Head in the sand

I want to bury my head in the sand, any sand, excluding that currently located in the Middle East - because that is the problem. That is the issue I want to avoid. The violence in Israel and Lebanon scares me.

It is definitely not the "grown up" thing to do – ignoring the issue. It is infantile and irresponsible and one of those things for which Americans are routinely criticized but it is tempting. Focus on movies and men, dinners, drinks and friends. Forget about the world beyond our borders.

Forget about the world beyond the District, really, and all will be fine. Don't we have enough to worry about with dangerously hot days? Our crime emergency? Upcoming elections and the United Nation's criticism of the District's lack of voting representation in Congress?

On a more personal note, I could easily wrap myself up in my nephew's birthday. In doctor's appointments. Planning trips to Ohio, Alaska, Turkey. Boys. Bars. Getting my car fixed.

Somehow, it just doesn't work. I've tried but I can't. The cover of the Express, the cover of the Examiner show billowing clouds of smoke, buildings reduced to rubble, the dead lying on rocks, barely covered with blood-splattered sheets. (Not to mention my subscriptions to The Economist and Time.)

Getting ready for work in the morning, tuned into the Today show, I hear reports from Beirut. This program focuses primarily on their concert series, throwing a wedding, entertainment, health, money – not world news – but there's Ann Curry, reporting from Beirut.

Just this morning, on the way to work, I read of the temporary ceasefire, a suspension, a "pause" in the violence, following the Isreali attack on Qana which resulted in the death of nearly three dozen children, a dozen women, a dozen men in the largest single attack since the outbreak of violence. In the articles, the Israelis justified their action by blaming Hezbollah for launching rockets from near the shelter but still agreed to a 48-hour break.

Already, the agreement has been broken. MSNBC reports that the Israeli air force carried out strikes earlier today and Hezbollah guerrillas have attacked an Israeli tank, wounding three soldiers.

A draft resolution in the U.N. Security Council proposes to call for an immediate halt to fighting. The U.N. itself has suffered casualties to the fighting – two observers killed in an Israeli air strike, the break in of the U.N.'s headquarters in Beirut by Lebanese protesters, the Palestinian storming of the U.N. compound in Gaza City. In the meantime, protests rage throughout the world in support of one side or the other or against the violence in general. Tension continues to grow as does impatience with the United States.

The news surrounds me – on television, in the papers, online both at news sites and in blogs. I cannot escape it. Using my typical escapist M.O., I have thrown myself into literature. Last week, I picked up a book recommended by a friend, A Map of Love, which tells a love story spanning three continents and a hundred years. Instead of hiding from current issues between its pages, I find myself wrapped up in talk of Zionism more than a hundred years ago, a discussion of a worldwide campaign to collect contributions to buy Palestine.

"They offer a lot of money for the land… and some landlords – the big landlords, the ones who live in the cities – they sell. And the fallah, instead of working the land and giving a share of the crop to the owner, finds himself turned into a hired labourer – or turned off the land. They wish to have nothing to do with the Arabs. Their children don't attend our schools and they don't allow our children into theirs. They speak their own languages, run their own affairs, hold on to their nationalities. What are they doing in the midst of us?"

"… Personally, I think their dream is impossible. Their Zion is a heavenly place and Heaven cannot be created on earth."

[The Map of Love / Ahdaf Soueif. New York: Anchor Books, 2000.]

The book wrestles with the issues of a separate Jewish state, of displaced Palestinians, of the struggles between radical and moderate Muslims, of the influence of other countries – the United States, the United Kingdom. It deals with love, with racism, with knowing oneself and one's history. Instead of drowning the sounds of violence, the adds another cadence to the cacophony.

Just two or three books ago, I read The Song of Names, the story of a young violinist separated from his family in Warsaw to study in London. Set before, during and immediately after World War II, this book, too, dealt with Zionism. With anti-Semitism. With Hasidism. With belief. All from another angle.

I recently saw Islam: What the West Needs to Know. While it wasn't exactly even keeled, the portrayal of the Muslim faith provided eye-opening information regarding fundamentalists, Palestine, and ongoing violence. I saw it in an attempt to broaden my mind and my understanding. I left scared.

I am scared now. I want to hide. I want to forget but I cannot. The world won't let me. Instead, I will try to understand and to pray for peace.


Tag: Middle East Israel Lebanon Understanding Fear Denial

A day of rest

I’m not sure why I got up at 6:45 on Saturday. Even more perplexing is why I got up at 7 on Sunday. Or how.

I have trouble getting up before 8 on any given day, but on Sunday morning, I awoke bright eyed and bushy tailed. After approximately four hours of sleep. I wanted to text message a friend but realized that he was probably still in bed with that little blonde in the pink shirt and short skirt with whom he left the bar.

That opened my eyes a little more. I shuddered and pushed the thought aside. I picked up my book and padded to the living room to read. The rest of the day found me in pretty much the same place. Hangover free. On the couch and reading. Watching movies – Melinda and Melinda; The United States of Leland; Walk the Line. I did clean a little. Break down boxes for recycling. Set up my new lamps. Hang with my brother when he returned the car, but overall, I didn’t do much. My body needed rest. So did my head.

On Saturday, I awoke early. Again, after a night out and entirely too little sleep. I read a bit, trying to catch up for bookclub. (I’d gotten my dates wrong, thought we were meeting next weekend. I picked up the 400+ page book on Thursday afternoon.)

Around 7:30, I dressed and headed over to Eastern Market for pancakes. I soon discovered that Market Lunch didn’t open ‘til 8 on weekends, so I climbed up on a stool and read my book. When the counter opened, those who’d just arrived jumped the line and I found myself at the end, despite my half hour wait. At least I’d made progress on the book and by the time I got the bluebucks, I was starving.

I ate outside at an iron table. Reading. Trying to avoid smearing buttery, syrupy goodness on my autographed first edition. A woman and two small children sat at the table behind me.

“Can I open my orange juice?” asked a high, sexless voice.

“What did Daddy say?” responded his mother. “Did Daddy say you needed to wait until he brought out the food?”

“No…”

“Are you playing a game with me? Are you making up stories?” I heard a giggle.

“Nice way to call your kid on lying,” I thought as I returned to the book.

Daddy came out bearing a tray laden with food. He stumbled a bit on the bricks, dropping the flatware and spilling coffee on his own bare leg and foot, on my back, on my white shirt. Mommy offered to get another cup, but grumpy Daddy declined. I thought about buying him a cup myself, a few minutes later, when I walked past Port City Java but realized that might be a little weird.

I kept walking, heading home to change my shirt, gather my laundry and enter the unnumbered dimension of hell known as a laundromat on a three-digit temperature day. Fortunately, I was early enough – only a few of the dryers were running and there was a seat in front of the big, dusty industrial fan.

By 10 a.m., when my brother called, I was almost ready to hand over my car. I finished folding my laundry and called him back.

“I’m about to leave… The way I see it, you’ve got three options. #1, I can pick you up now, you can wait about a half hour and drop me off at a regatta –”

“A regatta?”

“Yeah… Jamy’s rowing. So, option #2, you can walk over when your ready and drop me off at the regatta or option #3, you can wait at home about a half hour. I’ll come over and pick you up and you can drop me off at the regatta.”

Number three it was. I went home to put away the laundry, shower and head out again. Not yet 11 and already the day had proved productive. I even made my bed! I drove off. Around the block. Back for sunglasses and a camera. Off again. I picked up my brother and he dropped me off at the regatta. My first regatta. A day of sunscreen and biting flies. Rowers. Dogs. It was great.

I parked myself under a tree with my water and my book. My camera. I read for a while. Caught a glimpse of Jamy from a distance. She looked like a woman with a mission. Later, I got up and walked around looking for her. (I missed her – she was on the dock catching boats.) I caught up with her later. She explained what was going on. The course. The boats. She introduced me to the regatta and to rowers. She left me for her race and I wandered to the ropes, making friends with the coxswain’s mother and taking pictures.

I had to run after the race. Or rather walk really, really fast up 11th Street, down Pennsylvania to Eastern Market metro. Time for book club. Somehow, I had made it to page 270. Not quite the end but close enough. We’d read Manhunt, a book on the 12-day search for and capture of John Wilkes Booth. We met at Ford’s Theatre. Sat through the last talk of the day and retired to Gordon Biersch for food, beer and a discussion of the book.

Reading the book, I recognized landmarks, locations. The regatta took place by the Navy Yard, the dock between two bridges. The one on the right replaced the one by which Booth left DC that very black Good Friday in 1865. Fords Theatre. The Peterson House, where Lincoln died. They’re around the corner from E Street. From H&M.

I stopped at the store on the way home to pick up baby gifts and skirts and tanks for myself (to stuff in my already crowded closet). Went home and showered. Exhausted. Changed into another skirt and tank and headed to the Pour House for a rowing party/fundraiser. To catch up with Jamy and Pele. To not drink much beer. Random boy started talking to me. Much later after the random left. After the girls left. I caught up with a bartending friend. With Nick the cop. With a boy I’d met before and girls who worked in the bar. One had this whole Rosario Dawson thing going on.

I played a painfully long game of pool. (When I’m the best player on the table, you know it’s a bad night.) Penthouse Photohunt. A covered/uncovered breast difference earned me a fierce kiss on the cheek, stubble chafing as I laughed. The Rosario girl told me she wanted me on any team she formed and we played out the dollars as the bar closed, lights came on.

I walked home. Across the street, I saw my bartending friend with the little blonde in the pink shirt and short skirt. She’d played Photohunt with him and watched him on the pool table. She disappeared for a while but appeared on the sidewalk as we walked out, as I walked away. I walked home and crawled into bed. Exhausted. Three, three thirty in the morning.

Writing about it now tires me. Living it then tired me even more, but it was a good day. A happy day. A day that warranted a day of rest.


Tag: Rowing Manhunt Bookclub Eastern Market Weekends Washington DC

The scoop on Scoop

Free tickets. Not only that – getting to see a movie before anyone else (okay - maybe not before anyone else, but before the general public), what better reason to see a movie that I already wanted to see?

Late Monday morning, sitting at my desk, trying to figure out staffing reports and regretting the last beer (or three) at Bar Pilar Sunday night, I missed the popup telling me I had a new message. Eventually I stumbled across it in my inbox.

Congratulations!

You have a new message on your [website] home page, please click below to sign-on.

The congratulatory bit piqued my interest and I clicked below to sign on to my [website] home page. Apparently, for the second time in less than a week, I won tickets to an advanced screening. The first movie – Accepted – I declined due to lack of interest on the part of my friends and family, despite the four free passes.

Congratulations!!

Kristin, you have won an advance screening pass for you and a guest to watch the movie SCOOP, Monday, July 24th @ 7:30 pm.

I haven’t seen Match Point, yet, but I actually planned to see it Wednesday with a friend and I just bought Melinda, Melinda. I like Woody Allen. I find him cerebral and irreverent and more than a little annoying at times. I knew the movie would make me forget about the lack of sleep, the lack of anything and just make me laugh. I confirmed without emailing anyone, without finding a taker for my extra ticket. All I knew is that I wanted to go.

(For the record, I tried to ignore the warning below, the warning that said I would be drawn, quartered and deep-fried in a vat of boiling oil if I confirmed and failed to appear.)

After talking to Ella, my moviemate from another advanced screening (Hard Candy), I called a boy. He’s said that he would have gone to Accepted, had he been in town, so I figured he’d be up for Scoop. After a bit of phone tag and a garbled message on an elevator, we connected and planned to meet at 6:30 to queue with the other “winners” taking advantage of free seats.

At 6:15 I joined the line. At 6:20, I looked up from my book, eavesdropped a little on the people to my left and buried myself, nose first, back in its pages. 6:25. 6:30. 6:32. 6:34. Every couple of minutes, I looked up, I craned my neck trying to see around the bend in the line. 6:43. 6:47. He still wasn’t there and I started pacing. 5 steps; glance up the line; turn; walk to wall; turn; glance to clock; pause. Lather, rinse, repeat.

By 7:02, they started admitting moviegoers. I walked up with the line, looking back as I walked forward. I gave my name to the girl at the door. Spelling it out. (I didn’t want to be blacklisted from future [free] events.) Turn. Pause. Go into the theater.

The screening was at E Street. I didn’t know what screen we’d have but some of them are itsy, bitsy and I worried that we wouldn’t get seats. I entered the room and my fears assuaged, sat down for a minute before trying to find my “date.” I put my bag on the chair beside me, but it wasn’t heavy enough to hold it. I tried my book and they balanced precariously at a 22-degree angle (give or take a little). I kicked myself for not having a sweater, not being able to save seats while I went to look for the very tardy boy. (I considered leaving my slip – I was so over it anyway – but finally picked up my kit and headed back toward the ticket taker. And there he was. 45 minutes late.

With a sigh of relief, I waved and managed to get him past the line with a “oh, he’s my guest.” We found new seats, closer to the screen but reasonable. We talked until the lights dimmed and with little ado, the movie started.

Scarlett Johansson drove me nuts with Midwestern, schoolgirl naiveté but that faded until her lack of naiveté drove me nuts. Her friend, played Romola Garai, seemed familiar until I realized (much later) that she’d starred in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights at which point I died a little – I’ve actually seen it. Hugh Jackman seemed charming and proper and completely too good to be real. Woody Allen, well, he was just funny. The guy from Deadwood? I could barely get past listening for "cock sucker" to fall from his lips, but I adored him, even without the cursing. And wasn’t that detective at the end Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer?

The movie moved quickly and quirkily as one might expect from a Woody Allen flick. I actually found myself marveling at the way the trailers and previews and commercials played down his involvement. “From the makers of Match Point” or “Starring Scarlett Johansson and Hugh Jackman!” Nothing (or very little) about the writer, director and co-star of the entertaining farce.

I laughed hard. I think I snorted once and worried a bit about snorting on the girl to my right. I heard the boy laughing, too, and we walked out in good humor. I praised my luck in getting the tickets, the seats, the availability of a friend last minute. (The rest of the night went downhill.)

I didn’t get much of a scoop on Scoop – seeing it just four days in advance, writing about it the day of, but I did get to enjoy a good movie. With a free ticket.



Tag: Scoop Movies Advanced Screening E Street Cinema Washington DC

In Your Eyes

So many things to say but time escapes me if words do not. I want to write about bad dates and good movies. Hezbollah and Israel and Somalia. Burying my head and ending up with sand in my eyes.

Instead, here I sit, late for bed and thinking about a night with my best friend. It was one of those nights when we planned dinner and a movie and ended up without a bite to eat. The TV stayed on pause for an hour, an hour and a half, before we turned it off completely.

Conversation bounced from herpes to Hezbollah (and the fact that I want to write about it); cancer, Stage IV, and the latest exhibits staged by the Hirshhorn, the National Gallery, the Phillips.

After our talk, based on our conversation, I went home and flipped through “The World of Art,” my 500+ page, full-color book of the masters and their masterful works, looking for the artist who shares a room with Van Gogh at the National Gallery of Art.

I drove myself crazy for hours. "With whom does van Gogh share a room, a gallery?" Gauguin came to mind. I speny time with the book, flipping through the paintings; I googled cross references. (I think it is Gauguin but I cannot remember.)

I worried about the recent disappearance of one of my favorites, Symphony in White, aka The White Girl, from her wall in the National Gallery. I hadn’t seen her over the past few months and missed her. I wondered if she’s on loan.

My time with my best friend, it wasn’t purely happy. She recently discovered that her uncle has cancer. Inoperable cancer. Big time, stage IV cancer. Of the brain. Serious stuff. We drank wine together. We talked. I don’t know that I lightened her load, but I kept her occupied.

When she talked about her uncle, I pictured him and not in some abstract way. I pictured the man I met in October. I pictured the man in the stories I’ve heard throughout our friendship.

I pictured my own uncle, a man who died three years ago from what started as skin cancer (skin cancer!), robbing us all of the history he shared with my stepmother. A year and a half later, my grandmother passed. Suddenly, nobody remained who knew my stepmother as an infant toddling, as a tomboyish girl, as a hopeful young woman. My friend’s mom finds herself in the same position, faced with the untimely and unfair end of her brother’s life, the end of her family line.

We talked about that, too, my best friend and I. Our teeth turned purple with cheap red wine. (I had nothing decent on hand when I rushed out the door.)

The cat, her cat, the only cat in the world to which I am not allergic, nuzzled my hand, bit playfully at my toes, curled up in my lap despite her independence. She knows me. She’s slept on my head.

By the time I got home, I didn’t even mind the lack of parking. I didn’t mind the three block walk. I didn’t mind the heavy bag of books returned, the books borrowed. As I drove, as I looked for a spot, I listened to Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” and smiled, glad to prolong the drive enough to hear the rest of the song.

In the meantime, all of the other thoughts kept swirling through my head, waiting for the time I would find, later, to write them down, to get them out. Of course, she's heard the stories already and she'll read them again later.

Tag: Friendship Cancer Art

Brunch on Sunday

On Sunday, July 23, one of my dear friends was deflowered, defrocked and despoiled. She lost her innocence; I was there to witness the whole thing. For the first time, ever, my friend brunched. She loved every greasy, overstuffed, Bloody Maried second of it. (At least, that's my take on it.)

The question arises as to how a 30-year-old woman, living in a major metropolitan area, with an active social life, could have avoided it for so long. She doesn't live by the code of three square meals. Actually, as a fitness buff, she takes the untraditional approach of many small meals a day. She just hasn't brunched.

Of course, she also worked on Sunday. Every Sunday. For the past eight years. As an editor, she worked Sunday through Thursday to meet Monday through Friday publication dates.

My friend missed most three-day weekends. She lost her "Friday" nights (Thursday evening) because 'most everybody had to get up in the morning, the same people who blindly, drunkenly encouraged her to stay out late on Saturdays, despite the fact that she worked in the morning. The same people who pushed her to take off Sunday for "weekend" trips. Myself included.

Last week, after eight years of living a day off from most of her friends, she started a new job. 9 to 5. Or 8:30 to 5:30 with evenings and weekends free. Weekends. Free. For brunch, obviously.

And so, on Sunday, in celebration of her first free weekend, we went to Whitlows on Wilson for the much touted brunch buffet. We arrived well in advance of the churchgoers and the hangover crowd. We saw them outside as we left – people dressed in Sunday best, mingling with the sunglassed, tousle-haired, "are these my clothes and am I wearing underwear" kids seeking a greasy settling of the stomach.

Earlier, though, we joined the "we went out last night but didn't party enough to keep us from getting a decent table" crowd. Just past 11 am, we arrived late enough for salad, but early enough to appreciate that first cup of coffee. And the coffee did flow. As did Little Miss Bloody Mary.

We all have our own approach to brunch. I don't know if my friend's developed hers yet. Mine took years to emerge.

As a teenager, I generally joined my parents, stepbrothers, brother and the random exchange student for Sunday brunch at the country club. I tended toward a plate of leafy greens - no dressing - and about a gallon of water before thinking about anything remotely caloric. (The boys went straight for anything dripping with fat.)

In later years, broke and paying for myself, I realized that I didn't eat enough to justify buffet prices. Ever. I stuck to my menu selections while friends and family gorged on sumptuous spreads of pastries and cheese, meat and fruit. Occasionally, I ventured into buffet-land and wound up uncomfortably full and broke.

On Sunday, though, I gave in. Buffet. Salad first, as always, with a little mac and cheese on the side. My typical approach. The boy returned with a plate of meat – crab legs, ribs and sausage. Meat stuffed in meat wrapped in meat with meat on the side. The girl to my left started with breakfast food – eggs and bacon, sausage and waffles, syrup over the lot. (Lunch food would follow on a second trip and a second plate.) And the virgin, the brunch babe, she wandered aimlessly before coming back with a healthy balance of breakfast and lunch, fruity and fried goodness. To each his own brunch M.O.

The buffet was incredible. Well worth the trip from Capitol Hill. On the metro. On a Sunday morning. I preferred the omelet station - light, fluffy eggs with cheese, tomatoes, spinach. Mmmmm... Fresh fruit. Mac and cheese. The meat looked... meaty (other people seemed to like it) and the crab legs came with drawn butter. Between the food and the Bloody Mary bar, it seemed that heaven came in a two-hour chunk spread over many tables.

Actually, the only hiccough in the brunch devirgination came toward the end, when we tried to pay. Actually, there were two hiccoughs: Once when the server confiscated the boy's smoothie cup (as a health code violation) and once when we paid our bill.

Even with the church/hangover crowd lurking outside, waiting for our table, we didn't feel pressure to leave, but after a good bit of conversation, glass upon glass water and the clearing of our plates, the bill arrived. We tried to split it three ways but the server balked and pointed at the receipt – no more than two credit cards per tab. Honestly, I don't know how that works with the big groups, but okay. We could narrow it down from three to two and I had cash.

I paid the server $25 in cash. The girl to the left paid another $25 on her card and the boy picked up the rest of the 91-dollar tab. The server came back with two receipts – one for $25 and one for $36. Huh. We all did the math in our heads - 25 plus 25 equals 50. 91 minus 50 equals 41. The server would be screwed at the end of the day. We called her over and tried to make things right.

"That's why you're only supposed to use two credit cards!" she yelled in frustration as she attempted to do the math, long hand, incorrectly. We explained the discrepancy and asked how we could fix it. "I've already run the cards. Just forget about it."

She stormed away. We looked at each other. I fished out another five and the boy added to his tip to compensate. We walked out hoping it would balance out for the girl with terrible math skills, and I felt a little bad because she'd yelled at us. Twice.

Fortunately, though, it didn't darken the day and we waddled away full of breakfasty goodness and the knowledge that our friend had shed her innocence in style, with a Bloody Mary and drawn butter, with her friends and boyfriend. What a way to go.


Tag: Brunch Whitlows

When Good Things Go Bad...

We live in a jaded nation. In general, I would suppose that a majority probably expect, or at least prepare for, the worst. How many times have you, or someone you know, “hoped for the best, but prepared for the worst”? I do it all the time. My stance is that I would rather be pleasantly surprised than unpleasantly disappointed. I don’t even consider myself to be a pessimist. But when I stop and think about it, I guess I truly am a pessimist, by default, because a true optimist would be someone who hoped for AND assumed the best.

Case in point:
This morning, a coworker and I headed down for our weekly Starbucks splurge. There is a Starbucks in our building, but if we don’t make it by 8:30, it is way too crowded, and so we walk to 2 blocks to the next one. Luckily, this morning, we went before 8:00, so we got to stay in the building.

We walk in, and the manager is in front of the registers, taking orders, and directing baristas from her perch. There is a sign, telling us that the register is broken, and then something about change and buying a drink. I don't read it carefully, but assume they are saying we have to have exact change for all orders, since the registers are broken, which I do not have. Just as I am getting ready to step out of line, the manager tells me that the registers are broken, but Starbucks will buy my coffee for me.

I’m sorry, come again? I’m getting free coffee? What’s the catch?

No catch. The manager says they don’t want us to go somewhere else for coffee, so until the registers are working, they’re buying drinks. Taken bit aback, maybe a little suspicious, I order my drink, partly just to test her. As though I thought they would yell “Gotcha!” and laugh at me for naively believing I would actually get free coffee. But nothing happens. They just go about making the drinks, and handing them out to other, slightly dazed, customers.

As we’re waiting for the drinks to come up, something amazing happens. Everyone is in a good mood. Strangers are laughing with each other. We’re all talking about how we’re so jaded, that when someone tells us something is free, we assume there’s some sort of catch. One woman says she is going to write a letter, commending the excellent customer service. As someone gets his or her order, everyone says goodbye, and tells him or her to have a good day. It’s almost eerie, this happy-go-lucky moment.

Then, some jackass briefly ruins the moment, and reminds me of another current attitude – the “more, more, more” trend. He is told, upon trying to order a pastry that they are only giving out free coffee, not food or bottled water etc. And he gets angry. Some of us think he doesn’t understand, maybe he, like us, thinks there’s a catch. So as he storms past us, muttering, someone offers up, “Sir, they’re just giving out free coffee! There’s no catch!” to which he replies, “But I can’t get a muffin.”

But I can’t get a muffin?

So now, since he can’t get a stupid muffin, he’s going to go to another Starbucks, and pay for the muffin AND coffee? We’re all dumbfounded. Then, we just laugh at him. One woman comments, “He just decided he was going to be in a bad mood this morning, and nothing, not even free coffee, is going to change that.”

Another coworker went down to the same Starbucks an hour later for her daily jolt, and the registers were still down (lucky her). THE SAME THING HAPPENED. Some woman was there, arguing over not being able to get food. Her exact words? “I come in here every day and I cannot believe that you will not let me get a muffin and put it on a tab.”
A tab?

This woman thinks that, out of the hundreds of people who visit the store on a daily basis, SHE should be allowed to start a tab, for one measly muffin? Are these things made with crack? Are they that delicious that if you can’t have right at this exact moment, you’re doing to go into a terrible withdrawal?

Sad. But I’m not letting it ruin MY free coffee. I vow to be an optimist, at least for the day.

Tag: Starbucks Free Coffee Washington DC

Oh, what a night

Ladies night. Free wine. Yes, free. Wine. By the glass. Skeptical as I am about free things, when Kayla suggested happy hour at a bar close to my house offering free wine (and $4 cosmos) to the gentler sex just for having a double X, I couldn't refuse.

Of course, I could question it. Would we be drinking wine from a box - and not one of the decent Australian wines in a box but Franzia? Fighting a crowd of desperate women to get to the bar? Would we even be able to get the bartender's attention for a single free glass, much less a refill?

So many questions, so much doubt riddled my mind as I walked past the bar at 6:30, our designated drink time. Chatting with Kayla on the handy, dandy little RAZR, I knew that she was late – she hadn't left the office and I didn't want to drink alone. From the noise inside and the gaggles of girls approaching the door, I feared the worst.

And so, I went home. I waited for a call or text letting me know that my friends were in the area. Text after text ended with "We've got a stool 4 U" as I walked toward the bar. Definitely a good sign.

Navigating through the crowded room, I even saw a few men. Young men. Attractive men. (In between the skeevy, scamming men that you'd find in any bar, regardless of the Ladies' Night factor). A healthy balance of men and women and seemingly in a variety of professions and ages.

By the time I made my way through the crowd, things were looking up. I found my friends at the bar, sipping free wine by the glass without a single look of disgust. I claimed my stool and ordered pinot grigio. It arrived in a martini glass with a shrug of apology – they'd run out of wine glasses and between the three of us, we had one glass for white, one for red and one for martinis.

Better, though, they appeared bottomless. As soon as condensation stopped beading on the glass, the wine warmed a little or the glass emptied a hair, a bartender would sweep by with a chilled bottle of white, a bottle that I've bought before, a name I knew. Splashing wine into the glasses and all over the counters, the bartenders would fill our glasses and move on.

We bought bottles of water… Or did they end up on our tab? We did have a tab because we stayed past the end of happy hour (or many happy hours, because the wine flowed until 9 p.m./8:48 according to my phone when Denise tried to get a final glass and was grudgingly obliged with a "we don't have anymore" and the dregs from the bottle).

After 9, we ordered a beer (was the wine really gone or was it just the end of the free wine?) and we ordered hummus. Lovely, wonderful, smooth, garlicky hummus, with more pita than even the four of us could eat. Okay, we picked up a boy along the way, and really, only Denise and I ate the hummus. The other two had already eaten but a kitchen backup two hours earlier had driven Denise to 7/11 for a packet of nuts.

There were a few hiccoughs during the night. The need to pay cash (due to a broken credit card machine). The surly bartender at 8:48. The early evening snack snafu. The skeevy older guy who asked Denise to introduce him to Kayla. But overall, it was a good night, this ladies night. Definitely worth a repeat visit and a free glass of wine. Or seven. I'd tell you where, but I want to keep my stool by the bar.


Tag: Washington DC Happy hour Bars Ladies Night

Comfort food

"Can we go to Bar Pilar? They have tater tots."

Over the past year or so, I've asked the question at least a hundred times but my friends never seem to bite.

From my first visit, balanced on a barstool with a beer in hand, I loved the bar. My new favorite place. I decided that if it were closer to home, I would attempt to move in or at least secure a regular stool for myself. (The whole "metro transfer metro" thing combined with cabs completely unwilling to take me home to southeast at the end of the night, kept me from becoming a regular.)

But I did peddle shamelessly, trying to convince friends and acquaintances alike that we needed to visit Bar Pilar on trips out of my neighborhood. Unfortunately, my friends failed to succomb to the draw of the tater tot, and from what I understand, they were not alone.

In what seems like an attempt to draw more of a crowd (like the almost overcrowded sister bar, Café Saint-Ex) executive chef Barton Seaver (a man as yummy as the dishes he serves at both Pilar and Saint-Ex) has changed the menu from comfort foods to "Italian-influenced small plates," quotes the Post.

I haven't been yet to try the new fare, but it's only been a week. A dangerously hot week with the heat wicking my motivation and leaving me dangerously close to home. I'm sure the food rocks. The food at Saint-Ex rocks, but sometimes, a girl just wants comfort food – grilled cheese and tomato soup, mac and cheese, and of course, tater tots.

Midweek, midday, I have managed to squelch the need with the Fontina and Gruyere Macaroni and Cheese from Boulevard Woodgrill. A seven-leaf green salad and a side of cheesy, fatty goodness. But it's not the same. It's the middle of the day. There's no beer involved and pommes frites just don't stack up against tater tots.

I've tried Ore-Ida at home, baked to golden, tater totty perfection in a toaster oven, but as buttered toast tastes different in a restaurant, the tots failed to please.

I've had grilled cheese by the threes at Bar Rouge. With tomato soup at Helix Lounge, in the winter, at least. And I hear that Bourbon offers a menu full comfort foods, should I ever get over my aversion to Georgetown.

But I like Bar Pilar. I like the bartenders and I like the atmosphere. I like the photo booth in the back, the barber's chair in the front. I'm sure I'll like the new menu, but at the moment, I'm disturbed by the change. I want comfort. I want comfort food. I want tater tots.


Tag: Washington DC Bar Pilar Tater tots Comfort food

Out of control

There's a sticker on my birth control package, one that hasn't been there before, one that reads "For Vaginal Use Only." The sticker kind of freaks me out because there's only one reason pharmacists apply stickers like that: someone must have eaten it. Given that it's a little plastic ring that looks more like a jelly bracelet than anything else, that couldn't have been fun.

I tend to think a lot about birth control these days. Not so much from a pressing need to control anything but rather from the health insurance aspect. I started a new form of birth control several months ago to counteract a most disastrous experience with Depo-Provera, which I did take in an attempt to control something. (Unfortunately, I should have focused more on controlling my relationship with my then boyfriend, but we sort of lost a grip on that.)

The Depo-Provera, an injected form of birth control I'd used for two rather lengthy periods in the past, wreaked havoc on my body the third time out. Not to get too far into it, let's just say that my hormone levels spiked out of control and I bled for the better part of a year - and I just got too far into it. Strike that from your mind and just know that I was tired, cranky, crampy and anemic the entire time.

In an attempt to balance out the craziness happening inside my naughty bits, my doctor gave me the NuvaRing, a neat little plastic ring. Three weeks in. One week out. New ring. Easy, peasy, or so one would think. And honestly, I didn't have any problems until after a couple of months, when I went back for my checkup.

No weight gain, a good thing. Weight loss, actually. Low blood pressure, a very good thing. No coverage from my insurance company. Huh. Now that just sucks...

I actually didn't find out about the lack of coverage until well after the appointment when I got a bill from my doctor. A couple of days later, I got the explanation of benefits from my insurance company. Not a covered expense.

Immediately (read: three weeks later), I called the company hoping for an explanation and maybe a little help in covering the cost of the appointment. After all, when I had my travel shots for to visit Guyana, the insurance company said they weren't covered but paid anyway.

After a short hassle with an automated answering service, a very friendly girl read an explanation from the back of the sheet. She paused a second and put me on hold to talk to a supervisor. A song or two later, she returned.

"The state doesn't require that we cover visits for contraceptives," she told me.

"Huh?"

"Virginia doesn't require that we cover the cost of appointments related to birth control," she explained, as nicely as possible.

"Oh... Okay... So, I'll just pay this then."

And I did. But the more I thought about it, the less I liked the fact that I paid. I went to the doctor to make sure that I hadn't gained weight, increased my blood pressure or turned suicidal. I started taking the medication because I'd felt like crap, or rather like cramps, for the better part of a year. But Virginia, good friend that she is, dictated that I must pay on my own.

For the record, insurance would cover any medical problems generated by weight gain or increased blood pressure. Heart attack? I could probably secure some sort of short- (or maybe even long-) term disability. It would pay if I had a baby. It would pay if I had trouble having a baby, and I'm pretty sure it would pay for the little blue pills if my man had trouble making a baby. It just won't pay for appointments related to contraceptives.

Frankly, that pisses me off.

I got to thinking about it again last night, waiting in line to pick up my light purple box with a sticker on top. It was the third time in three months I had to wait. I have a prescription for three rings at a time, four refills for a year's supply, but insurance doesn't like that either. I'm pretty sure that nobody's going to OD on the jelly bracelet but I can only have one ring at a time, so every four weeks, I join the queue at the ghetto grocery's pharmacy and pay the copay required for a brand name prescription.

Standing in line, I think about what's covered. I think about what's not. (I also think about ice cream bars, but that's another story.) I'm grateful for health insurance and am glad that I live in a country where a single 30-year-old woman can buy birth control. I'm just annoyed that insurance company has any say in it. And I'm really confused as to who would eat the jelly bracelet.


Tag: Birth control Depo-Provera NuvaRing Insurance Health

Dangerously hot

For days I've complained about the local weather report. Hazy, hot and humid. Every single day. Hazy, hot and humid. I could have sworn that the forecasters knew no other words to describe summer in DC. Hazy, hot and humid.

And honestly, they're right, the weathermen. It is hazy. Hot. Humid. All day, every day. But it's not the weather that throws me off so much as the description. In the 40 or so minutes that I listen to the news each morning, I hear the same three words at least two dozen times.

"Give me something else... anything else," I mutter in the general direction of Al Roker and Chuck Bell, after a groan and a sigh, and strangely enough the god of weather deigned answer with a change in temps.

Dangerously hot.

From what I understand, we're capping our second day of "dangerously hot" weather. I cannot really speak to the temperatures yesterday as I spent the bulk of the day on the couch, catching up on Footballers Wive$ [talk about dangerously hot], but other than a trip to the curb with the trash bin, I spent the day in my cool English basement, in front of a fan. I didn’t really notice the heat.

Then, again, Saturday seemed dangerously hot to me. I spent the afternoon at the laundromat, sweating in my yoga pants and a ratty Reggaefest T-shirt from college, hair pulled back into sloppy pigtails. It was the most motivated I was to be all weekend, in the middle of our heat wave.

Saturday night, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, I walked to the Capitol Lounge, steaming in a tank top and light, white linen skirt. Another scorcher.

Even though I ended up in the basement of the Lounge, the temperatures rose toward something close to dangerously hot as the space filled quickly, completely, uncomfortably full for a Saturday night. In following with their new trend, the Lounge featured live music for at least the second Saturday in a row.

Musician Mikal Evans opened the night with an acoustic set - mellow, folksy. Maybe a little too mellow for a Saturday night at the Lounge but it worked for me. The pool tables crowded the back (or front) of the room, depending on your perspective. Small tables filled the middle of the dark room, candles flickering. The stools around the edges of the room, chairs around the tables, lent intimacy to a space normally filled with smoke and the click of pool balls, laughter and the same songs blaring from the jukebox until the bartender hits “skip”.

And speaking of bartenders, the next (and final) act featured the Lounge’s own Mark with friend Dominic in their band MD. Covers played well inspired the crowd to sing along, somewhat loudly, and despite the rising temps, not exactly dangerously hot but broaching that level, everyone seemed to be having a great time.

The crowd ebbed and flowed with the change in artists and the end of live music. A cop friend invited me to Atlantic City or at least the Pourhouse before the night was through, but a broken bra strap curtailed the evening and sent me home in the blistering night.

But apparently that wasn’t dangerously hot. Just hazy, hot and humid.

I’m still waiting to see what dangerously hot might bring. So far, it’s a singular lack of motivation and the bare minimum of clothing, inane conversations along the lines of “Is it warm enough for you?” and “I really want to go back to bed” and, honestly, this post. But I’ve got faith that the new highs will bring new lows and people are going to get a little crazy.


Tag: Summer Weather Washington DC

Palace of Wonders

A week late for the grand opening and an hour early for the doors at Showbar, I glanced up and down the busy block and stepped into the next open door. Another of Joe Englert’s newest spaces on H Street Northeast – The Red and the Black.

I liked the New Orleans-inspired bar instantly, with the red (and black) tiled counter. Picture upon picture formed a, well, picturesque backdrop to the bottles. Empty frames on a punched tin ceiling. Doors on the walls and red velvet curtains. At the end of the room, a hand-lettered sign offered the limited, thematic menu – Cajun Spiced Nuts, Gumbo Ya Ya, Jambalaya, Muffuletta, Red Beans and Rice and Shrimp Dip.

Behind the bar, the bartenders stocked the coolers and sang along to the jukebox, laughing at themselves and joking with the patrons. They, like everyone, seemed relaxed, happy. They seemed like they were having a good time. I ordered a drink and waited for my friend. A bit later, Jamy arrived, looking confused.

“Don’t we want to go next door?” she asked.

“I think so but it looks like it’s closed.”

“I don’t think I have anyone else’s phone number,” she said. I certainly didn’t. Honestly, I didn’t even have Jamy’s as I’d handwashed my Razr with a pair of capris about a month ago and had to replace the phone and all numbers. (Note to self: Save numbers to SIM card, not phone. Insure phone. Check pockets before washing.)

While we sat the counter, sipping our sickly sweet cider, musicians passed behind us. They traipsed in the front door, through the bar and upstairs, carrying their instruments one encased piece at a time, including an entire trap set. Piece by piece. The Red and the Black serves as one of DC’s newest music venues, with acts scheduled most nights of the week.

We didn’t quite make it upstairs to check out the band, but we heard from downstairs and later the street below. After our drinks, though, we went next door to try to meet up with our “friends.” We were a loosely associated group. Jamy and I were friends. She knew Amber. Amber invited her friends, who invited their friends, and we all took over the deck at the Palace of Wonders, for a while at least.

Actually, we started out inside, upstairs, but quickly outgrew the table next to bank of cabinets stuffed with sideshow props, taxidermy and costumes. I lost the conversation as I tried to see, tried to read everything in the case. I didn’t get very far – too much to see.

The friends of friends, Flickr bloggers, some of them, snapped shots of each other, the display cases, the furniture on the deck (including what looked like carousel seats) and the cat. Yes, a cat. No, not a two-headed or two-faced or five-legged cat but a real, live feline, an orange tabby, that weaved through our legs and curled contentedly on the bench beside us. A bar cat?

(Saturday morning, as I sit and type, I wait for the pictures to be posted. Do I remember it correctly? Are my words enough to convey the sense of the bar?)

We spent most of the night outside, despite the oppressive DC summer air. Hot, humid. We sipped our bottled beers and talked all of the major taboos – politics (it is DC after all), religion, sex. We talked blogs and work and travel. Music wafted from the bar next door as did the smell of fresh popped corn from the bar inside.

And the bar inside swelled and shrank with a crowd eager to see the newest place in the revitalizing H Street corridor, DC’s newest attraction. Only time will tell if the crowds keep coming back. It’s still on the fringe of the area where I’m willing to walk. Though, a man outside the bar offered to hail us a cab for some spare change and a free shuttle runs between the bar and Union Station. H Street might just be close enough after all.


Tag: Showbar Palace of Wonders The Red and the Black H Street NE Washington DC

Hotter than John Dean

"John Corbett is WAY hotter than John Dean..." That's how Ings opened the email exchange, and I have to say that I agree. The man who played Aidan on Sex and the City versus the man turned prosecution star witness in the Watergate proceedings? Aidan. Hands down. Throw in Northern Exposure and My Big Fat Greek Wedding and I'm in love.

Apparently, Corbett was seen within blocks of her office yesterday, at Potbelly. Strangely enough, though, I didn't seek out Corbett, who performed last night at the Birchmere. Instead, I found myself in a crowded corner of Olssons Books, listening to John Dean talk about his new book - Conservatives Without Conscience.

Naturally, the whole outing was my brother's idea, the politically- and socially-conscious Brokekid. I was supposed to be at a happy hour at Gordon Biersch in Tyson's Corner, but I a) am a terrible friend and b) didn't get my car back until late. No metro in Tyson's. But I diverge, the Brokekid and a friend asked if I wanted to tag along. Why not?

Of course, I am completely politically challenged. I need a primer for politics. I knew that John Dean was associated with Watergate, but I couldn't remember much else about him or what he's been doing for the past 40 or so odd years.

Enter: Wikipedia. Sure, the site's not 100-percent accurate. Neither is mainstream media. Wikipedia gave me the facts I needed to know. At least enough facts so that I didn't feel like a complete tool at this man's book signing, listening to his philosophy, spectator to the Q&A session.

"Hey. Who knew that he went to the College of Wooster?" I thought, as if I actually knew anything about the man. "Law degree from Georgetown. Republican. Watergate. Star witness for the prosecution. Defamation suits against G. Gordon Liddy for his book Will and the publishers of Silent Coup."

Dean talked about Silent Coup and the lawsuit in the preamble to the book discussion and he paused the book reading to give a live interview on MSNBC's Countdown, commenting on the lawsuit filed by Valerie Plame and Joseph Wilson earlier the same day.

Before the break, though, before lights, camera and complete inaction on the part of the assembled crowd, Dean talked about the current state of politics. Much like during his interview with Jon Stewart on The Daily Show, he said that he is a Goldwater conservative, but in this day, that places him left of center.

From what I gleaned in the discussion and Q&A session (again, not showing my complete political ignorance), Dean's new book, Conservatives Without Conscience, focuses on the authoritarian aspects of the current administration and the big league players in American politics. He talked about growth of executive powers and an administration shrouded in secrecy.

The older group, which I swear fell straight from the pages of LLBean, with longish gray hair, khakis and plaid asked insightful questions. The younger folks, in suits and pearls, hung toward the edges as we sprawled far beyond the seating area and the woman next to me fanned herself so frantically in the crowd that I actually got cold. The man behind us snapped his fingers compulsively. Behind him, a camera from C-SPAN caught the entire event for broadcast.

Someone asked about the seeming apathy in the country today, the lack of interest in even the rights taken away from the American people. Dean answered with a story of a man he'd met a few years back, a man who got involved with politics because someone wanted to build a highway through his front yard. Sometimes, that's what it takes. A highway in your front yard. Sometimes, it takes an empty night and a politically-active brother.

I bought the book. I will even read it before losing it to my brother, but he'll have to give it back. It has my name in it, right over the autograph.


Tag: John Dean Conservatives Without Conscience Olssons Washington DC John Corbett

Through the wringer

"You should ask for more money," the Brokekid shouted toward me over the music at Ugly Mug.

"I don't need more money," I replied. "I make enough already."

"But you could make more."

"What would I do with more?" I asked, shaking my head.

"You could save it."

"You could donate it to charity," piped in my brother's friend from the Peace Corps.

"No, hush," he said. Quieting her altruism with a wave. "She's not going to give it charity. She'll support charity, write a check for $25 and be done with it."

"I do volunteer," I, well, volunteered. "I work with kids with disabilities. Regularly."

"She should buy a house. And I could live in the basement and help pay off the mortgage."

I gave a wry look and the conversation spun off toward my previous living situation - four years with a roommate in Springfield. We'd lived together in Alexandria, and when she bought a house, I moved with her. Over the years, my space shrunk to the confines of one small room and one large closet, a few shelves in the kitchen and some space in the laundry room. In a four-bedroom house.

One morning, I awoke and realized that I lived in Springfield. Needless to say, but say it I will, I moved into DC and have been happy ever since. Renting.

"But you could buy a house," my brother protested.

"I could buy a house," I acquiesced, "but buying a house leads to greater responsibility. Responsibility I don't want."

"But with more money comes more responsibility."

"I know," I replied. "But I don't have any now. Why would I want more?"

"But think about how much... happier you would be with more money!" he exclaimed.

Really? Would I really be happier with more money? I've shrugged off the past two pay raises and the bonuses in between. I appreciate them, but I was happy with what I made. I make enough money to afford the life I want – I'm heading to Alaska for a week in September, Turkey for two and a half weeks in November, maybe Amsterdam somewhere in between. I buy books, clothes, drinks. More than I need and I tip well.

"What would I do with more money? Drink more? Buy more rounds? Tip even more?"

"You could save more."

I already save but it's not like I have a goal in mind. I take big trips, whenever and wherever I want. I don't really want a house. I don't have loans to pay off. I might get a cleaning lady a couple of times a month, but that's really not going to break me.

Then, again, as my brother says, I'm not quite living up to my potential. Not only that, I'm singularly unmotivated. Great combination. Though, as I just found out, my client calls me the wringer. Not the "ringer," which I would find far more flattering but the wringer.

wring•er (n)
One that wrings, especially a device in which laundry is pressed between rollers to extract water.

Because I put people through it.

put (someone) through the wringer
To subject to a severe trial or ordeal.

Seriously? I put the client through a severe trial or ordeal? That's... uncomfortable. I hold them accountable. I don't settle for half answers or second best. Not at work. I do it to myself, though. More than anyone else.

"So, you want this yesterday?" No problem. And I will bust my hump (my hump, my hump, my hump) to get the numbers out. I will have done the best I could to predict the need and to prepare everything I could. Sometimes, I can't and I work all night. All weekend. Whatever it takes.

I guess that's why my brother thinks I should ask for more money. My work ethic. The fact that I'm the one the people come to. I'm not so sure about being called the "wringer," though. And seriously, is it okay for the client to give me a nickname? Is it okay for my brother to know about it? Maybe that should get me more money.


Tag: Work Wringer

Regular status

“How are you affiliated with this… group?” asked the polite older gentleman from across the table, sipping his near beer.

I looked around for a second, glancing up and down the crowded table – some familiar faces, some new. “I guess I just go there a lot… I’m there every weekend, sometimes twice.”

The bald guy with the wicked long beard overheard my comment and nodded in agreement. “You are definitely a regular, and we really appreciate it.”

I shrugged. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.

A few years ago, when I decided to become a regular in a bar, my mom freaked. She told me that she was disappointed in me and I’m pretty sure she started praying for my soul. Strike that. I’m sure she was already praying for my soul but that one might have put me on a prayer chain.

I didn’t care, though; I liked the idea of belonging. Of having a place where everybody knew my name. Yeah, I’m sure that growing up with Cheers played a role. I didn’t really want to turn into Carla, Diane or Rebecca; I definitely didn’t want to be Cliff or Norm. But I wanted to feel comfortable, to feel at home, to feel welcome at least one place other than work.

I tackled regular status with a plan to maximize exposure and minimize the actual drinking. Weekend brunch. Weeknights. I became a total Tuesday night girl and convinced friends, at least for a while, that Tuesday was the new Friday. That lasted until they realized that it made Wednesday the new Monday, plus hangovers. Order the same beer. Tip well. Don’t make trouble. I actually had a whole list of rules, many of which fell by the wayside but by that point, I was already a regular.

Saturday night, looking around the table at Tunnicliff’s Tavern, I realized that I’d become a regular someplace else without even trying. No, not the Tavern itself (which really should be my local bar given its proximity to my house), but rather the bookstore across the street. Capitol Hill Books. And I don’t know how that happened.

It all started innocently enough. I saw the sign for books at the corner of 7th and C streets southeast, across from Eastern Market. I walked in the direction the arrow pointed and saw the window with books piled high. I pushed open the door, narrowly missing a patron and heard a voice call from my left. “Fiction upstairs. Non-fiction this level.” There was more but I missed it in my confusion as to whether my purse counted as a bag I needed to leave at the front.

“Just don’t knock anything over,” the voice told me when I asked. Knocking things over seemed a very real possibility as I navigated the narrow stairwell lined with stacks of books looming well over my head.

Over the next weeks and months and even years, I found myself in the bookstore almost every weekend. Sometimes browsing. More often buying. I had to impose my own rules – no more than two or three books at a time and no more than two or three unread books at home before I could buy more.

After a year or so of devoted attendance – escaping the heat in the summer, cold in the winter and reality year-round – the stern owner started chastising me for missing second Saturday, a store tradition I’d heard about for years. Wine and cheese and a 10% discount. More socializing than anything else.

I got to know the guys who work there. We talk authors, stories, weekends and they quiz me on the books I buy. I don’t remember who worked that first day but I would know his name now. (Matt's the one with the wicked long beard.) I’ve invited them to my parties and they’ve invited me to theirs. I was at the store's holiday party. It was a second Saturday.

As was the Saturday last. With a glass of wine, a travel guide to Turkey and a Pulitzer Prize winner from a couple of years back, I found myself chatting with a former employee (and current Peace Corps volunteer), an activist, bookstore employees, a courier, friends young and old, and when they tramped across the street to Tunnicliff’s for dinner, I ended up in their midst.

Great conversation amongst readers and writers, drinkers and thinkers. If I’m going to be a regular anywhere, I think I fell into one of the best places possible. And I can quit, anytime I want… I just don’t want.


Tag: Capitol Hill Books Tunnicliff's Tavern Eastern Market

Death and broccoli

We’re all going to die.

I know. I know. I started dying the moment I was born and I die a little more each day but that’s not what I mean. We’re all going to die. Soon.

I just saw a terribly frightening movie, a movie that makes The Shining look like a trip to sleep-away camp, and the really scary bit comes from the fact that it was a documentary. Islam: What the West Needs to Know.

Maybe I should have done a little more research before making plans, but when I saw the poster the other day at E Street, I thought about my upcoming trip to Turkey. I’d already missed Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul. I didn’t want to miss another flick that might give me a little more understanding of the country I plan to visit. Besides, I like learning about religion. I like learning, in general, and religion serves as the foundation of so many cultures, of governments, and of wars.

Unfortunately, I stopped reading the poster once I got past the name and dates. I should have read the tagline. An examination of Islam, violence, and the fate of the non-Muslim world.

Right. And the fate of the non-Muslim world is that we’re all going to die. Soon. Unless a miracle happens, and really, even that might not save the infidels.

The film itself was ridiculously basic. Burned on a DVD, which I know because we saw the JVC logo flash up on the screen after the three or so credits. It consisted of seated commentary from a handful of subject matter experts – a couple of authors, a former member of the PLO. There were a few clips of political leaders. A couple of grainy shots of rallies or protests or sermons and a couple of quotes from the Qur'an.

According to the official website, “Virtually every major Western leader has over the past several years expressed the view that Islam is a peaceful religion and that those who commit violence in its name are fanatics who misinterpret its tenets. This claim, while widely circulated, rarely attracts serious public examination. Relying primarily on Islam’s own sources, this documentary demonstrates that Islam is a violent, expansionary ideology that seeks the destruction or subjugation of other faiths, cultures, and systems of government.”

The filmmakers called it sober, methodical and compelling and honestly it was. I sat there, on the edge of my seat, watching these middle-aged men speak passionlessly about the religion and about violence. They didn’t even gesture. But they kept my attention and I know I wasn’t alone.

The man behind us kept talking back to the screen, which while common at Union Station doesn't happen much at E Street. The woman to my left guffawed, snorted, and harrumphed through the movie, and we all stayed seated after the short credits rolled. Of course, that could be related to the fact that nobody turned on the lights, but I’m convinced it’s because we’re all going to die. Soon.

I’m scared about my upcoming trip to Turkey. I’m half convinced that someone’s going to cut off my hands and feet and leave the wounds uncauterized until I’ve bled to death. I’m going to be decapitated. I know it’s a secular nation that firmly enforces the separation of church and state, or mosque and state as it were, but the movie intimated that it’s just as likely to happen in London or DC as anywhere else. Scary, scary stuff. And completely one-sided.

By the time we got back to Eastern Market metro station and the Brokekid and I had hashed through the highlights and shortfalls of the film, I decided to pickup dinner and a movie, to drown my apprehension in broccoli with garlic sauce and the love story of Tristan and Isolde. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die a happy, sappy death full of rice and romance.

Walking home with my purchases in hand, I heard music blaring from a house down the street. “I bought a ticket to the world, but now I've come back again. Why do I find it hard to write the next line? Oh I want the truth to be said. Huh huh huh hu-uh huh - I know this much is true. Huh huh huh hu-uh huh - I know this much is true…”

Really, how can I die with happy little surprises like Spandau Ballet ringing through the night?

I am such an infidel.


Tag: Islam: What the West Needs to Know Movies Violence Fear Travel

Smooth sailing at the Argonaut

In lieu of actually attending the touted opening of the most recent enterprise of the oh-so-enterprising Joe Englert (Showbar Presents the Palace of Wonders), I spent the evening with a friend, Jamy, at the Argonaut – another of Joe’s bars.

Now, I’m already a huge fan. I liked all his bars before I even knew that they were his – Pour House, Lucky Bar, Big Hunt, Capitol Lounge (to name a few). A little dive-ish, a tiny bit trendy with very likable bartenders. Very likable. But that’s another story altogether.

When the Argonaut opened in September, I found myself on the guest list. Unfortunately, I was in Paris or Munich or Cleveland and had to miss it. I don’t know why, but I didn’t really think about it again. I knew it was there. I knew I would like it. I just didn’t go.

The Argonaut, at 1433 H Street NE, lies at the fringe of what I consider walking distance. It’s not the distance so much (12 or 15 blocks) but rather the walk itself. The neighborhoods. Alone. At night. With a couple of drinks in me. I’ve got to admit that I've been hesitant to hit the bar.

But when duty called (or rather when Jamy called), I slapped on a pair of flip-flops, tucked my wedge soled sandals in my bag and headed north to H Street. I never did take them out of the bag. It just wasn’t that kind of place.

It was, however, just the kind of place that I like. Small and busy but not too crowded. The guys at the end of the bar offered me beer from their pitcher and told me that if I ever wanted free drinks, they tended bar a few doors down.

When they left, a man in a Red Sox cap took one of the vacated seats and started to chat us up.

“You’re excited?” he asked. “What are you excited about?”

Um. Upcoming plans to catch a flick at the drive-in.

“You’ve got to have the right kind of car for a drive-in. Preferably a convertible.”

I drive a Wrangler. Perfect, he deemed. He continued to talk for the next 40 minutes, by which point I realized that I knew him. (I’m a little slow sometimes.)

“You know Stephanie, don’t you?” I asked. “I was at the book club. The one where no one showed? I had to leave because a friend was having a party at my place.”

“Ohmigod. I thought you looked familiar.” He continued talking for another 30 minutes. At least. When he left, Jamy turned to me and raised an eyebrow, saying that he liked me. Why else chat with a stranger for 40 minutes before discovering that you’ve met her before?

“He’s gay,” I replied.

“Really? I didn’t get that vibe from him.”

“No. Really. I know him. He’s definitely gay. I wanted to fix him up with a friend of mine but he prefers firefighters,” I shrugged and turned to check the bar that had filled behind me while I was chatting to the guy I knew. “Well, that and he just said he goes to the Ugly Mug for the cute guys.”

I scanned the crowd again and recognized the man to my right. Sort of. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which totally threw me. (I can identify with Lois Lane’s confusion over the whole Clark Kent/Superman thing – “You look so different in glasses.”) We’ve met a couple dozen times over the past couple years and I’m pretty sure he asked me out a lifetime ago. It’s all a little hazy.

Last night, I didn’t recognize him right away. By the time I did, we had been sitting next to each other for well over an hour. Too long to say “Hey! How are you?!” I pretended I didn’t recognize him, which might have been worse than a delayed greeting. I don’t know. I’m terrible about playing it cool. I eventually left without saying “Hi” or “Bye.”

Two guys I know. One free beer (from a guy) and two free beers (from Jamy). One in with a bartender. Not a bad night. I’m definitely looking forward to heading back to H Street. Now, if only I can talk someone into hitting the Palace of Wonders with me.


Tag: Argonaut Joe Englert H Street NE

An Inconvenient Truth

“I think I’m flashing cleavage at the former vice president,” flashed through my head mere seconds before, “and I think I have popcorn in my cleavage.”

Sitting there, silently debating whether I should leave the popcorn in my shirt or if I could somehow, inconspicuously, fish it out, I realized that I was missing the whole point of the question and answer session.

Al Gore came to talk about his movie, about the environment, about what we, matinee-price-paying movie attendees could do to make a difference. He was there to tell what we could do to save the world. Or maybe just to give a little more credence to his film, to demonstrate his passion for the environment, to talk about his websites.

I can’t claim to know anybody’s motivation but he was there. That said something about him as a man, as an environmentalist, as a filmmaker.

The email came late Wednesday or early Thursday. I’m not sure which but I didn’t get to it until midmorning. An email from E Street Cinema. Honestly, I tend to skim them. I would probably delete more than I read if not for the frequent contests and opportunity for free tickets.

And there, right below the greeting and above the blurb for Strangers with Candy, a paragraph that caught my attention.

SPECIAL E STREET EVENT TOMORROW!
Al Gore will be hosting a Q&A following the 4:45 PM show of AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH on Thursday, July 6. Tickets are $6.75 and available at the theatre box office and moviefone.

After several long minutes, I looked at a calendar and realized it was the same day. Feeling like a slacker, I didn’t mind the thought of leaving work early to see a movie I really did want to see, getting some popcorn and checking out the former VP. I forwarded the message to the Brokekid, IM’d a little and stopped by his office to see if he wanted to go. He’d been talking about the flick for weeks and a little arm-twisting convinced his royal exhaustion to come with me. Well, that and buying both tickets on moviefone.

We left work early, queued up with other moviegoers – a pack of 15 from Greenpeace (including some line cutters and seat holders), a couple who had begged out of work early, a father and son, an aspiring filmmaker. We got very few of the stories but the diversity in the crowd became apparent between the ages and the accents, the business suits and Birkenstocks. Many seemed to have seen the movie already, all vibrated with the barely concealed excitement of seeing “An Inconvenient Truth” with 100% more Al Gore.

The movie itself scared me a little, made me think a lot. I have heard the rumor that global warming is just a myth perpetuated by the liberal media, but frankly, the facts and figures on the screen, backed up by a lengthy list of reputable sources, made me think that we’re heading for trouble. We need to do something now, while we can. And we can make changes.

The credits ran, interspersed with suggestions for change. Sometime before the movie, looking at a handout of ways to make a difference, I realized that I already do ‘most everything on the list.

Change a light
Drive less
Recycle more
Check your tires
Use less hot water
Avoid products with a lot of packaging
Adjust your thermostat
Plant a tree
Turn off electronic devices

I’m pretty granola, I guess, but I’ve never really thought about it. I just live my life.

I walk as much as possible or use public transportation. I use the heat as little as possible (I’m cheap) and the AC even less (I hate to be cold). I recycle. I avoid packaging and tend to buy things from local vendors, without a bag or box, as much as possible. I use energy-efficient lightbulbs (just because they’re better for the environment). I’m a vegetarian for too many reasons to list and some of which even I cannot recall.

They’re not really conscious decisions. I suppose they were at one point but now? Now, it’s just the way I live.

After the movie, when Gore got up to speak, the crowd rose as well, in a standing ovation for the environmentalist first, filmmaker and former vice president somewhere down the list. He spoke earnestly, passionately about the issues and impacting change. He was humble and humorous. With each question answered, more hands appeared, more questions formed.

We were finally, reluctantly pushed out of the theater and urged to pick up our own trash because we’d long overstayed the allotted time. Before we left, two questions (or comments) closed the session.

One woman, a current employee with EPA, said that she heard Gore speak in the mid-80s and chatted with him after that early version of the presentation that formed the backbone of the film. She saw him again in the mid-90s and based her career on the platform that he had built. He inspired her to the work that she does today and she thanked him for both the inspiration and his own unfailing passion for the environment.

The last comment came from an elderly man with a long gray beard, a man who said he’d seen the movie eight times. He quoted Nelson Mandela and noted that Gore had made the steps from politician to statesman. He also called himself a conspiracy theorist and asked for hidden meaning in the title, An Inconvenient Truth.

Gore stated that the truth of science, the truth of what we are doing to the environment, to our world and the world of our children, is just that. Inconvenient. It requires action and it requires change, but we can do something.

Sitting there, once I forgot about the popcorn in my cleavage and focused on the questions and answers, I realized that the movie preached to the choir. Those willing to see the movie and challenge their own thoughts and actions are probably the ones who already do. Me. My brother, the Brokekid. The documentary filmmaker asking advice. The man and his son down the row, looking for suggestions to implement neighborhood change.

But it’s a good effort. Maybe someone else is listening. Maybe it’s not all choir. I know that it impacted me (at least enough to write a lengthy post on a busy Friday) and it was an experience of a lifetime.

I was just five rows back from the man who “was the next president of the United States”, worrying about the environment, popcorn and cleavage.


Tag: An Inconvenient Truth Al Gore Popcorn Movie Environmentalism

Life in DC

Life in DC rolls on as usual. Fourth of July. Fireworks. Beer and thunderstorms, food and friends, and in the midst of it all, I somehow managed to read The Washingtonienne, a book that made me think.

I know. Surprised me, too.

I live on the Hill. I lived here in 2004 when the events depicted in the blog and fictionalized in the book went down.

Reading the book, whenever I stumbled across a reference to the Capitol Lounge, I thought, "Hey, that's my bar" and "I wonder who was working that night" and "Could I have seen her? Would I have made fun of her as much as she would have made fun of me?"

And Jessica Cutler would have made fun of me. If she gave me her time. I would have been one of the "fat girls" [read: not size zero] and completely mockable in my print Ts and Gap/Banana Republic/H&M skirts, with my unpainted face and thick, straight hair. I would have been drinking beer(though, probably not from a bottle).

I devoured the book, searching for places, times, events that I recognized. Is the bike