In case you are blind and deaf and thus missed the news, it snowed in the NE this weekend. It snowed a whole lot—I say this with authority as a Chicagoan. See Jim Swift’s post for more details about the weather. Despite the commencement of this blizzard, I went out in Adams Morgan on Friday night. With Hill people, no less. Bourbon on 18th Street NW is a really great place to go to on  a snowy evening, by the way. It reminded me  of Maryland House in St. Louis a bit, actually—similar exposed brick walls and giant windows.

So that was nice. What was not nice, however, was the reaction of a dude my friends wanted me to meet because they thought we might hit it off. He took one look at me, laughed, and turned around to go to the bar on the other side of the establishment. Commence laughter … now.

Turns out I grew up. I’m okay with this because it means I do grown-up things like go to speakeasies and Christmas cookie exchange parties—um, with other people my age. I suppose we’re all growing up together then.

I met some people who know DC pretty well at a Heldref happy hour last week. We discussed the best places to meet celebrities, which Totally Matters ever since my missed connection with Bill Murray a few months ago. The place I saw him, The Tabard Inn, instantly became my favorite (even before I recognized him sitting alone in a corner wearing a velvet sport coat in the same peacock green color as my scarf). Upon entering the hotel, you find yourself in what appears to be someone’s impeccably furnished Victorian living room; it’s like a museum room filled with seated people talking in small circles, as if they are all at the same party. Tabard has an ambiance I’ve never quite experienced before—like being on the stage of one of my favorite plays, T.S. Eliot’s The Cocktail Party. The beautiful bar filled with sweet and possibly vintage (or vintage-inspired) glassware is just past the living room, and beyond it is the dining room with that black and white tile I cannot help but associate with that iconic scene in Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet from 1996. I didn’t try anything on the menu that night, but I intend on doing so soon. My friends and I did, however, enjoy their sazerac. Hopefully I’ve convinced you all that this place is totally unique and worthwhile in its own right because in addition to all these things, I’m told by former employees that literary celebrities, film directors and actors are known to frequent it. The likes of Toni Morrison and Edward Norton, apparently. Some images:

The other place these wonderful Heldref employees instructed me to go to is called The Gibson. Their website is nothing more than that, intentionally, no doubt. I suppose even speakeasies must evolve a bit with the passing of time and repealing of amendments. I really loved this place. It’s located on the U Street Corridor, on 14th Street—it’s just sort of tucked away in a corner, unlabeled except for the number 2009. You’ll need to walk through a few doors before you see a giant, gorgeous bar that might as well as have been plucked out of Rick’s cafe in Casablanca or something. Perfect. Worth the wait for a ‘reservation,’ which basically means the bouncer’s permission to be seated (there is no standing allowed). I tried one of their specialty cocktails, but then quickly switched to many, many glasses of Prosecco, which seems more appropriate for Thursdays to me for mostly inexplicable reasons. No photos from The Gibson, folks—you’ll just have to visit me so I can take you there to see with your own eyes.

I followed up my glorious Gibson night by trying an elaborate christmas cookie recipe in an issue of Bon Appétit from 2005. It turned out really well and seemed to be a hit at the party. Some photos from the process:

Recipe for anyone interested:

Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies

INGREDIENTS

PREPARATION

FOR COOKIES:

• Whisk flour, cocoa, and salt in medium bowl to blend. Using electric mixer, beat sugar and butter in large bowl until well blended. Beat in egg. Add dry ingredients; beat until blended. Refrigerate dough 1 hour.
• Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. Scoop out dough by level tablespoonfuls, then roll into smooth balls. Place balls on prepared baking sheets, spacing about 2 inches apart. Using bottom of glass or hands, flatten each ball to 2-inch round (edges will crack). Bake until cookies no longer look wet and small indentation appears when tops of cookies are lightly touched with fingers, about 11 minutes (do not overbake or cookies will become too crisp). Cool on sheet 5 minutes. Transfer chocolate cookies to racks and cool completely.

Happy holidays, friends.

I was asked recently who would play the role of me in the Movie Of My Life. I answered the question immediately, but like normal people, the others around the table at Eli’s Deli in Dupont—the most Jewish place outside of Israel, maybe; I’m not kidding, don’t bring your Starbucks cup in because if there is milk in your coffee, they will ask  you to remove it because they are Seriously Kosher and you will be embarrassed; also, do not ask for a beer at lunch, they ‘don’t do that’—thought carefully about which actress or actor best fits their looks and to an extent, their personality. The truth is, I think about this all the time, ever since those Facebook albums of same subject everyone used to make in 2005. In which, by the way, I was tagged in photos of Kristin Davis a few too many times for my liking, to come to think of it. Anyway, my choice is Helena Bonham Carter. For all the reasons you can imagine.

Um. Just maybe try to picture her more like this:

And less like this:

1. “All thinking men are atheists.”
- Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

2.  ”cause there is no tomorrow/just some picture perfect day to last a whole lifetime”

-  ”Young Forever,” Jay-Z, The Blueprint 3

3.  Sam: Let’s go get the shit kicked out of us by love.

- Love Actually

4.  ”It’s your dad … he was killed.”

- Julie Taylor, Friday Night Lights

I just found something I posted on the Facebook wall of one Patrick Powers two years ago in response to his comment about how great I’d look in the White House and it provoked a really great “HA!” moment. I love when things like this happen. You know, when you get ahead of yourself. This happens to me often in trivial matters such as thinking “I should remember to grab that scarf I wanted to wear” and realizing that I’m already wearing it. But THIS, folks, is the real deal.

G: oh thanks patrick! i need to stop kidding around in st. louis and move to DC already.

 

i miss you too. enjoy pat benatar this weekend.

August 29, 2007 at 5:58 PM

Just please pretend to think this is cute. Thanks guys!

The following is a conversation that occurred via text with someone I do not know.

Some Dude: What’s up kid? What’s poppin tonight?

Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

Some Dude: You muthafucka! It’s Greg! Lol

Me: Greg who?

Some Dude: I’m busting your ass murph! Greg! Boris! Marvin!

Some Dude: You know what? I think I have the wrong number! Sorry

There are few things I enjoy more than getting a voice mail from Andrew Ivers that says, “Hey … I’m done with the meeting so … let’s … go to Georgetown.” So after wrestling the Dupont Circle rush hour traffic (on foot), to Georgetown we walked. It’s a really nice walk, actually, on a suspiciously warm day in late October. We—partially strategically, I realize—walked by what Ivers says is his favorite bookstore in the District. It’s called Bridge Street Books. In case you do not know Andrew Ivers (a tragic thing for you), it takes a whole lot for a bookstore to impress him. He used to live in Boston where, he tells me, the bookstores were incredible in terms of selection and charm. Probably because everyone in Boston is smarter than people in Washington, and everywhere else, for that matter. The point is that Bridge Street Books in Georgetown has the Ivers Seal of Approval. Independent of this important award, it gets my approval too.

There are a few brick steps to climb before you can enter, but once you ascend them, you’ll be sold too. On the main level, they seemed to have an extensive collection of nonfiction and texts on art theory, so I quickly instructed Ivers to lead the way upstairs to where the fiction and philosophy collections were. Perhaps it was just the presence of Jack Kerouac in my mind that day on account of that really great album that Jay Farrar and Ben Gibbard made about his Big Sur, but he was everywhere! In his own section, in the Mallory Schwarz (aka ‘Eastern Philosophy,’ I guess) section and in the poetry one too. I’m okay with that. Some rare Hemingway stuff was found too. The Bridge Street Books selection is not exactly lacking, is my point. Here is a lame picture from it. The others won’t show up properly. Sorry guys. iPhone is failing me for the first time. Also, if you’re ever hanging around bookstores in Georgetown and don’t know what to do after, perhaps try drinking many, many guinnesses at a really great old man bar called Martin’s. That’s what we did.

I know I’m late to this game (apologies in advance for the puns that will inevitably find their way to this post), but I’m really enchanted with this silly show about football, of all things. Really enchanted. It’s mostly on account of The Man too. It’s a worthwhile show and you all should watch it, but I’d really just like to say a few things about Coach Taylor. He’s Hamlet in Texas. And as much as it pains me to type it, he’s perhaps more relevant than Kenneth Branagh.

While Coach has more intuition and a palette of morals unlike most football coaches IRL, no one really cares because this is a television show—Ivers tells me, because I can no longer distinguish, apparently. Put up the fourth wall, someone. Please. Call me Millie too. Anyway, he’s dad and coach and friend and all shades of grey between them. And he’s not always the perfect example or the hero, but I think Aristotle would approve. Coach Taylor is a walking Nicomachean Ethics text.

The whole Aristotle thing is a long story, so I’ll just summarize: His ethics concern something termed ‘the chief human good,’ which is essentially ‘happiness’ and there is a detailed description of what is meant by happiness, but there is another important part of his ethics which argues that this highest form of human happiness has something godlike about it—but the chief good is not the reference point for deciding which actions are right. I think this is illustrated by Coach Taylor’s commitment to human excellence, as the Philosopher would say. He has an understanding of it and he compels his team to achieve it (and not just on the field) not by example, but by conveying that to achieve this human excellence (and moderation of character extremes, to use the Nicomachean language) is the right thing to do because it is fine. And it really works … on the show. So uh, nice work, FNL writers. Way to read up on Aristotle. Shakespeare too.

You should know, though, that the real reason of reasons I love this character is that he really enjoys scotch. Like me.

A book called Paris Spleen caught my eye the other day at a really charming Georgetown bookstore that I’ll post about as soon as I can get the images right. Ivers pointed out that it is a book of Charles Baudelaire’s prose poems and that he read them in a Devin Johnston class—which means that they are most certainly awesome, I understand. On page 31 of this particular edition, I found something rather beautiful. The number 31 seems to be following me around also, for the record. Here is the text in French first and in English after it. This prose poem is pretty sweet in both languages, actually.

Un Hémisphère dans une Chevelure

Laisse-moi respirer longtemps, longtemps, l’odeur de tes cheveux , y plonger tout mon visage, comme un homme altéré dans l’eau d’une source, et les agiter avec ma main comme un mouchoir odorant, pour secouer des souvenirs dans l’air.

Si tu pouvais savoir tout ce que je vois! tout ce que je sens! tout ce que j’entends dans tes cheveux!  Mon âme voyage sur le parfum comme l’âme des autres hommes sur la musique.

Tes cheveux contiennent tout un rêve, plein de voilures et de mâtures; ils contiennent de grandes mers dont les moussons me portent vers de charmants climats, où l’espace est plus bleu et plus profond, où l’atmosphère est parfumée par les feuilles et par la peau humaine.

Dans l’océan de ta chevelure, j’entrevois un port fourmillant de chants mélancoliques, d’hommes vigoureux de toutes nations et de navires de toutes formes découpant leurs architectures fines et compliquées sur un ciel immense où se prélasse l’éternelle chaleur.

Dans les caresses de ta chevelure, je retrouve les langueurs des longues heures passées sur un divan, dans la chambre d’un beau navire, bercées par le roulis imperceptible du port, entre les pots de fleurs et les gargoulettes rafraîchissantes.

Dans l’ardent foyer de ta chevelure, je respire l’odeur du tabac mêlé à l’opium et au sucre; dans la nuit de ta chevelure, je vois resplendir l’infini de l’azur tropical; sur les rivages duvetés de ta chevelure je m’enivre des odeurs combinées du goudron, du musc et de l’huile de coco.

Laisse-moi mordre longtemps tes tresses lourdes et noires.  Quand je mordille tes cheveux élastiques, il me semble que je mange des souvenirs.

A Hemisphere in Her Hair

Let me breathe in for a long, long time the scent of your hair, let me plunge my entire face into it, like a thirsty man into the water of a spring, and let me wave it in my hand like a scented handkerchief, to shake memories into the air.

If you could only know all that I see!  All that I feel!  All that I hear in your hair!  My soul voyages upon perfume just as the souls of other men voyage upon music.

Your hair contains a dream in its entirety, filled with sails and masts; it contains great seas whose monsoons carry me toward charming climes, where space is bluer and deeper, where the atmosphere is perfumed by leaves and by human skin.

In the ocean of your hair, I glimpse a port swarming with melancholy songs, with vigorous men of all nations, and with ships of all shapes silhouetting their refined and complicated architecture against an immense sky in which eternal warmth saunters.

In the caresses of your hair, I find again the languors of long hours passed upon a divan, in the cabin of a beautiful ship, rocked by the imperceptible rolling of the port, between pots of flowers and refreshing jugs.

In the ardent hearth of your hair, I breathe the odor of tobacco mixed with opium and sugar; in the night of your hair, I see the infinity of tropical azur resplendent; on the downy shores of your hair I get drunk on the combined odors of tar, of musk, and of coconut oil.

Let me bite into your heavy black tresses for a long time.  When I nibble at your elastic hair, it seems to me that I am eating memories.

###

Play “11th Dimension.”  We can handle it.