Display by Label: DC

Saturday morning, up early. Some hurried grits. A vitamin and a pain killer. This is the way things start. Then C and Honey took me to Newark Penn, where I caught the Northeast Regional to Union Station and transferred to the Metro Red toward Glenmont. Much on the docket. Some minor apartment fixes on order. And some holy (and unholy) communing with friends and family. I was ready.

It began with a late afternoon feast of sauce served atop a mound of pasta, meatballs, and spicy sausage. (The heavier bits were just filler. Like any true Italian family, we were really only there for the red stuff.)

Then, belly full, and my sense of what was right and good in the world renewed, I boarded a metro car at Glenmont and took it south to somewhere in the DC diamond to play ball with this blond blogger who's all the rage down there. She told me she got held up returning some shoes at Neimens, but I suspected "returning shoes" was actually code for "a quickie." And so I let myself into her place and was greeted by a fur coat on a white leather couch. And man oh man, the most intoxicating velvety scent, like flowers and vanilla and grapefruit ... only infused with sugary pornographic undertones. So I read Martin Amis to the art on the walls and the coat on the couch and the pump heels on the floor and together we all waited for our hostess to arrive. And I downed two Stella Artois and coolly pretended to ignore the other distractions in the flat, because I feared I might actually be on camera and playing live in a sticky-walled, coin-operated booth somewhere.

Thus began the second feast that night: a traveling alcoholic buffet that took us from the hoppy nose of an Irish Harp, to the chilly wet island fuzz of Stockholm Absolute Peach Vodka, then to the French fields of Dom P, and on to the dark and dirty St. Louis basement of Everclear Grain. Actually, this last stop is suspect, and you probably shouldn't take my word for it, but I would not be surprised if there were some 151-proof involved in an otherwise innocent looking round of shots.

And let me pause here to mention that there had been a hard rain earlier that night and the DC sidewalks were wet and the the windshield wipers in my soul were still flapping wildly back and forth in sync with the song that had been on my iPod. And that song was So What by Pink. And if you're raising your eyebrows at that and thinking about passing a little bit of judgement on my ass, then ... so what? I've got my rock moves, brother, and I definitely don't need you tonight.

Let's move on ...

Very tall drinks ordered at a hotel bar, where SB and I were joined by FreckledK, and where it made a whole lot of sense to me, as it often does in these situations, to order a round of shots. And since tequila had recently played an upsetting role in my complete dissolution this past July, I thought it was only fair to SB (and the physical and moral integrity of her bathroom) that I stick with something more mild, like Lemon Drops. Only I think some cruel fucker had taught this bartender that Lemon Drop shooters should be mixed up with pure, unadulterated Everclear. Because the shit kinda burned going down and Lemon Drops—they're supposed to be sweet, man. And all this lead to Freckles stealing the mic from the strug-ah-lin cantor who had been choking out his playlist at half the proper tempo. And she got up on stage and delivered a sizzling a cappella lounge act full force at SB, a number so filled with girl-on-girl innuendo that it brought tears to my eyes and warmth to my heart.

And speaking of pure, this is about the point in the evening when we were picked up by a wedding-white stretch Hummer, tremendous in its indecency. Inside, multi-colored laser lights danced on the ceiling and in our hair as we sipped OJ and Peach Vodka from plastic champagne flutes while reclining on those magnificent dark seats. And not being partial to the Peach Vodka myself, I imbibed Bud Light from a can. Because I'm all freakin' class, people. You understand this?

The Hummer came compliments of an exuberant Fauntleroy who was also the one responsible for delivering us to the birthday party of a 22-year-old girl who I'm sure was a lovely person when she wasn't shit-faced drunk and bubbling up spittle on herself. The party was on the top floor of an all-too-swank club full of imperially coiffed twenty-somethings sodden with red bull and vodka. And here's one thing I learned that night, thanks to Freckles: a good way to start a fight in this kind of atmosphere is to pop open the birthday-girl's bottle of celebratory Dom P. You know, the one and only bottle chilling on ice, which the honored inebriatée herself was supposed to open at the stroke of midnight. And a truly great way to carry off this coup de grâce on your wallflowerdom, in case you're taking notes (because I sure was), is to slide that cork out so gently it's like you're making love to it, and then pour yourself and your friends a glass. And then it might help matters further if you offered a toast to each other for your incredible good fortune. And one more toast to the devil for bringing you to this cross-roads in the evening.

But these are merely suggestions. You should try to stretch your creative muscle, because I'm sure this doesn't begin to exhaust all the myriad possibilities. The bottom line is if you hit it just right, the vibe will turn ominous and menacing, and the people whose party you just crashed will begin whispering about the three uninvited assholes who just got into the Dom P and what the fuck were they doing here, anyway?

And then what you'd need—and this is terribly important, I can't stress it enough—is a Peacemaker, a sort of Ringleader of Debauchery, if you will, somebody who's got her fingers on the strings at all times and can pull and tweak them as the situation calls for it. Somebody like SB ... to pay for the champagne and smooth things over with the natives. Then you could take your newly-acquired bubbly outside where you would be told that no, you could not drink it directly from the bottle and what were you anyway, animals? Obviously you needed to use plastic cups in an establishment such as this. And so you would take some of those cups and stake claim on a table and alternate taking sips and pouring some out on the sidewalk to mourn your loss of propriety. Because if you're hearing a kling-klanging sound right now, it's the sound of Klass ringing loud and true and ... unadulterated through the DC streets at 2 am.

Somehow we made it back to SB's flat and found sleep. And the next morning, shell-shocked and twitching, I stumbled to Starbucks for the acquisition of caffeinated beverages. And this managed to score me enough points to get invited into SB's bed, where we sipped, together, Naked, and I fumbled with the remote control, searching for the button that read "art-porn and football."

Oh, god.

Peach Mangosteen Bliss, brother.

And I mean every word of that.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Weekend  Travel  Debauchery  DC 

When I lived in DC, I played keys for about a year in a band called The Jones. It marked a sort of musical re-awakening for me. (A musical re-awakening which has since gone back to sleep, I might add.) I had been into music all through college and had played in a band called "Fifth Beat." We mostly played jazz standards, mixed in with a few pop odds and ends, like Morphine's "Good." I also had a semi-regular gig back then where I played an antique upright at a bistro called Harb's. I loved the way that piano sounded, even though it was jarringly out of tune and some of the keys in the lower register didn't actually hammer notes at all. Harb's paid me with dinner. And the Harb's patrons sometimes put tips into my glass. I felt like the Billy Joel of the Blue Ridge.

I didn't really keep up with my playing post-graduation. Then, when C and I moved to DC in 2003, I met Mike at The Childe Harold and he invited me to play with them, and I did, and things kind of clicked. I bonded with him and the bassist Jeff over the fact that we all really loved The Black Keys. And so we'd jam in Mike's basement figuring out how to work a piano or Hammond into the songs. We got some gigs and played a few of the local DC clubs ... Staccato, DC9, Velvet Lounge. Oh, the drinking! Oh, the drugs! Oh, the women and all-night orgies. Yes, the band temporarily saved me from all these things. Then there was some band drama that went down. Drummer issues, conflicting schedules, lack of rehearsal space. A general malaise swept over the group. When VH1 calls Mike one day to do a "Behind the Music" special on The Jones, they will refer to this time as a "dark valley" in the group's history. And they will likely refer to my beard and curly mop of hair as "tragic."

I wound up sort of falling out of The Jones. I didn't really quit, nor did they ask me to leave. I just found life pressures were getting in the way (see note above: drinking, drugs, all-night orgies) and so I went on a permanent leave-of-absence. But I have fond memories of the time I spent in the band.

The Jones' sound has changed a lot in the last couple of years. Evolved. In a good way. I'm impressed. George is now the drummer. He had started right around the time I was phasing out and I could tell he would bring good things to the overall sound. There is also a new bass player, Rich. (Well, he's new to me ... I actually think he's been playing with Mike and George for a while now.) Based on the recent recordings I've heard on their MySpace page, it sounds like he's a great addition.

Anyway, let me get to the point: all of this is a very long-winded (and, yes, self-indulgent) way of me saying that if you're in DC or NYC you can (and should) catch The Jones at one of these two shows:

DC: Rock and Roll Hotel, Friday August 8th, 9:30 pm

New York: Kenny's Castaways, Saturday August 9th, 10:30pm

I'm planning on going to the New York show. Maybe I'll see you there.

Along with the several pics I've just posted of me and the band during the time I was in it, here's a demo recording we did. I kind of like this track, even though now I'm not so sure I like the droning piano riff I am playing in it. The solo with the organ sound around the 2:05 mark is kinda minimalist cool, though. In addition to Mike on vocals and Jeff on bass, Mat is playing drums in this one. The song is called "Gun Jump." It is written by Mike, as is most of The Jones' material. Enjoy!



link to this | comments (1) | File:  NY  Music  DC 

There's a new physical "feature" on my body. And I've been noticing it lately whenever I happen to be completely naked and looking down at myself or in a full-length mirror. And that tends to occur at least once a day. Some days it's more frequent, though. Like this weekend, for instance. For reasons I don't fully understand, there happened to be a slightly higher occurrence of nakedness than other days. And that's weird because we were in DC all weekend with a pretty packed schedule of meeting with friends and family, watching anime at the KC, and replacing sink faucets at our condo. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I found myself needing to change clothes a lot.

Anyway, I've been noticing this thing, but haven't been able to put my finger on what it was. All I knew was that something was different. Then, this past Sunday, when I was taking a shower in our hotel room at the Washington Plaza Hotel on Thomas Circle, it finally hit me. I was developing a bald spot, smack dab in the middle of my ... left thigh. (You thought I was heading someplace else with that?) Still ... left thigh? What's up with that shit? For real. What could it mean? I thought all my bodily changes were supposed to have occurred years ago.

The spot is about the size of a tennis ball. And the placement—so neat and precise. It's like coming across a corporeal Stonehenge or something. It sort of leaves you marveling. How did it get there? And when?

To truly appreciate this, you have to understand that there is a lot of hair on my legs. I'm fifty-percent Italian, okay? It comes naturally. Don't let my fair complexion fool you. It may be lightly-colored hair, but it's hair nonetheless, and there's a lot of it. I mean, back when I was a swimmer and would do a full-body shave before big meets, I'd have to take a freakin' beard trimmer to my arm and leg hair just to get it to a point where it could be shaved with a razor. And after that, it took two men, a push-broom, and some hefty bags to clean up.

It's weird, though. Because despite the veritable rug covering my lower extremities, I've always had a disappointing amount of hair on my chest. Well, it's disappointing for me. C doesn't really dig the chest-hair thing, so I guess it worked out well in that regard. What's funny, though, is she actually tells people I do have a "hairy chest" just because I have some random hairs sprouting here and there, mainly around my nipples. (I know, I know, ladies, stop swooning.) Obviously C never watched an episode of Magnum P.I. Because that there is what real chest hair looks like. Actually, if I'm going to tell you the full truth here (and why shouldn't I?) C has actually threatened to divorce me if the hair ever spreads to my back in any unruly manner. Cruel, isn't she? She says she never signed up for hair of that magnitude. And technically, she's right. There was some garbage about "sickness and health," but I don't remember anything about hair. So it's either divorce or the hot wax. Lucky for her, I'm a masochist.

It's crossing my mind that, quite possibly, I'm telling you a little more than you want to hear.

Anyway, I didn't really acquire the chest-hair gene, but I definitely got the rest of 'em, including the one that gives me the ability to grow a fairly respectable beard when I'm so-inclined. Though I have to say, my mountain-man beard is nothing like j's. I'm extremely jealous of his rock-star beard and he knows it. I think if I could grow a beard like j's I would join a Harley gang and roam the earth spreading enlightenment to the less-fortunate, hairless masses. People listen to you when you have facial hair. Jesus knew it. Believe.

Anyway, back to the bald spot. I've seen stuff like this happen to guys who wear long socks. They wind up with leg hair that starts at their mid-shin. Which is kind of humorous, really. But what was up with the thigh? After some head-scratching, I finally figured it out. I wear my wallet in my front-left pocket. Combine that with the fact that I tend to wear jeans with deep, low pockets—you know, cuz my wallet's fat, ya'll—and you can start to put two and two together. So, to test out my theory, I slid my jeans on and compared the positioning of my wallet to the positioning of the bald spot and, yep, that was it. Mystery solved! And so it got me thinking—maybe I should put this new-found hair removal device to work someplace where a little bald spot would be more welcome. Time to start wearing my wallet in my rear pockets again. Oh, wait, that won't work.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Weird  Ho_Hum  Health  DC 

A bit of sad DC news: the Childe Harold shut down this past weekend. When C and I first moved to DC, this was our local for the first several months. Most of our early DC memories and social life pretty much revolved around that bar. And not only were we clients, but C was an employee, doing a brief stint of serving while she looked for work. I also did some updating of content for their Web site from time to time.

I met all kinds of great people here. And had all kinds of great memories: New Year's Eve 2004, ringing out the terrible year that had been 2003. Meeting up with The Jones, which briefly resurrected my key-tickling days. My 30th birthday, spent at the downstairs bar. Oh, and Superbowl XXXVIII — witnessing the flop heard round the world, Janet Jackson's pasty-clad boob.

And there were many others, all stained slightly amber with Bass Ale, which ran freely from the taps. If I ever owned a bar, I would want it to be pretty much exactly like the Childe. Smokey downstairs pub. Dark upstairs restaurant. Music on the weekends. Great food. Casual, real, and full of interesting people.

I haven't been to the Childe in several months. I miss it. And I know DC will feel a dent in its landscape as places like this are supplanted by the chain retail and fast food sprouting up along Connecticut Ave in Dupont at an alarming rate. But the Childe will still play a vital part of numerous people's personal histories, including mine.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  DC 

One thing I'll miss when we move to Bawlmer is the sound of choppers up and down Mass Ave during Memorial Day weekend as the Harley's arrive in DC for operation Rolling Thunder. Vroom!

link to this | comments (1) | File:  DC 

Monday it was sunny, but cool, with a pleasant breeze. I grabbed my camera and walked south on 10th. At F, I remembered a recent post Reya had made, and so I jutted over to 8th to take a quick peek at the street painting there. Then I walked by the Navy Memorial, where some elementary school kids were giving a performance of music and dance. I grabbed a sandwich at the FBI Cosi and headed across Pennsylvania, over to 12th and down past the IRS building, across Constitution, to the Mall, where I claimed a park bench just east of the 12th street tunnel. I ate my Ginger Chicken on whole grain and took some pictures and thought about "place" and how it's supposed to be not where, but who you're with that really matters. How for the most part that's true. But sometimes. Sometimes where you are makes all the difference. And it's kind of an inscrutable thing, the sense of connection you can feel with a place. It's not something you can easily point to, and it doesn't always make sense. It's not necessarily a factor of time spent, or nativity, though it could be. It's something about the air in a place - the way it touches your senses. The way it feels.

As I ate, people walked past, and I listened to the strange temporal quality of their footsteps. The way they suddenly came into my aural bubble, and just as suddenly vanished. One moment they were there, in front of me, belonging to that person. These feet on gravel. The next minute they were gone, along with the person who brought them. These footsteps. Now quiet.

A girl stepped up to where I was sitting. She introduced herself and said she was from WAMU, the local NPR station. She asked if I would mind speaking into her digital recorder the answer to two questions: 1) my name and 2) what it means to me to be an American. And I said sure, because why not? Even though I had no real clue what the hell I was going to say. I mean, I knew my name, which was a start. But I had no idea how to respond to the America thing. And the truth is that there was no real answer for that question. It was just one of those fluff questions that people ask on TV or radio shows and it doesn't have any real significance. In order to provide me with a visual cue, she had written the questions in ALL CAPS on a folded piece of lined paper. She handed it to me. I joked about the pressure. "Just use the paper," she said. "But the paper doesn't have the answers," I felt like saying.

Then she pressed a button and I spoke my name into the mic and, after a couple of nervous tongue and teeth clicking noises, which were painfully loud and clear to me, I said that . . . "well, I was sitting here on the Mall in DC on a sunny, but cool afternoon, eating a sandwich I'd bought at Cosi, thinking about this place, and I guess it was that. That was what it meant to me to be an American: the ability to do this thing I was doing, which I didn't do nearly enough, and which I suddenly felt I should have done much more while I lived a twenty-minute walk away, instead of taking this place for granted every day, eating lunch in my apartment alone, using the excuse of not enough time or two much work. And damn, I regret that. And do you ever feel like you're not living life, you know, correctly? Like maybe you're worrying about the wrong things?"

That's what I said. Or something like it. Okay, maybe not those last couple of things about regret and worry. But I was thinking them. Whatever I said, I'm a little embarrassed now to think about it because, well, it didn't get to the heart of the matter. It was fluff. A fluff reply for a fluff question. Oh well, I guess I was feeling fluffy. And who knows, she might have been in the mood for fluff. And my fluff response might be on Metro Connections on NPR around July 4th. Fluff, immortalized. For the sake of radio everywhere, let's hope not.

The girl smiled politely, thanked me and, as we engaged in some small talk, she packed up her recorder and cue card. Then we exchanged farewells and she walked on to the next populated bench. And her footsteps disappeared, just like the others. And before long, I began to question whether or not she and I had even interacted. And as I sat there under the shade of a tree branch, alone, with my camera in my lap, my balled up sandwich bag and bottle of water next to me, looking off toward the Capitol, I felt a little like crying. Because place is never permanent, and sometimes that feels tragic. Because of the lonely temporal quality of, not just footsteps, but just about everything.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Radio  DC  Chewing 

I just got the following 'Alert DC' text message: National Weather reports that 1 to 2 inches of snow is expected to fall late tonight into tomorrow morning. Temperatures are expected to be in the low 30's. Hello, April 6th!

link to this | comments (2) | File:  DC 

Saturday morning, a small group of war protesters marched down Mass Ave right outside our building, yelling and making noise. It wasn't a very large group, but they had police escorts nonetheless, and it piqued our curiosity. Was there something larger going on? We felt a little out of it to learn that there was a indeed a larger war protest rally going on at the Mall. So we decided to go down and take a look. Here are the pics.

There's nothing much I can tell you about the rally that you can't read in the WaPo, but here are a few observations:

I have to say, it was a pretty impressive showing. Not as large as the March for Women's Lives back in 2004, but still pretty darn big. I thought I had pics from the 2004 women's march online, but I just realized they were part of my 'old' gallery system and I removed them a while back. I'm slowly moving those old photos over to the new system. The pivotal word being 'slowly.'

This weekend's rally didn't have any catchy slogan or banner associated with it, and this was good. It was refreshing. It was just a gathering of people protesting the war. Different people from all different backgrounds. The result was a diverse range of voices and unique messages on signs. Not everybody was carrying the same sign. This was nice. It felt a little more like the 70s, or at least what I've seen of it on TV. I mean, even Jane Fonda was there.

Although the day before the rally was freezing cold, and the day after was dreary and wet, the day of was a beautiful, sun-shiny, light-coat-wearing type of day. I'm not an expert in these matters, but if we wanted to talk about a 'higher power,' which, after all, this president is keen on doing, we might go so far as to say there was tacit consent, if not outright approval, of the protest. Either that, or he just wanted a good view.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  DC  Politics 

Time: Saturday afternoon, January (a month known to be a part of the 'winter' season in the Northern Hemisphere)

Location: Washington, DC

Situation: Walking outside

Attire: One t-shirt, shorts, tennis shoes, hat, light-weight long-sleeved shirt (tied around my waist), sunglasses

Body climate while moving: Slight perspiration

Temperatures are back to normal today - kind of. "Normal" is relative and the word tends to get applied to temperatures that are much higher than usual this year.

Still, the radiators in my apartment have begun their hissing. The windows are shut. There's a gentle rain. I guess it's "winter like."

But last week - particularly Saturday - had me convinced: the end of days is near.

What's crazy is that, while I was wearing shorts, this was going on. I guess you have to live at least a mile above sea level to still get winter. Pretty soon we'll all be moving to Canada.


link to this | comments (8) | File:  DC 

I'm back home. In DC. We flew in last night. And even though I truly loved seeing friends and family in Dallas, I am very relieved to be back on the east coast again. I feel grounded. I woke to the familiar sounds of car horns and sirens this morning, which kind of gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. And I'm ready to re-train my legs on how to do this thing called walking.

The last few weeks have been a mixture of fun, chaos, laughter, and frustration. Because it was the holidays, I can't really say it was at all times relaxing. But overall it was great. There were many days spent catching up with mom and sis, dad and bro, which was really good and heart warming, and long overdue. There were late-night fireside chats with the Hill-Farmers - miss you guys! Let's see what else . . . James, thanks for the great chops on the grill. Yancy, thanks for the incredible lunch at Texas de Brazil. And Dave: I always loves me some Blue Goose.

I hung out a lot at Dunn Brothers Coffee in Addison, which has great coffee and free wifi. I highly recommend this place if you're in the DFW-area and looking for a place to get online and work. Just stay away from the sandwiches. They are purely there for emergency hunger situations only. Do not expect anything that tastes remotely like the ingredients described on the packaging. Or any other ingredient that might be described as 'food,' for that matter.

For Christmas weekend, my long-time best friend Paul - who I've known since I was four and who is also something of a brother to me - and his wife Erica drove up from Houston to spend a couple of days with us for what amounted to extended periods of eating and talking followed by shorter periods of silent, uncomfortable digestion.

And in between all of the festivities there was driving. Lots and lots of driving.

I stayed offline for most of last week, which means I've got a lot of catching up to do. Oh, and my new pair of jeans is telling me it's time to either get back to the gym or face up to a larger size. I'm going to opt for the former.

Bring it on, 2007. I'm friggin' ready for you.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Dallas  DC  Family  Friends  Ho_Hum