Man, remember when this used to be our blog? Halcyon days, those. But as we figure out what we want to do with d,s in the future, I though I’d share what’s currently taking up most of our time.

Meet Thelma.

Devotees of Arrested Development, of which I may have mentioned that I am one, will no doubt understand the sentiment I’m trying to convey when I use the following expression to describe my feelings toward the Washington Nationals at midnight on Saturday:

Oh, COME ON!

I let slip with great intensity this G.O.B.ian cry after hearing that the Nats-Padres game was, after much rain delay, finally being played. Unfortunately, Katie and I were at that very moment warm and dry and enjoying a movie in the comfort of our apartment. 

I’ll step back from all this in medias res drama to explain my frustration. We had some family in town this weekend. Said family are big fans of the great American pass time. As such, a Nationals game seemed like the perfect source of familial entertainment/bonding in that (a) there is baseball played; (b) there are cheap $5-10 tickets; and (c) for various success-related reasons, attendance tends to be such that cheap tickets are usually still available 10 minutes before game time. Which is when we showed up.

Naturally the $5 tickets were sold out. The $10 seats were similarly unavailable, at least in the five ticket bloc that we required. So we collectively bit the bullet and sprung for the luxurious $20 versions. Disappointing, sure, but overall spirits were still high. An evening of sporting fun awaited!

We arrived at our (pretty good!) seats just in time to see a two-run shot clear the left field wall. We obviously took this to mean that we were good luck for the Nats and we settled in for an evening of cheering and camaraderie. And probably beer.

But since this story has become a blog post (and regular readers have surely noticed how much I like using D,S to complain) you’ve probably figured out that this was about the time that the thunderstorms started rolling in. One and a half innings of successful Washington baseball was evidently as much as God was prepared to tolerate on this particular night. Skip forward 2.5 hours or so, and we were forced to conclude that the game was just absolutely not going to be continued that night. The rain showed no sign of abating, and the outfield must have been just absolutely soaked; baseball would be played no more that evening. Right?

HA! About thirty minutes after we gave up and went home, the game was somehow resumed and the Nationals up and exploded for a 13-1 win. I bet that would have been pretty fun to witness. Instead we were stuck with our now worthless rain-checks, trying to glean some satisfaction from paying 4x our expected price for 15 minutes of baseball.

I guess at least we were  spared a smiting with boils. Or a close encounter with a blood-thirsty seal. There’s always next time, though. Give me your best shot, Nats.

Photo from Flickr.

Mr. 14th & You seems a little embarrassed to be posting about a Real World DC sighting. This is understandable. Everyone knew from the very first moment they heard rumors the MTV behemoth would be descending onto our streets that actually talking about the show would be utterly, unspeakably lame.

Which is total crap, of course. Everybody’s sort of pleased that the District is in the spotlight right now and everybody wants to talk about the RW, at least a little bit.

So out of solidarity with Mr. 14 & You, I’m going to tell you about my own Real World sighting: At some point after the RWers were photographed yesterday by M14Y, they made their way down to Spike’s Pool Party at the Capitol Skyline Hotel, where they were witnessed by your loyal blogger being unsurprisingly lavished with attention (sorry, no photos from me.)

See, that wasn’t so bad. It’s therapeutic to engage in some minor voyeurism from time to time! I don’t know if I’d start a whole blog for the purpose, but it takes all kinds, I suppose.

As for the pool party itself, it was a pretty fun time. Impressively crowded (“bustling”, I guess I’d say) and a very nice way to spend a hot Sunday afternoon. The one piece of info that I’ll add to the internet clamor about Spike’d Sundays is that the veggie burgers are NOT the amazing deep-fried-cheese-stuffed-portobello variety that Good Stuff serves, but are tasty nonetheless. Only marginally less messy to eat, though.

Photo from Flickr.

Here’s the deal: I was planning a big post jokingly endorsing the Green Lantern as District, Schmistrict’s preferred candidate in the DC mayoral elections. But then I realized that that would be wrong. People need to make their own decisions on this kind of thing.

So I urge you to evaluate the candidates; really think on hard the direction you think the District of Columbia should be going. And then make absolutely certain that you don’t forget to vote tomorrow, 10 July. That may seem weird given that Fenty’s term doesn’t expire until January 2011. But look, I don’t set election dates, NOI does.

Pretend comic book-esque candidates running in DC municipal elections: It looks like this is just going to keep happening.

Sometimes you read something that just gives your day a little boost of joy. Sunset Rubdown and Wolf Parade are two of my favorite bands, meaning Spencer Krug is kind of my songwriting idol. So you can imagine my delight when I read the following in a recent interview:

Favorite Venue:

SK: Right now, probably Black Cat in Washington D.C. Not because it’s beautiful or because the sound is amazing or anything, but because the staff are really laid back and gracious and fun. It’s an easy place to be. They treat bands well and aren’t condescending. This last time Sunset went through, they had an old TV out back to throw away, and after we’d packed up our sound-person Dave asked if he could smash it, which is something he’s apparently into. What did the staff do? They brought him a sledgehammer. They even took a few swings themselves. Then we all cleaned up the wreckage together and parted ways. I thought it was really nice.

Essentially, Spencer Krug is saying I’m cool by association, given my proximity to and fondness for the BC (my interpretation, anyway.) Upsettingly, I missed Sunset Rubdown’s last show there on 14 June, but I made it up to them by purchasing their new album on the quick. Terrific! I heartily encourage all d,s readers to follow suit.

Photo from Flickr.

I’m emerging from my blogging coma to pass along some good news for 14th Street. A new “vintage clothing and curios” boutique is opening next week above Som Records! Called Treasury, the shop is hosting an opening party Saturday, July 11th (promising “grand opening sale prices”). The boutique will feature hand-plucked vintage garments from Cathy Chung and Katerina Herodotou, formerly of Listopad, the “roving vintage shop/party” that I believe is responsible for a lasso-strewn shirt I somehow convinced Noah to buy a while back. You can read an interview with the co-owners here.

I only casually shop vintage (not ravenously, like some folks!) but think this is excellent news for the neighborhood. For those who grumble that 14th and U Streets are over-run with furniture shops and/or overpriced bars, I think it’s way more interesting to focus on the fact that our corridor has become a nexus for shoppers seeking already-loved goods (see Miss Pixies, Good Wood, Ruff & Ready, Millennium, et al). In other words, a vintage clothing shop is long overdue. Welcome!

Is one book long. And I give myself about a 65 percent chance of completing it.

The reason for the truncated expectations is that I’ve decided to participate in Infinite Summer. Don’t be misled by the name; (perhaps unfortunately) Infinite Summer isn’t some high school nostalgia-fest or eighties music party. Rather, it’s basically a support group for people wanting to tackle David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. In all its 1000-page glory (plus 200 pgs of endnotes!)

Honestly, the book is a little intimidating even to hold.

But I’ve become a very big DFW fan in my usual way-behind-the-curve fashion, and Infinite Jest is definitely his magnum opus. I pretty much have to give it a shot at some point, and what better way to do it than with the support of the internet? So starting now and continuing through September 21st (and, let’s face it, probably way beyond then), I’ll be immersed in all things Hal Incandenza.

Mostly I’m posting this to encourage others to perhaps join me in this pursuit. It’ll be worth it, I promise! But I’d also appreciate your good thoughts/karma. Seriously, this book is 5x too smart for me… 

Update: From the Department of Happy Coincidences, it appears that Colin Meloy will be joining me in Infinite Summer. Sweet!

Photo from the Flickr.

I recently had the chance to live out one of my ultimate little-girl fantasies*: palling around with ponies on Assateague Island National Seashore. Neither Misty nor Stormy made any cameos, but you really can’t beat peering out your tent in the morning to find a couple of their friends moseying around your campsite.

Misty mania aside, Assateague is a sweet spot to camp. But you probably already knew that, considering how hard it is to reserve a campsite.

*Apparently I already crossed this off my to-do list, back when I was actually a little girl, but I regrettably don’t recall the experience. So yay for Noah! He got to join this time around.

In which we review a local establishment’s French fries. Because it’s Friday, which sorta sounds like “Fries Day,” and there’s a whole weekend of French fries-eating ahead of you.

Place: Rayne’s Reef Luncheonette, 10 N Main St, Berlin, Md

Menu Says: Fries

Price: $2.49 for the small size, $3.49 for the large

This is another dispatch from our Eastern Shore excursion a couple of weeks ago. Berlin’s the town where a lot of Runaway Bride was shot (if you’re not familiar with the movie, like I wasn’t, I recommend strongly against adding it to your Netflix queue), and it was as quaint as that pedigree would suggest. At Rayne’s Reef our waiter was probably about 17 and wore a bow tie, and the menu and general atmosphere were about as all-American as you could hope for. The perfect place for some fry consumption!

I definitely enjoyed the fries we got. They were pretty classic “diner style”, meaning thick and potato-y, but they weren’t heavy or undercooked, a fairly common fate suffered by fries of this type. The fries weren’t all that flavorful, but a generous hand with the salt shaker remedied this issue to my satisfaction.

Overall, these french fries and Rayne’s in general get high marks from d,s. It’s worth a stop the next time you’re cruising around the Chesapeake area.

While visiting my parents over Christmas last year, my father said something very unsettling as we browsed through cds at a Borders.

“Here’s a group I heard about on NPR, I don’t even know how you’d describe them. Very, very interesting and theatrical.”

He then proceeded to show me a Decemberists album. Naturally, this horrified me to no end. Some background: The Decemberists have been one of my favorite bands since about 2003. You’ll have to trust that I say that not to claim any kind of hipness (I don’t think anyone could argue the avant garde based on them anymore) but rather to illustrate why my dad’s appreciation for Colin Meloy threw me for such a loop.

I mean, do I even need to explain why it’s uncool to like the same bands as your parents? They’re supposed to be listening to stuff like Barbara Streisand and John Denver!

I write all this as a lead in to talk about the Decemberists’ show at Merriweather Post Pavillion on Monday. The crowd (at least in the Pavillion section) was at least 40 percent people whose age would be best described as Middle or above. At times it seemed like we were surrounded by families who had arrived directly from soccer practice and a nice dinner at Chiles (the 24oz beer line provided a brief respite from this scene.) The whole setting had a bit of a state fair vibe.

Now, nobody likes to think that their musical tastes are staid or commonplace, but at a certain point during the show I was forced to acknowledge that the same quirks and talents that so endear the Decemberists to me also resonate with Mr. and Mrs. Robert Homeowner from Laurel, Maryland. And I was totally fine with that! All around me were people who enjoyed Mr. Meloy’s tale of murdering children as much as I did. They too were moved by the mix of bookishness with theatricality and pop sensibility that the Decemberists so ably muster. Maybe normal folks can have decent artistic taste. 

And while this show was perhaps less interactive and the crowd less my peers than when I saw the group at First Ave in Minneapolis or the Mill in Iowa City (here’s where I shoot for cred), I didn’t find it any less exuberant. I doubt anyone left Columbia without a smile on Monday.

As Katie observed after we’d finished singing along with the crowd to the refrain of the encore (“Hear all the bombs fade away…”), things felt notably more optimistic than the last time we’d heard the song played in early 2006 during the height of Bushism. Some may credit the new administration with the change (^TM); I think it was the Decemberists all along.  

Photo from Flickr.