1. I did not get my Hudswinger caught in a threshing machine. I am still here.
2. I went to DC last weekend. The ride down blew wine-dipped chunks; the Eastern Travel (or whatever Chinatown bus line I took) was:
· caught in traffic;
· let a woman off on the side of the highway in the dark (she asked for it. I mean, really, she asked for it);
· shut off on New York Avenue in DC. 6 hours later, I finally ran into Gully.
3. I wasn’t being interrogated. I saw Death Cab For Cutie and they were awesome, though they were opening for some assbag named Ben Kweller whom everyone seems to know. I guess he’s gotten that MTV time, not the coveted OC time that Death Cab received on the ride to Tijuana, when Seth told summer not to insult the Death Cab (while playing the song A Movie Script Ending, which was the second song they played at the 9.30 club after The New Year). They also played another favorite of mine, Company Calls, and also Line of Best Fit, and a song about LA which was the only one I did not know. The show was in the first place I have seen in a long time that I would call “da hood,” and my sibling Agua Dulce would love to walk around there and see how DC kids act hard.
4. A fellow on the other side of the wraparound balcony was really rocking out, like he might lean too far, fall over into Ben Gibbard’s goofy dancing lumberjack short wearing self. The woman next to me was hitting on me. Stop poking fun, Gully, she was totally checking me out with the removed (saliva stick-on?) tattoo and all black outfit and herky-jerky rock club over-30 veteran vibe.
5. Pancakes were made. Hellboy was watched. Suburban Virginia was disturbing and even common signs such as Dunkin Donuts were altered and subverted to the style of Vienna’s low-roofed commercial strips. I ran into Alex Papa who some of you might remember me hanging out with three years ago. There was the Amphora, there was Adams Morgan, there were tools.
6. The ride back was spectacular. Our driver used exit lanes and rest stop entries + exits to speed up our trip; he took 195 and we blew by even less notable parts of New Jersey, but with a speed uncommon for Sundays; the sky was blue and the bus rattled its way back to the Turnpike and then to the Lincoln Tunnel and to 42nd Street. Home again, jiggity-jog.