Driving back into the city after a week of being in Upstate New York, I soak in that familiar feeling of relief. Ah, back in the District and thank goodness. No other city can quite shake its tail-feathers like DC at night. You look down the avenues and spy the Capitol Dome illuminated as if to say, “Why would you ever leave this?” Yet DC has a reputation as a city of transience– young people here for their twenties before settling down elsewhere, money changing hands, the powerful commuting back and forth to their districts. There is a cycle of departure. And yours truly, for all I love this city, is no exception it appears. Before leaving for a 9-month adventure in teaching in the Campania region of Italy, I utilized my free time to take care of some unfinished business, what we’re calling the DC Bucket List.

You live here, so why would you spend time waiting in line with Mr. Fannypack and Mrs. Un-ironic White Tennis Sneakers? Well, suck up your pride (yes, we know you work for Rep. So-and-So, you’re very busy and important) and hit some of the hot spots now that the tour tide has died down. If not now, when?

Museums Big and Small
Like many who move to DC, the National Mall was the aspect of the city I was most familiar with. As a kid, I had visited with my family, which exposed me to the big sights as well as caused a particular fear of Abraham Lincoln, whose ghost I was convinced haunted the monument. Still, walking through the Air and Space Museum as an adult inspired a different sort of awe, especially since I had never flown in anything at the age of 8. Also, at that age, I think the lesson that airline stewardesses were legally required to be model-pretty, 5′4″ and less than 130 lbs (proportionate!) was lost on me. It intrigued me to read that the government established Air Mail as a testing ground for broader use of air transportation. What a romantic notion– a dashing aviator with his flight goggles pushing a hefty bag of personal correspondence off the wing of his bi-plane!

Before Air Mail, of course, there was Railroad Post and pack mules, as I learned at the Postal Museum. I’m not sure how I never made it here before, as I was once an amateur philatelist and it’s roughly a mile from my house, but no matter. The Postal Museum is a really interestingly designed learning museum, with many multimedia facets and a full-size postal rail car.

I took my brother’s visit as an excuse to check out Ford’s Theater, which absolutely rivals the Monticello visitor’s center for coolest presidential museum. In the theater basement, the exhibits are displayed more like a movie set. You can get the basics passively from several audio/videos or you can delve deeper with information on many of Lincoln’s detractors. In the hallway leading to the theater itself were placards describing, hour-by-hour the days of Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth on April 14, 1865 as the sound of a clock ticking plays. The theater is opening its 2009-2010 season next weekend with Black Pearl Sings.

Panorama
Remember earlier this week when the National Monument elevator broke down? Well, it did. That happened to be the day I was on my way to climb the damn thing. No matter — near by was the Old Post Office Building, a maligned monument that boasts a food court, tacky tourist shopping and, more importantly, one of the highest towers in the city. If you make it through the semi-terrifying ride up the rickety elevator, you’ll find yourself atop the building’s bell tower and with a sweet view of the town (see opening photo).

Across the River
Old Town Alexandria is flipping adorable, and it only took me 15 months to find out. I spent an afternoon and some of my hard-earned dollars wandering through Old Town’s streets and sitting by the riverside. Funky shops, a bevvy of restaurants and historic sites pepper the streets of Old Town, which claims to have been named after landowner Mr. John Alexander. One question, Mr. Alexander – really?? You don’t think any of us have heard of another coastal town and port named Alexandria? I’m just saying, I’m on to you.

‘P1000060′
courtesy of ‘asmythie’

And the more banal…
It’s true, I did not spend the entirety of my last weeks in the city soaking up its high cultural goodness alone. I also made my first trip to the Nissan Pavillion for some more…shall we say…margaritafied entertainment. That’s right, I went to the labor day Joe Biden concert! I mean – Jimmy Buffett Concert! No, but really, has no one else noticed this? Let me tell you, being among thousands of hoopdee white people Parrotheads singing along to all the words of Fins to the Left is an experience I could not forget for a long, long time, even if I tried. It was awesome.

I also completed a monumental Olympic DC event. No, not the National Triathlon–I’m talking about the more storied Burrito Tour of DC. I have consumed roughly 10 burritos in the past 20 days, half of which were handcrafted by Pedro and Vinny’s at 15th and K. I swear, there is crack in that Mango Habenero. While Well-Dressed Burrito has the super secret factor and Tortilla Coast packs the beef, there’s nothing like being told to take the afternoon off by the burrito cart driver.

Thanks DC, for all the funtimes. Y’all are the best. Feel free to follow my Italian adventures, and remember, it’s arrivederci – not goodbye.

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I see the future, I bend my thought to it: millions turning to these words and taking meaning from them, imbuing them with personal meaning; individuals comprehending “untold” mysteries written secretively in every building; a double decker bus with a speaker, the supreme leader shouting interpretations through the streets. That’s right, I see… The Lost Symbol Tour of DC. Now, this providential power of my mind to see this eventuality would be, in the world of Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol, dramatic and surprising, never-before considered proof of the illimitable powers of the human mind. Use a heavy hand of the occult dressing and the secrecy sauce, and you can see the face of the Madonna in any piece of iceburg lettuce. This is Mr. Brown’s recipe–smash together enough philosophical minds, add a secret society, some underground passageways and a beastly sadomasochistic villain and you’ve got $1 million in first-day sales. Unfortunately the devices so intoxicating in The Da Vinci Code are ultimately working for a less sexy philosophical revelation in this latest installment. I raced along with the now-familiar “every-professor” Robert Langdon, pushing him on, only to arrive at the finish line going, “Wait. That’s it?!”

This is all sad to say, because I was really rooting for D Brown. I feel like it has to be hard being D Brown. This is a man who sat in undergrad creative writing courses at Amherst with a man who has been heralded as one of the great literary minds of our generation, David Foster Wallace. He then went on first to a Barry-Manilow-esque, short-lived music career in LA, before writing 187 Men to Avoid under the pseudonym Danielle Brown. He wanted to be a writer, and he got his wish– but even as millions of educated individuals voraciously consumed his thrillers, they castigated his writing. He’s no Hemingway. That’s no Faulknerian prose. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t feel bad– The Da Vinci Code sparked an international fervor, making Brown a household name and assuredly making him something few writers become, a rich man. After myriad criticisms relating to not only Brown’s writing but his research–its factuality and originality–you could see why the man would take 6 years to write, and presumably carefully edit, the next installment.

However, writerly pity does not a good book make. In the early chapters of the book, I was sincerely (let DB google that for you!) engaged as the lineup of characters was revealed and the intrigue began. Matters of National Security! Secret societies and white-man Founding Father conspiracies! A 40-foot giant squid! When I had to look up a word (orthogonal), I even found myself thinking the writing was better than I remembered. Brown’s (or rather, Langdon’s) enthusiasm and reverence for the Nation’s Capitol was endearing at first. He practically has a romance explosion over the Reading Room in the Library of Congress. Long before the prescripted romantic tete-a-tete began and the Botanical Garden’s jungle room became a fearsome interrogation chamber (really?), however, I began to wonder where this was going.

The action in The Lost Symbol is precipitated by a tattooed, inhuman villain who has infiltrated the Masonic brotherhood in search of the keys to unlocking the Ancient Mysteries–knowledge that, if possessed by a man, will make him powerful beyond imagination. Beasty, known in the text variously by the names Mal’akh, Andros and Dr. Abbadon, tricks Langdon into coming to the Capital to give a lecture as a favor to Langdon’s mentor, the high-powered philanthropist (and Mason) Peter Solomon. Shockingly, there is no lecture, and Beasty is inviting Langdon, calmly and cooly, to participate in what alternately seems like a game and a quest of epic proportions: Langdon will (must!) help Beasty solve the puzzle of the Masonic Pyramid, which protects the Lost Word which holds the key to the Ancient Mysteries. In return, Beasty will preserve and release Peter Solomon. Langdon has all the pieces of the puzzle, including a gifted mind and eidetic memory, he only has to overcome his Doubt, elude the CIA special ops and drown to figure it out.

See, now, this sounds kind of titilating, doesn’t it? You’re looking up the book on Amazon right now. Masonic Pyramids, Lost Words, Ancient Mysteries. Click “yes” to being let in on all of the above. Trouble is that in this book, as in all DB novels, you are educated along with the characters, who always find up being dumber than you give them credit for. (Example: part of the secret is apparently hidden in a famous work by German high Renaissance artists Albrecht Durer, Melencolia I. They are looking for the “hidden” numbers 1514. Google that. No, wait, here. Do you see 1514? Of course you do. Now, it takes one of the most brilliant scientists in the book’s world, the one-dimensional Katherine Solomon, like 3 pages to see it. Later on, she also doesn’t recognize “Jeova Sanctus Unus” as being in Latin until Langdon points it out. Talk about suspension of disbelief.) Factoids deemed relevant are fed to you by slogging through the unrealistic dialogue between the characters, rather than a few quick expository paragraphs. Extra factoids are thrown in here and there as well, I presume because Brown has been reading (Wikipedia-ing?) about numerous obscure topics (i.e. blue manna crabs that migrate from the Bosphorus Strait) and needs to share them with someone. Some actions are extraneous as well; Langdon discovers a stone box flattens into a cross shape, which does nothing to help him solve the Masonic Pyramid, though it is useful to Brown as a unifying symbol.

The one thing that was really bugging me halfway through the book, was Beasty. What is his DEAL, anyway? Why is he doing all this evil business? I half-expected him to be some sort of Zionist whose family had been persecuted by the Masons, but two hundred pages in and I was still unclear about this dude’s motives. When the truth about Beasty is finally revealed, it is a Plot Twist, but one that could probably have been better exploited. Because Brown spends most of the book trying to conceal Mal’akh’s identity for the Big Moment, we don’t fully get to understand his mind as a character. But I guess maybe that is asking a lot.

Finally, after Beasty has been dispatched, we are let in on the SECRET OF THE LOST WORD. Oh sigh, if only it were as easy as that. Getting to, exposing, explaining, defending and philosophizing on the Lost Word–which, despite Peter Solomon’s assertions to the contrary, is not really, actually a word–takes a lot of time and energy. And maybe in the calm light of day (as compared to the dark night of 3 a.m. this morning) the ultimate revelation of the Ancient Mysteries would be poignant and important. But as the ending ties up happily, the stakes seem overblown. There is no explosive Virgin Mary scandal, just a pedestrian and familiar mystic humanism. If the human intellect is so vastly powerful, I couldn’t help asking myself as I put Langdon to bed, why couldn’t this book be more awesome?

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Outside of the Union Station metro exit right now there is a man putting the finishing touches on a pretty banging chalk drawing and optical illusion. The sidewalk drawing, which the man said he designed himself by hand, makes it seem like there is an illuminated open precipice in the cement floor. The drawing is marred only by its purpose: namely to advertise for Buick. You can stand and peer through a lens which is curved such that it makes the 3-D illusion starker. If only talented artists like this weren’t working for the man. Can’t we just get art for art’s sake?

I will add, however, that I think this means that strange and somehow sketchy Colombia ad campaign is no longer resident.

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One of the most anticipated books of the fall, a book that could perhaps give declining book sales a legitimate bump, is out tomorrow. It’s Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol, which follows the main character of his previous hits The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons through a new mystery, which takes place in – of all places – DC. Yours truly has invested he $9.99 required to have a copy automatically delivered to my Kindle, and I will be coming back with thoughts later this week. Let me say I’m in the Skarsgard camp when it comes to DB. If the past books are any indication, here is what we can look for in this newest installment:

Main character Robert Langdon gets summoned some place against his will to solve mystery. Bobby meets seductive/mysterious/intriguing yet brilliant woman to fall in love with later. Mystery deepens via disturbing incidents. Robby L works to solve mystery, lady friend is endangered. R-dawg saves woman, solves mystery (turns out it was that person you never suspected because they were a “good guy”!!). Tom Hanks Prof. Langdon gets woman and they ride off into the sunset on the presidential helicopter with Barry O in the drivers seat. Nick Cage moves over from National Treasure francise to star in film adaptation, which will diverge greatly from the book but be equally as bad entertaining.

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Little Miss Whiskey's downstairs bar, H St

From the outside, the rowhouse-turned-bar has purposefully little to draw the attention of the casual passerby. Only the purple halo of light around the front window and red-lit address — 1104 — hints that something’s going on there that wasn’t before. Stepping inside however, is like a trip down the rabbit hole: violet light seeps from every fixture and reflects off gilded, well, everything. The velvet wall-papered walls are also covered with frames, mirrors, sconces and other random adornments, all painted gold. If I had seen the Cheshire Cat himself, smile floating in the corner of the bar’s upstairs lounge spot, I would have hardly been surprised.

This is Little Miss Whiskey’s Golden Dollar, the latest addition to H Street NE bar-life. The bar was conceived and meticulously executed by owner Mark Thorp, a follow-up to Jimmy Valentine’s Lonely Hearts Club on Bladensburg Rd. The name was born one night when Thorp and then-business partner were working at Rock and Roll Hotel. When he turned around at the bar, she met him with two whiskey shots — “Well aren’t you just Little Miss Whiskey?” he quipped. Add to that a nod to Detroit’s Gold Dollar Bar, a hot spot that played host to great bands (it was the first venue The White Stripes played) from 1996 until its close in 2001. The final product is due to countless hours of work from Thorp and his crew, who took what was a hollow gut of a building and turned it into the purple haze haven it is today.

Beyond the bar’s aesthetic, it aims for all the things that make a bar good. That’s not gimmicks or crushing crowds, it’s good music, simple drinks made well, a wide selection of delicious beers and bartenders who know about said drinks and beers. As Thorp told me, the impressive visual effect of the bar is just step one, it’s “just the shell.” The next step is environment and service. Its creating a place where people can come and have a chill time, complete with a mason jar full of the bar’s house drink: a Peach Sweet Tea slush made with Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea Vodka and peach schnapps. This isn’t the Country Club, Thorp is going for a different feel and a different clientele.

It was when I stepped out the back door onto the again purplish, beautiful patio, that I was sold. To the left of the door is a running gold-and-black gothic garden fountain. Beyond that, a footed bathtub filled with twinkling bubbles. Decorative gold plates hang like shields on one side of the fence, while the other sides are fringed with shrubs and flowers (all purple and white). The garden is crowned by a gilded umbrella-like awning with a purple-tinted globe light. It’s awesome.

The second floor of the bar is more open and boasts a second bar and a lounge apse. The walls are decorated with still more underground artwork and florentine frames. This weekend, DJ Mohawk Adam will grace the bar’s DJ booth. A fantastical look, damn good beer (Penn, Bear Republic, Duckrabbit, Avery), no popped collar crowd and dancing? This is bar that makes me deeply regret having to leave DC in the near future, and that’s saying something.

Photos by Sam Rosen-Amy.

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Oh Rahm, you hilarious, mythic, foulmouthed, ballerina and chief of staff… is it possible for you to be more endearing? Rahm Emanuel takes part in the U.S. Department of Education’s Read to the Top program, reading Doreen Cronin’s “Duck for President” to a group of kiddies at the DOE. I think there were as many Rahm asides (met with chuckles) as there was actual text in the book: “Biggest decision Duck has to make? Picking that Chief of Staff. That’s tough.”

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This Sunday night, Big Bear cafe will host its monthly poetry reading – a series called “Cheryl’s Gone.” The event, which begins at 6 p.m., will feature poets Zachary Schomberg, Emily Kendal Frey, and Joe Hall. Schomberg and Frey both hail from Portland, Oregon, and have forthcoming books of verse. I’m duly amused by Frey, whose poems include “Recurring Sex Dream Involving Don Cheadle.” Feed your mind, listen to some words, its what Byron would want you to do.

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It’s not quite Rent, but its certainly not your grandmother’s Puccini, either. Wolf Trap Opera Company’s one-night staging of La bohème fell somewhere inbetween classical and modern — with the occasional wink at the post-modern — with its multi-media presentation of the opera set in Brooklyn, NY. Director Kevin Newbury’s treatment of Puccini’s immensely popular work was supported by the once-again impressive cast of Filene Young Artists.

La bohème is an opera of character more so than plot — most of its action takes place in the hearts of its bohemian protagonists as they fumble through their relationships with one another. What is striking is just how easily the lyrics of the Italian libretto translates to 2009. All the qualities which, when modernised, become idiosyncratic can be easily explained away by Williamsburg hipster irony. Marcello, the artist, is painting a picture of the Red Sea? But of course. Mimi embroiders silk flowers? Totally. Their apartment is heated by a small stove? Clearly.

Newbury asserts in his director’s notes that he has spent a lot of time in Williamsburg and other Brooklyn neighborhoods, but I couldn’t help but wonder if his costume designer had. About half my friends live in Brooklyn, and I can’t imagine anyone there dressing like Schaunard (Matthew Hanscom), who looks more like a Duke student in his jerseys, backwards hat and cargo khakis. Colline (Carlos Monzon) also reps the fratty backwards hat paired with an entirely serious, sleeveless, studded jean jacket. (This becomes more comedic, however, when it is this very garment Colline laments parting with in Act IV.) Rodolfo, Mimi and Musetta hit closer to the mark with scarves, leggings and plaid, but leave me still wondering, whither the absent fay-bans and American Apparel tees?

Edgier is the overhead animated video display which sets the scene throughout the performance. The pieced-together projection screen spans the length of the stage and is illuminated by graphic-novel-esque panorama of the inside of the characters apartment, the Brooklyn bridge and their local hangout. The multimedia component worked well, visually it was reminiscent of a certain vein of anime illustration. (See: Flobots video or Kill Bill)

Enough about the visuals — the operatic voices, chorus and orchestra rendered them practically besides the point. I was thrilled to see Diego Torre, who stole the show in the almost extraneous role of Iro in Ulysses last month, was at the heart of this show as Rodolfo. Hana Park captivated as the ailing and detached Mimi. The other pair of entangled lovers, Musetta (Ava Pine) and Marcello (Daniel Billings) tormented one another even as they engaged the audience at the Filene Center. Taken altogether, the cast formed a cohesive group, equal parts silly and earnest, relatable rather than distant.

Though earnestness is a quality eschewed by my generation, Rodolfo and Mimi’s tragic love story somehow transcended that breed of romance that seems to us hokey and lame. Maybe it was the haze of inevitable which colored Mimi’s every note and cough that made it easy to let go. We can accept their antiquated devotion because it is destined to end.

It was here that the Wolf Trap Opera season was destined to end as well — and on such a beautiful night. Alongside the orchestra, crickets and cicadas added final chords. An uncharacteristically cool summer breeze ushered out the crowd of opera-goers old and young and very young, but not before several rounds of standing applause and repeated calls: “Bravo! Bravi!”

Photos courtesy of Carol Pratt.

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Zombies…so hot right now.

No, really. If there is a pop culture meme that has taken the arts and culture world by the throat in the past eighteen months, its the resurrection (puns absolutely intended) of the Zombie. The New York Times stretched, a bit hilariously, to attribute the rise of the Zombie to the recent economic climate in their review of this year’s hit Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Just this week it came out that the publisher of that mash-up has signed on for another, Paul is Undead, which will follow the lives of the Beatles as if they were zombies. Typically, in zombie tales small band of humans must rally against Zombie take-over in a world where civilization is crumbling around them and nothing was stable as it once was.

Enter here: “Living Dead in Denmark,” or as we called it, Hamlet and Zombies. This Rorschach Theater production, currently being performed at the Davis Theater in Georgetown, playfully remixes the Bard in a way that is both a thumbs up and a nose-thumbing. Though the play by Vietnamese American playwright Qui Nguyen was first produced in 2006, its debut production in the District is another coup for the current craze.

The figurative curtain rises on a spare and bloodied Elsinore upon which our heroine, Ophelia, is being brought back to life by a team of people clad in hazmat suits. Still in shock, she meets up with two more of her kind — Juliet (Megan Reichelt) and Lady M (the ferocious Katie Atkinson) — who, with the help of current leader of the humans Fortinbras (Ben Cunis), lay down what’s going on. Zombies are taking over, eating brains and flesh all over Europe, and they must be stopped. Juliet, Lady M and Ophelia, along with steadfast survivor Horatio, comprise a team of suped-up humans who will stop the Zombie King. Of course, there are collaborative growing pains, as Lady M , looking like a goth G.I. Jane, unleashes her profanity- and venom-laced dialogue in Ophelia’s direction. Juliet, looking like a mash-up of Sailor Moon and Velma from Scooby Doo, complete with geeky specs, gives her best gee-golly attempt as making peace as the three proceed in their mission.

Along the path to the Zombie King there is enough banter, pop culture jokes, awkward romance, geeking out and truly mind-blowing stage fighting choreography to thoroughly entertain. Ophelia turns to the only familiar face, Horatio for comfort, while back at camp Lady M and Juliet are giving into the…tensions between them (plenty of Brokeback Mountain references follow). Meanwhile, we cut to the Zombie King,  the new “Ghost” of Elsinore, as he attempts to rally his Council to capture the Girl-Squad and defeat the humans. His council is, naturally, comprised of Shakespearean magical folk: A Midsummer Night’s Dream’s Titania and Robin Goodfellow, Macbeth’s Weird Sisters and the perennially misunderstood island beast Caliban of The Tempest. Robin Goodfellow’s character (Sara Taurchini) may have been my favorite part of this production — the crude and playful spirit is maintained with a thugged-out Lady Sovereign exterior, yo.

The Zombie King’s plotting comes to a head when he encounter’s Horatio, and reveals his true identity. This is where the moral black-and-whites of the Zombie-Human battle begin to get muddled and Ophelia, now confused but ever-determined, is betrayed by one of her own. Big questions come to the forefront — whose genocide is more just? The Zombies want everyone to live forever, the humans want to end all their “unnatural” lives. The plot twists flanked by even more badass fight scenes. I can’t even fathom how long it must have taken the actors to get the fight choreography down, but it looks effortless. Even now, in a time where we’re trained to expect computer-simulated and enhanced combat, violence and explosions, these ass-kickings were just damn good entertainment.

Some of the most shining moments in this play were when it veered off in completely ridiculous directions, i.e. expository à  la James Bond, Ophelia dear-diary voiceover set to the themesong from Doogie Howser, sad harmonizing from the three-man beast Caliban. The folks at Rorchach know what entertains, and Living Dead in Denmark throws it all together in a very enjoyable hodge-podge.

Living Dead in Denmark is playing Sunday evenings through August 23 at the Gonda Theater on the Geogetown campus. Tickets are $21.50 with discounted tickets available for students, seniors and groups.

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When it comes to DC summer sports, you’ve got your kickball, you’ve got your softball, you’ve got your frisbee and you’ve even got your bocce ball. And, I just found out today, apparently you’ve also got your Wiffleball (?!?). Sure, why not. The Potomac Wiffleball league starts up its summer run this weekend and today is the absolute deadline for getting your team registered. If that’s too little time to register all your friends, you can join as a loner and make some new wiffle ball friends. The cost is $30 per player and play takes place at Ft. Reno Park, just north of the Tenleytown Metro Station.

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For those of you who can’t get enough bluegrass in your life, when banjo thursdays at SOVA Wine and Espresso just aren’t enough, there is tonight at Velvet Lounge. SOVA perennial performers Extension Agents will be performing tonight at the Velvet Lounge tonight, preceded by the Hangin’ Rounders and followed by an open jam session. Doors open at 7:30 and there’s a $5 cover charge.  If even this is not enough to quench your desire for a tall glass of fiddle, SOVA is hosting West Virginia Fiddle Champion Chance McCoy this Saturday night at 8 p.m. There is also a $5 cover for that show.

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“Is that a picture of Obama with a Hitler mustache?” Why yes, it is. One of many delightful images being displayed at La Rouche PAC’s table setup at 3rd and Penn this afternoon. There, they were handing out pamphlets entitled “Act Now to Stop Obama’s Nazi Health Plan” and asking passers-by “When did Obama lose his mind?” When I asked the woman didn’t she think they were being a little bit overdramatic and purposely capitalizing on people’s fear and resistance to socialized health care with their Hitler comparisons, she responded flatly that this was entirely serious. Wow, whacko indoctrination at its best. There is so much wrong and upsetting about these people — who among other things, quoted back Obama’s words about his dying grandmother to support their argument that he is proposing healthcare similar to Hitler’s T-4 plan — that I can’t begin. But just wow. I’m all for educated and educational health care debate and for the First Amendment, but ugh *shudders*.

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Bread for the City and the Coalition for Community Investment have teamed up to launch the new website Save our Safety Net.com and get the word out about the ramifications of proposed District budget cuts.  DC is almost $200 million in debt, a severe problem for the future growth and health of the district. However, nearly half of the proposed budget cuts will affect social services and programs for low-income individuals.

What specific programs will be effected by these cuts? Programs that support rental assistance, adoption subsidies, financial assistance to grandparents taking care of grandchildren, adult literacy and workforce development, to name a few. Sign the petition today and let city officials know that the debt of the city cannot be paid on the backs of its poorest residents.

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It’s a July evening and at Wolf Trap’s colonial-era barns, Claudio Monteverdi’s 1640 opera Il Ritorno d’Ulisse in Patria (The Return of Ulysses) is being performed. Despite the historicity of the place, the opera and its performance by the Wolf Trap Opera company has a decidedly contemporary feel. Everything the modern viewer loves — romance, deceit, unmitigated anger, sex, violence, slapstick comedy and shameless sexual puns — is right there in this evocative and entertaining Ulysses.

Before the opera began, large blinking eyes stared out at the audience, projected on a backdrop of metal screens. This eerie display is soon revealed as a manifestation of a larger theme in the play. As the prologue commences, Human Frailty personified takes the stage lamenting his suffering. He lifts his hands, displaying his palms which are each marked with what looks like the Egyptian Eye of Horus. He clenches his open palm closed, as blind Love, blind Fortune and Time frolic behind him, asserting their control. Sight, and the lack thereof, perception and deception all have important roles in the work as it unfolds.

As the first act continues, so too does the suffering. Sweet, sweet suffering. Ulysses wife, Penelope (powerhouse mezzo-soprano Jamie Barton) is disconsolate, waiting but not hoping for the return of her husband. This is communicated not only by her doleful notes, but by her neo-gothic look. Red dreadlocks hang down around her intensely made-up face; her black cape cascades to the floor.

Hers is just one of many other-worldly, almost surreal costumes in the performance. Case in point, Nettuno (Neptune) and Giove (Jupiter) appear next to express their annoyance with humans, wearing various adaptations of a black vinyl toga. All of the gods are painted with glittery body paint, a la The Tin Man, and none more impressively so than Miverva (soprano Ava Pine). The visual presentation overall, and Minerva in particular, call to mind hipster music videos like MGMT’s Time to Pretend. Set to the delicate strains of a baroque harpsichord, there was something so satisfactorily post-modern about this Ulisse.

Throughout the performance the stage backdrop changed fluidly from one weather phenomenon to another to suit the oscillating moods — from menacing thunder and black churning waves to psychedelically-colored skies and a back-lit fiery blood-red. It was powerful and complementary without being obtrusive.

I digress. Back to the action: Ulysses finds himself back on the shores of Ithaca and runs into Minerva, who advises him to disguise himself as an old man and return stealthily to observe the faithfulness of his queen and the absurdity of her suitors. Apparently Ulysses’ idea of a disguise is, in this case, a pair of fishnet stockings which he pulls over his face. This works well enough for him, as even his son Telemaco is fooled. The only one not fooled is Penelope’s nurse (Rena Harms, who, consequently, is made up to look like a Vulcan from Star Trek) but it takes her 2 acts to pipe up about it anyway.

I would feel less comfortable about being “funny” here (all this talk of Vulcans and Goths, this is Opera, after all!) except for the fact that the production was itself hilarious. Aside from the prescribed comic relief of fattypants “glutton” Iro (the impressive tenor Diego Torre), Director James Marvel has also made especial fools out of the three suitors Pisandro, Anfinomo and Antinoo. Dressed like they fell into some sort of Pirate/Guido American Apparel, the suitors are a highly enjoyable chorus of buffoonery. At one point, Antinoo (Carlos Monzón) who is sporting a leather and rhinestone jockstrap/pouch, collects a piece of Penelope’s hair and stuffs it in said pouch for safekeeping. It almost seems discordant with the production’s playful side when the trio is rightfully slayed by Ulysses’ Golden Bow.

This was my first trip to the Barns and is by far the most intimate experience I can imagine with Opera. The Barns are small, as barns are like to be, seating no more than a few hundred people. Those sitting in the front rows could reach out and touch the orchestra, part of which was seated snugly in the front left corner of the stage. You could practically see the tears in the ever-grieving Penelope’s eyes. Compare this to sitting in the upper-most rows of the Lincoln Center for a Metropolitan Opera performance in New York and you tell me what makes for a more romantic experience.

This 2009 Ulisse is comical, it resonates and its age is no impediment to its relatability. It had enough vocal talent for ardent opera lovers and enough theater for someone who might otherwise balk at the genre. And while Ulisse itself may be hundreds of years old, the cast–culled from the Opera Company’s Filene Young Artists program–is relatively young, comprised of very impressive rising opera singers. Though he dons graying hair for the title role in Ulysses, Armstrong is just 29 years old. The Young Artists are resident for the summer season, which continues on Saturday with The Pursuit of Love and concludes with a one-night performance of La Bohème at the Filene Center on August 7.

Photos courtesy of Carol Pratt.

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If you’re a DC feminist and you haven’t yet visited the Sewall-Belmont House I have two things to say to you: 1. For shame! The Sewall-Belmont house is a historical building and museum that once housed the suffragettes during the early twentieth century, back when it was still illegal for women to chill in hotels without their husbands. 2. Now is your chance. The Sewall-Belmont House will host an opening reception for with Empowered Women International’s new art exhibit tomorrow night from 6 to 8 p.m. The EWI exhibit, entitled “A Tribute to Women Artists as Change Makers,” will feature works in various media and across cultural backgrounds and boundaries. The exhibit opened on July 15 and will run through September 12. Admission is free but RSVPs are requested.

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For city dwellers and even for suburbanites, the weather is like a hallway — we pass through it, briefly and hurriedly on our way to our destination. Weather is something that comes across out path through desktop clients and Blackberry applications, something we endure between the house and our car, or from the metro and work. Rarely do we commune with it, embrace it, experience it or even really much acknowledge it. Not so for Jim Reed, a photographer who has made an almost-20-year career out of being as close as possible and perhaps closer than is advisable to the most extreme meteorological events. Reed, promoting his 2007 book “Storm Chaser: A Photographer’s Journey,” will speak about his experiences Wednesday evening at 7 p.m. at the Corcoran Gallery of Art.

Though the book’s title is an editor’s dream — titillating, straightforward, evocative — Reed admits he has shied away from the title of “Storm Chaser.” The term has been around since the mid-twentieth century, a concept that has become increasingly popular with movies such as Twister and a new rash of television series such as the Discovery Channel’s reality show bearing the title. For awhile, Reed called himself an “extreme weather photographer,” avoiding the insanity and recklessness  that “Storm Chaser” connotes.

“In this day and age a lot of people do it for the thrill, they do it for the entertainment value, the adventure value, but they are taking pictures — they’re not making pictures,” said Reed. You might ask, “What’s the difference, really?” “I don’t chase anything really. What I do is about preparation, evaluation, second-guessing and forecasting. And if you’re a pro or if you’re a Storm Chaser that has pride you want to be out in the field before that storm warning is ever issued.”

Reed is indeed a pro. He has documented 17 hurricanes, including Hurricanes Charley in 2004 and Katrina in 2005, hundreds of tornadoes, super-cell thunderstorms and hail storms that have produced icy orbs twice the size of a softball. He’s shot photos for The New York Times, Time Magazine, Reader’s Digest, National Geographic, U.S. News and World Report, the Discovery Channel and Nikon (his sponsor). As hurricane winds blow and storms pour down, he gets the clean shots, the surprising shots, that communicate to the inhabitants of the cities of the Eastern seaboard just what it was like to be there.

Despite the somewhat natural presumption of insanity (this is a man who intentionally went to New Orleans in front of Hurricane Katrina), Reed asserts that as he’s become more experienced he’s been able to do the job more safely. He has had only one “real” brush with death, he asserts. That was during Hurricane Charley, the 2004 category 4 hurricane that rolled over Jamaica, Cuba and turned directly into the Florida coast, causing $18 billion dollars of damage and killing 10 Americans. Reed will be showing video footage of that experience Wednesday night. He made it out of Charley, as well as Katrina — in which he suffered just a broken nose. Though his physical injuries over the course of his career have been minor, the aftermaths he’s witnessed bring on post-traumatic stress flashbacks and nightmares.

“For me the worst thing is the sounds. You hear people calling for help, you hear animals crying. One of the eeriest sounds we heard (during Katrina) was this python-like hissing and we were like ‘Okay…we have snakes? What’s going on here?’ — and we realized it was multiple gas line break.”

Though he has witnessed the immense power of nature, Reed either couldn’t or wouldn’t say what conclusions he had been able to draw about its malevolent or benevolent qualities. What is evident in his descriptions, however, is that he really feels a humanity in the storms he has shot. Storms and tornadoes seem pause for him at times, they almost toy with him — becoming more violent to run him and his crew out of their paths. He tells a story about a twister he shot in Tornado Alley with his assistant, where as they sped toward the cyclone they noticed it was chasing a herd of deer who were — understandably — fleeing for their lives.

“I said ‘Shoot the deer! Shoot the deer’ and it was as if that tornado heard us, looked over and saw us and said ‘Hmm, storm chasers…’ and looked back at the deer and said ‘…or deer’ and then it turned and came straight toward us.”

It may come as no surprise that Reed, 48, is considering switching gears. Slowing down.

“I’m setting new goals for 2010,” he said, explaining that the pace of editorial photography doesn’t appeal to him as much as the art. “I want to shoot less and exhibit more. I want to shoot less and write more.”

Reed wants to focus on his first love — meteorological art. Or, as he calls them, “atmospheric portraits.” Photographs of weather that are beautiful and rare, that take time to develop.

“You watch the genesis of this remarkable event that will never be repeated,” said Reed. “Every single storm is unique to the environment. It’s almost like as this storm matures I need to stay with it…(something like) karma moves in, you get into this dance with nature and I just love it.”

It’s a dance that, for those who have never been in the eye of a hurricane themselves, is sure to impress in its images at the Corcoran.

The Corcoran Gallery of Art is located at 17th and New York (between E and F NW). Tickets are $15 for members and $20 for the general public.

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You’re standing at the door, on your way out to head to work. It’s overcast and you’re having that ages-old debate with yourself. If your roommate/partner/dog is within shouting distance, you might turn to them, otherwise you’ll just say it out loud. “Do I need an Umbrella?” Have no fear, extremely lazy people everyone! Now there’s http://doineedanumbrella.com/. Once you’ve closed your NextBus prediction window (my other new tool of laziness convenience), open up a new tab, pop in your zip code and eccoloqua! If it’s above about a 40% chance or if its already raining, the supercomputer will declare YES! Though to be fair, if its already raining and you didn’t just look out the window, there may be other problems you should tackle.

Oh and, FYI: You do need an Umbrella. Or so it says when I put in 20002. when I try 20001, however, it says no. Hmmm… maybe its only going to rain in the NE.

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In their longest stretch at home this season, Mystics play was a show of the mostly good, the sort of bad and the sporadically ugly. Last night the team (9-7) defeated the Sacramento Monarchs, 87-73. Crystal Langhorne continued to shine in her sophomore season, leading the team with 19 points.  In this win and their Thursday win over Chicago (75-64) the Mystics demonstrated why they are currently 3rd in the Eastern Conference and have a serious chance at the playoffs. Tomorrow the team will play on the home court of No. 1 Indiana (to who they lost Tuesday 70-82) and then on to that of the New York Liberty.

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They’re so cute and evil! They’re so… Hunchback of Notre Dame. Or Batman Returns. They kind of remind me of Dobby in Harry Potter. Alright, you can project your own pop culture references onto these little guys when you go on the National Cathedral Gargoyle tour. Admission is $10 per adult; $5 per child (12 and under); or $30 per family. No reservations necessary.

Upcoming dates (all Sundays at 2 p.m.):
July 26
August 23
Sept. 27
October 25

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“I am as happy no where else and in no other society, and all my wishes end, where I hope my days will end, at Monticello.” –Thomas Jefferson, 1787

Strolling the grounds of one of America’s most famous homesteads, with its tidy green spaces and views of the Blue Ridge Mountains stretching out from either side, one could see why Thomas Jefferson sought always to be here, at Monticello. Monticello, with its book-lined walls, its stretching gardens and its needs, was — for Jefferson — the only place worth being, even during his trips to France as U.S. Minister or his time as president. And honestly, who could blame him?

The day trip to Charlottesville, Virginia, from DC was inspired in part by a graphic essay by Maira Kalman in the New York Times called “Time Wastes too Fast.” Kalman retells her own pilgrimage to Monticello with a quaint and quirky awe at the man, his accomplishments and his life there. “If you want to understand country and its people and what it means to be optimistic and complex and tragic and wrong and courageous, you need to visit his home in Monticello,” she writes. Okay Maira, I’m sold.

Thomas Jefferson was all of these things and many more. While touring, I overheard a man sharing a story: “John F. Kennedy once invited about fifteen nobel prize winners over to his house for dinner. As they were sitting around the dinner table, chatting, Kennedy thanked them for coming. ‘Never,’ he said, ‘has the White House housed  and fed so much collective intelligence. Except,’ he continued, ‘when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.’” This was a man who wrote the seminal document in the founding of our country when he was just 31 years of age.  He read thousands of books, seemed to have an interest in almost every subject — botany, architecture, philosophy, law, foreign relations, agriculture, astronomy, biology, to name just a few. He kept exhaustive records of the on-goings at Monticello and wrote thousands of letters, many of which still exist today because he made copies with an early copy machine — one of his favorite objects.

It is perhaps all of these things about Jefferson, as well as his importance and moral complexity, that draws great crowds of families to the plantation. Our trip was on a perfect Sunday afternoon and the newly-built, sleek visitors center was packed with people buying tickets, shopping for TJ souvenirs and eating lunch. As a practical note, buying your tickets online is probably a wise thing to do, as tours fill up very quickly and much in advance of their start times. If you’re going to go to Monticello, you might want to ensure you can do it leisurely. It takes two and a half hours to get to the place, barring bad traffic, and once there you’ll need to wait in line for a ticket and get up the mountain from the visitors center either by shuttle bus or by walking.

The walk up the “little mountain” was short — just a quarter mile — and very quiet and beautiful. The pre-tour video about the life of Jefferson and history of Monticello showed b-roll clips of fake Jefferson riding his horse through these woods and I half expected to spy him trodding along south of the trail. Half-way up is the family grave plot, with Jefferson’s tombstone looming epically over the rest — a 10-foot-tall obelisk of stone. Descendants of the Jefferson-Randolph line are still buried there each year.

Up at the house, we lined up for our tour, led by a very enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide. From there we were herded into each successive room of the first floor (the top floor presumably made inaccessible by the fact that Jefferson built a staircase that was just 22-inches wide). The first room, the receiving room is filled with curious wall-hangings which our guide informed us was meant to educate Jefferson’s guests while they waited to be received by him. There were maps of South America, Virginia and the Continental United States, flanked by a few animal’s horns and opposite a spread of Native American artifacts. Adding to his many complexities as a problematic figure, Jefferson was fascinated by Native Americans and their culture.

The tour moved like clockwork, or magic. The guides are trained to the second to move from one room to another in an extremely scheduled but somehow effortless fashion. There was the family sitting room, which could barely hold our tour group, Jefferson’s library/study/bedroom. Jefferson was a fan of the alcove bed, he discovered it in Paris and then came back to the states and cut a hole in a wall for his own bed. He was also the first person to put skylights in their house in the U.S.  Several of his rooms are lined with portraits of friends and men who inspired him, especially his buddy James Madison and the Marquis de Lafayette. I had to laugh — how weird would it be if you came to visit your friend’s house and they had a bust of your face hanging out in their living room? My friend pointed out that this was approximately the same as hanging photographs of friends, but even then, how rarely do we hang a single photo of one single person. Of all the curious things about Monticello and the time, however, this is a bit nitpicky of me.

I had braced myself for a painful mismanaging or deft evasion of the subject of the Hemings family and the other 130 plus slaves Jefferson — guiding light of “freedom” — held over his lifetime. However, the Monticello organization did what I thought was a decent job of taking every opportunity to point out and shed light upon the hypocritical mindset of Jefferson, defender of equality and lifetime slave owner. Despite his convictions and his genetic ties to the Hemings family, he only ever gave freedom to a handful of slaves and his debt ensured that the rest of the enslaved people at Monticello would be sold after his death. Inspired by this journey, I’m now taking this time to read the much touted book “The Hemingses of Monticello,” an account of the perhaps best-known and well-recorded slave lives. I’m sure there is criticism to be found, but time contraints (Time wastes too fast!) kept us from spending another couple hours touring the slave quarters. On our way out of the site, we did pause at the African-American burial site which is for all intents and purposes simply a piece of forest with a sign in the middle of the parking lot.

Outside we quickly shifted over to the Garden Tour. Our lovely, tiny guide Linda led us around the grounds, pointing out trees and facts about them along the way in a way that was wonderfully disunified. Jefferson brought plants back from wherever he went and attempted to grow them by trial and error, marking each plant with one of those garden tongue depressors. He originally had the garden planted on the hillside, then later carved out a flat terrace for easier access. Today there is every type of vegetable growing, there is a vineyard, a rash of fig trees and an orchard. After leaving Linda, we wandered down to be alone among the peach and apple trees. Probably because of the slope of the hill, few tourists ventured down off the garden. While we were sauntering around, stealing Jefferson’s plums, we looked back up the hill to another visitors building, only to see a woman being proposed to on the balcony squeezed in between the Coke machine and the scenic panorama. We cheered. Monticello, place of romance! Romantic, yes, in some sense — in another sense, it is not so much romance as a sort of historical mystery — a desire to grasp at understanding a man and a place and a time that, even after ten trips to Monticello, could not be satisfied.

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