IF YOU'RE HAVING issues with your confidence — perhaps you feel awkward speaking to strangers, or you wish you could come up with jokes on the spot. Perhaps you've considered drastic measures such as self-hypnosis, paying a lackey to laugh at your jokes or shunning the world entirely in a sort of pre-emptive strike. But now there's another way.
Washington Improv Theater is holding Intro to Improv workshops, which will force you to have fun making a fool of yourself. This will increase your bravery, confidence, and ability to make strangers laugh — but in a cool way, rather than a Dungeons and Dragons roll-the-twenty-sided-die-for-+4-charm way.
The classes are free, and will be held on March 24-27 from 7-9 p.m. at the Children's Studio School (13th and V St NW, U St.-Cardozo). To sign up, call 202-315-1314 or email classes@washingtonimprovtheater.com.
Express' Greg Barber will never be able to hail a cab in this town again.
WHEN THOSE SPECIAL ELEMENTS that are essentially D.C. disappear, I usually mourn. I fondly remembered childhood slogs through Woodies when Mom was on a bargain-hunting binge. I stared in stunned silence earlier this year at the burned-out shell of Eastern Market (which will, we hope, rise again).
But taxi zone system, I dance on your grave.
It's hard to fathom how such an ill-conceived notion managed to dig in its heels and resist the winds of change and common sense as this load of hooey has for decades.
Say it's distinctively D.C. Say it's the only way our fleet of cabs — large for such a small city, drivers allege — can keep chugging. Say that somehow, inexplicably, the zone system actually saves customers money.
I don't buy it.
Nearly anyone who's dared to hop into a D.C. cab has a tale of woe to tell about how a ride they've taken time and again will vary wildly in price thanks to drivers who seem to tally up zones on a whim, like ordering mix-ins at Maggie Moo's. Or drivers who simply turned them down if they were foolish enough to request a ride within just one zone.
Just a few months ago, I had a driver dismissively shake his head when I asked for a ride from outside the Old Ebbitt Grill — firmly within Zone 1 — to the Capitol, which sits inside the same zone. It'll be $11.50, he said — a three-zone fare. "It's one zone!" I protested. "No," he said with pity and annoyance, "it's not." I walked instead.
D.C MAYOR ADRIAN FENTY has finally made it in this town. Last night at The Palm's grand reopening party, cameras zoomed in on the all-grins mayor as he climbed to the far end of a "power booth" to sign his caricature, which has joined the hundreds of other boldface names, current or has-been, that grace the walls of the famed Dupont Circle steak house and place to be seen.
This summer, the restaurant closed for some renovations, which included the addition of a glass-enclosed extension of the dining room onto the 19th Street NW sidewalk. The new space, which gives you a nice look out onto the constantly traffic-clogged street, is the ultimate power fishbowl for sidewalk gawkers, but the true Palm, which has been at the corner of 19th Street NW and Jefferson Place for the past 35 years, is tucked farther inside where the D.C.'s gallery of vanity is on full display.
After the mayor signed his portrait, which sits adjacent to one of ABC News' George Stephanopoulos, he joined the party, which was packed. Fenty was stationed at a critical crowd logjam, where he chatted up a storm with well-wishers.
Continue Reading "Out & About: At Palm Gala, Vanity Meets Revelry" »
Photos of Matt Berninger of The National, above at right, and his bandmate Aaron Dessner, at left, playing Wednesday night at the 9:30 Club by Kyle Gustafson for Express
AFTER TWO NIGHTS of concerts at the 9:30 Club, this writer's ears are ringing, but during Tuesday night's Editors' show, they were still sharp enough to overhear a conversation that unnecessarily caused worry: "What would happen if the roof caved in?" one guy said to another. "Yeah, that'd be nuts," came the reply.
For sure.
Wednesday night during The National's concert — the Brooklyn ensemble plays again tonight, check 'em out — we gazed up at the rafters, wondering if the unthinkable could happen. Of course, we have no real reason to think that the worst could befall the beloved 9:30 Club. That's as silly as fretting over the slim possibility that a plane from National Airport might slam into the 14th Street Bridge during rush hour — but that's happened before. District building inspectors would identify structural weaknesses, right?
Anyhow, during a pause between songs on Wednesday, a hazy Matt Berninger of The National unsuccessfully tried to make chit-chat, telling that audience that the band really enjoyed the last time they played 9:30's storied stage, but it abruptly ended, without a point. Trying to make up for his dry, nonsensical declaration, he said it was just a pure "historical fact."
Well, it's also a historical fact that one of the deadliest days in the District's history came in a packed theater when the crowd least expected it. And if you've ever withdrawn money from the Sun Trust bank at the corner of Columbia Road and 18th Street NW in Adams Morgan, you've stepped on hallowed ground.
Continue Reading "Fortunately, They Didn't Bring Down the Roof" »
WHEN YOU THINK of the word "aqueduct," an image of an impressive arched Roman ruin towering above a valley is likely to pop into your head. But when you dissect the Latin word aquaeductus, the meaning is much less grand: "from aquae (genitive of aqua) + ductus (the act of leading)."
So an aqueduct doesn't have to be above ground. In fact, one of the world's most complex engineering projects, New York City's Water Tunnel No. 3, will be perhaps the most impressive aqueduct ever built when it is completed in 2020 after a half-century of construction. But it is far below ground and out of sight, just like most of the Washington Aqueduct.
In Sunday's edition of The Post, Answer Man John Kelly got a tour of the water delivery system, parts of which are around 150 years old. Engineer Montgomery Meigs, who oversaw construction of the Pension Building (today's National Building Museum) and the mid-19th Century expansion of the U.S. Capitol, started construction on the water connection in the 1850s.
Over the years, the system expanded, and while the vast majority of its infrastructure is hidden, parts of the water system peek out around town for all to see.
Pictured above are the ruins the McMillan Reservoir sand filtration plant, which sits off North Capitol Street near Michigan Avenue. The complex, built in 1905, might be Washington's version of the Emperor Justinian's Basilica Cistern in modern-day Istanbul, an ancient underground water reservoir featured in the James Bond movie "From Russia With Love."
The former sand filtration center, listed as one of the city's most endangered sites by the D.C. Preservation League, doesn't look like much from above, but its catacomb-like underground chambers are far more impressive. The plant sits abandoned while the District figures out what to do with it.
WHEN YOU THINK of the word "aqueduct," an image of an impressive arched Roman ruin towering above a valley is likely to pop into your head. But when you dissect the Latin word aquaeductus, the meaning is much less grand: "from aquae (genitive of aqua) + ductus (the act of leading)."
So an aqueduct doesn't have to be above ground. In fact, one of the world's most complex engineering projects, New York City's Water Tunnel No. 3, will be perhaps the most impressive aqueduct ever built when it is completed in 2020 after a half-century of construction. But it is far below ground and out of sight, just like most of the Washington Aqueduct.
In Sunday's edition of The Post, Answer Man John Kelly got a tour of the water delivery system, parts of which are around 150 years old. Engineer Montgomery Meigs, who oversaw construction of the Pension Building (today's National Building Museum) and the mid-19th Century expansion of the U.S. Capitol, started construction on the water connection in the 1850s.
Over the years, the system expanded, and while the vast majority of its infrastructure is hidden, parts of the water system peek out around town for all to see.
Pictured above are the ruins the McMillan Reservoir sand filtration plant, which sits off North Capitol Street near Michigan Avenue. The complex, built in 1905, might be Washington's version of the Emperor Justinian's Basilica Cistern in modern-day Istanbul, an ancient underground water reservoir featured in the James Bond movie "From Russia With Love."
The former sand filtration center, listed as one of the city's most endangered sites by the D.C. Preservation League, doesn't look like much from above, but its catacomb-like underground chambers are far more impressive. The plant sits abandoned while the District figures out what to do with it.
"Most of all I hate politics. I hate the President. I hate Congress. The Supreme Court is particularly awful. I detest the military. The Diplomatic Corps should be liquidated, preferably with poisoned canapes. I loathe Washington, District of Columbia, gem of the swampland, home of the chigger, wreathed in its poison ivy, its belly stuffed with cabbage cooked in bacon grease and indigestible Virginia hams which taste like scrapings from the keels of sunken ships. Oh, let my hate give me eloquence! Shall we have a drink."
— A conversation, circa 1938, at the Chevy Chase Country Club, in Gore Vidal's work of historical fiction, "Washington, D.C."
Express' Michael Grass examines the words of writer, observer and provocateur Gore Vidal, a son of the nation's capital, who at 81, can still throw a punch.
WHEN MY FATHER interviewed writer Gore Vidal in Los Angeles last year for a documentary project, the outspoken figure told him to relay some advice to me back in Washington: "Tell your son to keep writing, even if it's a suicide note."
Looking back on Vidal's words of motivation today, I guess I should be uncomfortable with them: A former roommate of mine committed suicide earlier this month. But it's hardly the first time Vidal — who grew up near Rock Creek Park (in a residence now owned by the government of Malaysia) and has been a provocative observer of this city's socio-political history — has uttered something acerbic. That's all par for the course. Vidal moved away from town years ago, but from afar continues to jab it as he sees fit. And he's quite content doing so.
In a story in this weekend's Financial Times, reporter Victor Mallet writes that Vidal may be mellowing with age, but still lithely lobs invectives at his targets, including President Bush. In response to rumors that the president is drowning his sorrows in the bottle, Vidal said:
Well, thank God, he might make a little more sense. A group of us each vowed we would send him a bottle of whisky but I think it's heroin probably that he would need.Vidal, whose new memoir, "Point to Point Navigation," is out, also thinks that there is a strong case to be made for impeaching the president.
Express' Michael Grass revisits the idea of having performance artists in D.C.'s Metrorail system ...
OK, NOW I KNOW why Metro doesn't want its sanctioned subway performance artists performing in areas with high traffic flow. Forget the optimal acoustics of Metro Center and start thinking of the children.
Don't click through to the YouTube video here if you enjoy the presence of children.
» "D.C. Diary: Bringing Metro's Music Indoors" [Free Ride/Express]
» "Patada subte Times Square" [YouTube via Gawker]
Express' Michael Grass missed last week's "American Idol"-style auditions, pictured above, for Metro's first slate of sanctioned transit performers. Since his violin skills lapsed when he quit high school orchestra, it's probably for the best. Photo by Bill O'Leary/The Washington Post
LET'S MAKE ONE THING CLEAR: Last week's auditions for Metrorail's first sanctioned performance artists won't be filling the system with music. These non-buskers — they won't be allowed to accept money from commuters — will be singing, dancing, performing, etc. outside station areas, where any sound will likely evaporate into the open air.
That's too bad. Many of Metrorail's waffle-coffered station ceilings were designed as a modern interpretation of Union Station's ceiling, which was, in turn, modeled on the ancient Baths of Caracalla, where modern-day Rome's summer opera season is performed.
New York subway audiences would likely see the echoing sound of music as fitting for a cacophonous, frenzied transfer station like 14th Street-Union Square. But the same act on the platform of Farragut North might abuse the fragile ears of the average stoic Washington commuter used to a quiet ride to and from the office via Metro's Caracalla-esque concrete caves.
But what if Metro met New York halfway? Instead of forcing the performers to stay outside, couldn't the transit agency let them into those spaces between street and platform level? Some stations could clearly benefit from the change in atmosphere. For example:
Continue Reading "D.C. Diary: Bringing Metro's Music Indoors" »
SOMETHING WENT TERRIBLY WRONG at Hooters on Saturday night. For restaurateurs in the bustling Gallery Place-Chinatown-Verizonville area, there's plenty of money to be made. And there's plenty of money to be lost. And the manager on duty at the 7th Street NW outpost of the national chain best known for its well-endowed wait staff and chicken wings wasn't having a good night.
Free Ride joined up with friends after the Washington Wizards lost to the Cleveland Cavaliers, 98-92. One friend was celebrating his birthday, but hadn't given much thought to where he wanted to eat. And without a reservation, options were limited. RFD was too crowded. The next choice was Burma, on 6th Street NW. But the waiter ignored our table after we were seated, so our party got up and left the Burmese restaurant.
With stomachs growling and patience running low, the birthday boy chose Hooters, for ironic purposes, most likely. Maybe. We think. The place, known for being "delightfully tacky, yet unrefined," was packed, but we were promptly seated next to the kitchen doors underneath a faded photo of Wayne Gretzky perusing a Hooters calendar.
Our order was taken, entered into the master waitstaff computer terminal within view of our table. The waitress came back to confirm the order. Where it went from there is unclear. A play-by-play of what went wrong is probably unnecessary: But here are the lowlights …
Addison Road