of dimes (is that a dime bag?)

I was hoping that would be it, but another guy came along, and eagerly picked through the stacks. "Do you seriously want to sell these?" he asked. I told him I'd tried to tell her not to. To his credit he told her she ought to consider selling her records at Smash for a better price. My pain at seeing these treasures go was getting more acute. When he turned his back I dove into the stack and grabbed an early DC punk album out and spirited it back into her apartment.

Then another guy came along and dug out a few more. By this time she was starting to feel the same pain I was. A record collection, after all, is basically a diary made of vinyl. When the guy paid her double what she was asking, she finally realized she was letting way too much go and we rushed the remaining records back inside before any more customers came along. As consolation, we both reflected that it was clear that the records that had sold had gone to happy homes, where they'd be listened to and appreciated.

By this time the shadows were growing long, there was a nip in the air, and a lot of her stuff had sold. I helped her take things down, and she counted the day's take. $270 (including the dimes). My yard sale skepticism was gone.

Red Line, Green Line

2009-10-13T02:02:00.004Z

I had the occasion to ride the Red Line recently up to Bethesda for the first time in a while. The Red Line has occasionally been called the "Red Carpet Line" for the many well-heeled commuters that live along its path, but it was striking to me just how frayed that red carpet had become. The 1970s era orange and gold colors looked more dated than ever, and added to that, the car I was in seemed to be coated with a dirty film, like a European airport smoking lounge. A discarded water bottle rolled around on the floor amidst other bits of trash. The train moved haltingly, with periodic announcements about a "train is out of service at Twinbrook." Even the commuters, half of whom seemed to prefer standing to sharing a seat with their fellow travelers, looked tired and worn.

The Red Line's decay wouldn't seem so stark if it weren't for how new the Green Line seems in comparison, not just the fresh, fast new trains, cleaner and brighter, but the places they go -- a new stadium with its new baseball team, a new convention center, U Street, Columbia Heights. Certainly Bethesda these days is prosperous -- money and moms with fake boobs, but the sense of growth is missing. By contrast those Green Line stops all are experiencing varying degrees of renaissance. The Green Line differs from the Red Line too in that it's not just a suburban commuter line; people take the Green Line to travel within the city, short hops of a stop or two or three. They take it to go out at night. The riders seem far more diverse, in every imaginable way: ethnicity, age, and walks of life, just to name a few.

While Columbia Heights is no Cleveland Park, nor would one ever want it to be, one can't help feel that the center of energy in DC has moved eastward over the last few years, and the Green Line is at the center of a new city, the beating heart of a District born anew.

13th and Florida NW

2009-10-10T21:27:00.005Z

Riding my bike home from Mozart's on a refreshingly warm night recently, unwisely a bit wobbly with a litre of Oktoberfest and a glass of apfelkorn in my bloodstream, I happened upon this scene at the defunct used car lot at 13th and Florida:

Naturally curious, I rode my bike up onto the sidewalk and pulled into the lot. A crowd of young people was raptly watching a skateboarding video projected on the wall, in almost complete silence despite the sounds of the city around them. Despite my being probably twice the age of most of the people in the lot, people were friendly and made room for me and my bike. When the video ended, they continued to mingle and chatter in the lot, while a few rode up and down the sidewalk on skateboards.

The whole scene reminded me of nights from my own youth spent under sodium vapor lights on various sidewalks and chain-linked lots around DC. For me it was music, bands like Government Issue and The Faith, at places like WUST Hall or that place that used to be on 9th Street, that brought people together. But besides that, the scene felt pretty much the same.

Darker My Love

2009-10-06T12:04:00.003Z

I'm continually impressed that you can go out to see bands you've never heard of in small clubs in DC, and the odds are quite high that they'll be good. I don't know whether this is testament to the power of the nation's indie scene, or the good choices made by the people at these clubs who book bands. Maybe the latter.

Anyway, last night with no food in the fridge and long lines at the Giant, I decided to head out. My first choice was the Saloon, for one of their yummy cheese steaks, but alas they were closed. So I headed over to Ben's -- a disappointing meal, but my fault since I opted for a burger rather than something they do well, like chili or a chili half smoke.

Popped over to DC Nine to see "A Place to Bury Strangers," based on a tip from a friend, but they were in the wrong time slot to fit my needs, so I ended up seeing "Darker My Love," instead. They reminded me of the shoegazier side of the Dandy Warhols, with some Beatles and Stones mixed in there too. But they also reminded me of a band few will remember, Let's Active. And still they managed to sound like themselves -- well worth seeing again.

The H Street Shuffle

2009-10-04T21:44:00.004Z

One night some time ago, I was waiting to catch the uptown 71 bus at 7th and H, and I was puzzled by the large number of fellow white people who seemed to be waiting with me for a Metrobus up Georgia Avenue. So the mystery was eased a bit when a big white van pulled up and they all started boarding. But at the same time, the mystery deepened, because the van was totally unmarked. I had to know more.

"What's this van?" I asked a woman lined up to board.

"It's the H Street Shuttle," she replied.

"Where does it go?" I asked.

"It goes to H Street," she said.

Right. So anyway, last night, I got to take the shuttle across town as Al and I headed over to the Red and the Black to catch a few bands. It was crowded with people, an interesting combination of a party bus for twentysomething barhoppers, and a few much less festive people using the shuttle as a faster alternative to the Metrobus X line, which lumbers along the same route.

We got to the Red and the Black in time to catch two of the three bands. Olivia Mancini, who actually was without her band for the night -- just solo, with guitar. The girl taking our money at the door was skeptical -- "just singer-songwriter crap," -- and so was I, fearing the musical equivalent of a relationship blog. But no, she was great, rising far above chick-with-guitar cliches. She rocked even with just her acoustic guitar, and both the music and the lyrics were catchy, at times funny, and original. I resolved to see her with her band next time.

Headlining was Elizabeth and the Catapult, who also rocked out on guitars, keys, drums, and an occasional accordion, fronted by a sweet-voiced singer with a little too much delay on the mike, and who ended their set with a cover of the Beatles' "I'm So Tired" that was so good that it made me love that song anew (and also hunger for "Dear Prudence," also off the White Album.)

After that, we set out marauding when we probably should have gone home, and ended up in the H Street Country Club, which isn't nearly as douchey a place as the name might suggest. We ended up drawn into someone's 28th birthday celebration (happy birthday Amber!!!), a table of drunk people remarkably sang "Bohemian Rhapsody" from beginning to the very last notes despite my certitude that they'd never make it through the whole song, and a lanky beauty from New York put a shot glass in Al's and my hand, thus forcing us to violate our no-shots vows ("I like it when I cause men to break their rules," she said) and ensuring a headache the next day.

The end of the night was a familiar H Street ritual -- standing out on the forlorn, vacant street, waiting along with dozens of others for cabs that come only once every 10 minutes, vowing never to come to H Street again. The cabbie we finally got told us he was out driving to raise money for his church, and compared DC's imposition of meters to the tactics of Osama Bin Laden. A good night, overall.

Smoking at the gas station

2009-10-02T00:12:00.003Z

A DCist writer today ran a piece about his concern at witnessing a driver gassing up his SUV whilst smoking a cigarette. It reminded me of a story my dad told me about the time he'd pulled into a forlorn gas station one night in the deepest depths of the deep South, during a family road trip. I must have been too young at the time to remember this, but apparently the good ole boy filling up our car (no self service in those days) was smoking, and my dad remarked upon this.

"It's not dangerous," the good ole boy said, and to prove the point he and a couple of his buddies poured some gasoline into a barrel and started throwing lit matches in it. The matches went out when they hit the surface of the liquid. According to some of the commenters on the DCist post, Mythbusters has done the same experiment -- but presumably not at a gas station, next to a car full of kids.

Burger discussion

2009-09-29T23:05:00.003Z

Sitting at Commonwealth the other day, my neighbor and the bartender are talking.

Bartender: "How's the burger?"

Neighbor: "It's really good."

Bartender, venturing into riskier territory: "Is it the best in the city?"

Neighbor, looking like he wants to say something more: "Well... it's really good."

At this point, being a burger connoisseur, I can tell he wants to say more, and he can sense that I know it. And I want to know: what is the best in the city? He looks uncomfortably at me. "Say it," I encourage him.

"Ray's Hell Burger," he says. "That's the best."

The bartender hasn't heard of Ray's. "Obama went there," I say, trying to be helpful.

Beyond that, though, I'm a little surprised. I know it's supposed to be good. But better than Commonwealth? I've always assumed Ray's Hell Burger in the same category as Five Guys, maybe a notch or two above, but I haven't actually been there so what do I know.

I ask: "Isn't Ray's fast food?"

"It is," says the neighbor. "But it's really, really good."

Better than Commonwealth's yummy burger of locally raised grass-fed beef? I resolve that I'm going to have to check it out.

Columbia Heights looks better and better

2009-09-27T15:29:00.003Z

They're putting the finishing touches on the Civic Plaza at 14th and Park, with only cleanup left to be done, and it's looking good:

Already, the place has become a crossroads, with people just hanging out, or eating ice creams and empanadas, or passing through on their way to the Metro or the Giant. I'm hoping they'll turn the fountain on this fall, even though winter's approach won't give it much time to be used.

On Friday, in mid-afternoon I was sitting in Five Guys, watching the world go by. People of all walks of life and ages, coming and going. Some to work, some to their homes, some to Target, some to and from school. It struck me that I can't imagine a more vibrant, diverse, interesting part of the city than what Columbia Heights has become over the last couple of years.

To remember how far things have come, here are some earlier pictures taken from the area around 14th and Park:

May 2009:

November, 2008:

January, 2007:

December 31, 2006:

It's been a long, strange trip

2009-09-25T13:52:00.003Z

I just came back from a trip to the former Soviet republics of Central Asia, otherwise known as "The Stans." It's been a while since I've been there, and I'd forgotten how much I am fascinated this half-forgotten part of the world, with its tangible connections to its colorful Silk Road history, and its more recent role as a corner of the vast empire of the USSR.

In recent years, my travel has focused more on Southeast Asia, increasingly a land of crisply efficient airports that make Dulles seem like a backwater, visas on arrival, and ATMs always readily at hand. Central Asia is not developed to that extent, and it took a bit of effort to readjust to the state of readiness required for such travel, where without exactly the right stamps in one's passport, the corner policeman in his Soviet-inspired uniform can seem as much a menace as any alley thug.

These inconveniences pale, however, in comparison to the pluses -- the fascinating diversity that comes with being at a crossroads, in terms of facial features (many very Asian, others Russian-European), clothing, and language (local languages vying for dominance with Russian, and English very seldom spoken or understood). Or the architecture -- decaying Soviet-era architecture mingling with more traditional styles, and gaudy new buildings. And of course the food... shashlik, laghman, manti. Then there are the streets lined by old, beautiful trees, and the parks, many many parks, and a culture that goes with that of people actually hanging out in parks. So different from here where park benches in most places are seldom used except by homeless people.

Mostly though, it's a sense of being somewhere that is truly different. One night I was lying in bed when I saw flashes coming in the window. Thinking it was lightning, I looked outside. But the flashes were coming from the electric trolleybus depot across the street. As the aging buses moved around in their lot, their trolley poles were setting off sparks as they made imperfect contact with the overhead wires. Being electric, they were almost silent, and the only sound I heard was the sound of stray dogs barking in the night. It was a long way from home.

People who died

2009-09-16T09:54:00.003Z

This week, overshadowed by the death of Patrick Swayze, the world lost Jim Carroll as well. I first encountered Carroll’s talent through his band’s obscure hit, “People Who Died,” about friends lost to an appalling range of causes, most related to life on the street. What really got me, though, was “The Basketball Diaries,” a collection of diary entries detailing his life as a precocious, heroin-addicted, basketball-playing, poetry-writing Manhattan teen from the age of about 11 to 16. The book is superbly written, brutally honest, insightful, and at times very funny.

Eventually “The Basketball Diaries” was turned into a movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio, but I never got around to watching it, it because I was afraid it would spoil the book.

As sort of a sequel, there was “Forced Entries: The Downtown Diaries.” By that time, Carroll was in his late teens, and had been fully welcomed by the New York arts scene. So the book is peppered with references to people like Andy Warhol, Lou Reed, and Edie Sedgewick, and although it lacks the freshness and complete lack of “I’m an artist” sensibility that characterized the first book, it’s still a good read, and a fascinating look at New York’s velvet underground of the early 1970s.

I saw him do spoken word a couple of times at the Black Cat in the 1990s. The first time I saw him live, I was kind of shocked at his appearance – he seemed frail, almost bird-like, his hands trembling as he held his papers and his voice quavering a bit. Such a difference from the way he was pictured on his first book. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising that the hard life he had led had taken seemed to have taken a toll. But at the same time his wit was as sharp as ever, the short stories he told were as insightful , and a silenced room at the Cat hung on his every word.

I read somewhere that he died writing at his desk. I am guessing that at points in his life, he never imagined that he would leave this world of natural causes. Nor could he have been confident of living as long as he did. But it was still too short.

Blelvis

2009-09-10T16:21:00.006Z

A few nights ago it seemed like reunion night at Wonderland, hanging on the benches outside with a couple of guys I've known since the dawn of the 1990s, drinking and remembering the times. To add to this, who should come sauntering up to the fence but Blelvis. Blelvis -- Black Elvis -- has been doing his schtick around DC since at least the early 1990s, if not earlier. He boasts an amazing knowledge of the Elvis catalogue of songs. You name any Elvis song, no matter how obscure, and he will sing it for you, as well as regale you with a remarkable amount of Elvis history.

Back in the day, you'd run into Blelvis in all the usual spots where drunks were likely to part with their money for an Elvis song -- Adams Morgan, U Street -- but I also remember running into him in the most unlikely places, such out on the tiles of 16th Street and Columbia at 4 am long before that neighborhood was crisscrossed by yuppies going to and from their granite-countered apartments, when you were not really expecting to run into anybody much less a mutton-chopped African-American Elvis.

I wasn't always a fan of Blelvis. He's got a moody side, and he had been known to get angry if you didn't hear him out and and cough up a buck or two for him. But at this point he's a genuine DC institution, and he'd been missing for what seems like at least a couple of years. So we were happy to see him.

We asked him where he'd been, and he said "in Blemphis, teaching Blelvology." (My friend Al asked, "at Blaceland?") He gave us a great rendition of a couple of songs, including "Viva Las Vegas," and he dropped his routine for just long enough for me to gather that life has not been easy for him over the passing years, and you could see that on his face, too.

He offered to do word association, where I could pick any word and he'd sing an Elvis song that tied to it. A few minutes earlier, a lovely blonde twenty-something who clearly relished the attention of aging geezers had sat among us and offered to let me feel her fake breasts, of which she was very proud. Still mindful of that, I picked the word "boobs." "This may seem incongruous," said Blelvis, "but I'm going to turn to one of Elvis' gospel songs." He then sang a song I didn't know, featuring the words "close to my breast."

After that came the inevitable request for money, and I'd long since decided that the least I could do was give him a fiver to help him on his way. Al and I both pitched in. "You are one of the threads that holds this city together," I told Blelvis before he walked off into the night.

Washington Heights, NYC

2009-09-07T21:07:00.004Z

Spending a very brief weekend in New York City, we headed far uptown on a quest I've been thinking about since this article came out in the New York Times about the 181st Street station on the 1 Line, the deepest part of the NYC subway system. The tunnels far on the northern part of Manhattan were amazing feats of engineering when they were built more than 100 years ago, using mules, boring machines, dynamite, and hard labor. I'm more used to the flat-ceilinged stations one finds in most of the city, so I was curious to have a look.

Heading uptown, we got into a subway car that was insufferably hot. There were no other passengers except us and a lone man. We eventually realized that the reason nobody else was in our car was that the A/C was broken -- we moved to the next car and it was nice and cool. So we're dumb tourists, but I still don't know why that lone guy was sitting in this sweltering car by himself, unless he's into Bikram yoga or really dislikes others.

Anyway, after a long ride it turned out that 181st was mostly covered in scaffolding due to a recent ceiling collapse that prompted that article. Fortunately, 168th is the same type of construction, so here are photos from there. It was really cool, reminding me more of London's Underground than New York.

We also took advantage of being so far uptown to walk over to the George Washington Bridge, to be covered in another post as time allows.

This station used to have chandeliers -- shame they're gone!

And this is what Washington Heights looks like up top:

Why I love DC

2009-09-03T01:25:00.005Z

My friend Al and I had parked outside a bar and had been discussing the risk of his car getting a ticket for about fifteen minutes. It was illegally parked, but not blatantly so, the rear part jutting out beyond the end of the parking zone by about a foot and a half.

Adding to the gravity of the discussion, there were two cops standing right next to his car, chatting, well within earshot of us. "What if they give me a ticket," Al was saying, looking their way.

"They're not going to give you a ticket, they have better things to do," I said, looking at them also. If anyone is going to give you a ticket, it's Parking Enforcement, but there are fewer of them in the evening." I added, "why don't you ask them," but Al didn't want to ask them.

"Look, one of them just pointed at my car," Al said, pointing at the cop.

"He wasn't pointing at your car, he was gesturing towards the street," I said. And we continued debating this conundrum. I was getting thirsty.

Finally one of the cops turned towards us. "My police instinct tells me that you might have something to ask me," he said with great solemnity, though I sensed that he and his partner probably found our conversation hilarious.

I started to speak but before I could he said, "and the answer is no. It's not legally parked." His partner then helpfully explained why, that we were too close to the curb, and that large vehicles coming out of the alley have trouble turning when people park too close.

And then the cop said "but we're not going to give you a ticket. I can't guarantee you that someone else won't, but we've got better things to do."

"Oh thank you officer!"

And then the clincher -- "In fact, if you choose to look at it this way, even if someone does give you a ticket, just look at it as the cost of valet parking for a night out."

That pretty much ended the debate. We headed off for our drinks. A couple of hours later we were back. No ticket.

Fredo

2009-08-31T21:18:00.004Z

? - Thursday, August 13, 2009

You are missed