Orpheus Mon Amor

I'm a bit late in posting this, but for all the vinyl addicts in the area, there's still time if you hustle down to Arlington THIS WEEK...

The news of Orpheus Records' closing was made public a while ago, and The Faithful have been flocking to the Wilson Boulevard shop ever since, to pick the bones of that poor, dying beast.

When I got there, Carl (longtime Intangible Comrade and, conveniently, part-time employee of the shop) informed me that, to paraphrase:

It's a good thing you made it this weekend: We've had no word from the landlord (re: extended lease arrangements) which means by default, the store is dead next weekend, and Rick will be packing up the store on Saturday...

So, pardon the Old English expression (or is it Germanic?) but holy shit!

So this is it, then? I asked if the remaining stock was all going to some kind of graveyard auction. Nope, he said, anything not sold is going into storage. And THAT would likely be a whole shop's worth of records right there, no matter how much he sells before next weekend.

I had already assumed this would be my last trip to the store before it finally closed, since it isn't THAT easy to get from my place in DC to the shop in Arlington... but I also assumed that we still had another couple of weeks with the old place.

Anyway.

I've been reading Nick Hornby's excellent memoir Fever Pitch, which marks the significant events in the author's life against Arsenal matches. Thus, it's a life viewed through the eyes of a hopeless obsessive. In Hornby's case, it's an addiction to English football culture. And there are loads of incisive, perfectly worded bits in that book that describe the obsessive personality, from the inside.

In my case, it isn't soccer (although that could happen as well, as soon as DCU starts kicking this season), it's a record-collecting fixation. So Hornby's other book (High Fidelity) might be more appropriate.

So. Last chance at an Orpheus run. Fine. Pick the bones like a ruthless buzzard. Start at A, and work down to Z...

The bins were pretty well picked through, so it became an exercise in collecting "filler" material. That would be albums I have on CD, which I previously had on vinyl, but sold years ago when CDs came out, BUT now will re-purchase on vinyl and sell the CDs. This is because I've finally come to my senses and realized that VINYL is the ultimate form of musical permanence. And CDs are just temporal fluff. That's right, bloody "technology"... you heard me.

So the "filler" consisted mostly of 80s semi-underground pop that I'm too nerdish to resist: Nina Hagen, XTC, Oingo Boingo, that kind of thing. And some headier stuff: Nektar, Jane, and a still-sealed copy of The Muffins' Open City...And, after passing it by for years, I finally bought the lone copy of "Jehova" My Black Ass by Peach of Immortality (infamous local '80s noise band, one member of which went on to form Jackhammer Orchestra, Furnace, and the more successful Chemlab)...

Fifteen albums for $53 is a good day.

I was going to take a last-chance photo of the Orpheus storefront, but it didn't feel right. It was like taking a portrait of a dying friend in a hospital bed. Weird vibes. And with a heavy sigh, I hauled my goodies down to the Clarendon Metro. And home.

Crap: As I waited for the train, I remembered I already had a freaking vinyl copy of Open City. So call me the ultimate Muffins fan. Or an imbecile. Call it the fog of war. Other collectors would understand.

A nice pair...

As is human nature, we pause at times to reflect on how the Big Gig is going so far. The round numbers work best for this: ten years, twenty-five years, etc. They're only numbers, but they offer a good excuse to kick back and contemplate just what the heck we've achieved in all that time.

If my life was a book, it would be all internal dialogue and incessant navel-gazing, a life trapped inside the skull like a beehive of dementia. "The Story" would make Naked Lunch or Finnegan's Wake seem like the straightest narratives ever written, since Dick and Jane got that goddamned dog...

Run, Spot. Run.

But once in a while, life develops irresistable events and forces the contemplative mind to peek outside...and marvel at beautiful things. And that is what we celebrate here. It was ten years ago: A nice, round number.

September 2, 1997 was the day I began a new job as a designer at a publishing house in Tucson. It was about 10am when my tour of the office led me to the desk of a charming Editor who commanded my full attention from the first handshake.

The attraction was violent and crazy and obsessive, and intellectual as well. That first handshake wrapped a harness of sinew around my ribcage and sealed my fate: I would commence puppy-doggin' after this chick until she either fell for me or filed a restraining order with the Pima County Sheriff's Department.

Luckily, no such order was filed, despite my clearly tentative grasp on reality.

In those first weeks, I babbled at her endlessly about my obsessions, including a scheme to develop a new form of religion: a quantum cult called the AOTA (All Of The Above), where all gods, goddesses, archangels, demons, and nature spirits would be accepted as equals, under the basic understanding that EVERYBODY IS RIGHT. Thus, people would stop arguing over matters of pretentious, theological bullshit and just be civilized humans. Or at least shut the hell up. No pun intended.

She listened to all this muttering, and didn't run away to fetch the can of Mace she should have stashed in her desk. Somehow everything worked out.

Now it's a full decade, to the day, later. We've put down some pretty deliberate roots in DC (a homecoming for me, a new trip for her), and in that time, we've accumulated more stories than can be written or remembered.

To mark the occasion, a mexican restaurant. Of course.

And of course, you can't get decent Mexican out here, after spending nearly a decade in Southern Arizona. Still, Rosa Mexicano on F Street was a fine enough substitute. The margaritas were strong, the guacamole fresh, and the occasion was perfect.

Ten years seems like a long time, and it seems like the briefest moment... I can't decide.

Monroe Street flashback

Friday before Labor Day weekend, extra day off! No plans. Damn the heat and humidity, I shall go wandering:

Walked over to Monroe Street, the site of my last home in Columbia Heights before leaving DC many years ago. It's not far from my current place, but I seldom have reason to walk that way, so that stretch between 14th and 16th streets always gives me a whiff of nostalgia.

It was about 1989, and I was renting a tiny share of a rowhouse basement, featuring a street-level view of walking feet, and the odd homeless Jamaican kick-boxing instructor sleeping on the steps outside my door. All this for a mere $125 per month. A bed-sheet tacked to the ceiling was my property-line, separating my area from the communal living room. There were anywhere from three to five people living in that small basement, hatching some very strange days. I had dubbed our place "Groovesville" and it fit, totally.

Our furnishings were typical poor-boy punk gear: We had the requisite cable-spool table, there was a barely functioning thrift-store television, and that SOFA...

It was "liberated" from an eviction down the street. We hefted the bastard back to our place in the snow, and after much effort, got the thing down the steps and in the door. It was a vile, filthy couch, covered in some harsh burlap-like material. Within weeks, it was decorated with a mad layer of graffiti and sprawling doodles.

The deal was simple: one could further "decorate" the couch but only if one was ripped to the tits on booze, dope, pills, or something. For the living-room centerpiece, we had a huge mason jar filled with a mix of speed tablets and thumb-tacks: My room-mate had assembled this evil thing in a moment of profound inspiration, and he was rocking proud of it. He always said ART needed to be dangerous again. I'm sure some of that jar's contents had a voice in illustrating the sofa.

It seems I was the only one in that basement madhouse that had a steady job, and dreams of something more. I was still working in Rockville as an "assistant dog groomer" in those days, but figured I had to leave town, find a "career" and eventually return to DC and BUY that friggin' house on Monroe Street. It was a dream. What the hell. The ultimate metaphor for success in life became the thought of moving UPSTAIRS. Into the REAL HOUSE, and perhaps see the rest of the bodies whose feet routinely walked by my dark window.

That was ages ago. I did eventually leave DC, found that "career" thing, and returned as planned. Bought a place last year, just a few blocks east of Groovesville, and marveled at the circular nature of life.

So last Thursday, Marian emailed me some details on a rowhouse that sold recently, on that same block of Monroe Street: "Isn't this where you lived?"

Well, no. It wasn't the same place, but it was a mere two doors away. Hence the idea of the Monroe Street walk today. It looked considerably more fixed-up than my old place, but it was essentially the same unit. And it sold for nearly (deep breath).........$790,000.........holy jumping sheep's christ.

So much for dreams coming true. If that's what these places are selling for now, despite the housing-market crash, forget it. What's that lottery up to now? What about that PowerBall thing??

Milestones: Gomez turns 0.5

Somehow, in all the flurry of activity recently, we neglected to mark the passing of Gomez's greatest achievement; that of staying alive for six months. And it is GOOD and PROPER to reflect on the past six months! Hasn't VH1 taught us that even YESTERDAY is ripe for nostalgic plunder? (I love the '90s? Yeesh!)

So plunder we shall! All hail the rubber-faced weirdo, as he turns 6 months old! Turn back the hands of time, and re-live this wacky tale with us...

We first saw our little manatee at the breeder's place, at 4 weeks old. The intent was to check out the litter and see if any of the puppies stood out, demanded attention, etc. At first, none did. They were all the same, all cute, bumbling little stooges. Being so young, what the hell could they do besides roll around and grunt? They were just wobbling hairy potatoes, scarcely out of the womb. What kind of personality could they possibly.....


Wait. That's the one.

Uh, I think that one has bonded already. Literally. Who has chosen whom, I wondered? This pup was a diamond in a pile of tater-tots. He was the most focused and determined of the bunch. Not bossy, but strong and curious. He even had a physical heft that his litter-mates lacked.


Four weeks later, we're taking him home. Two months old and still resembling a manatee/potato more than a boxer. He seemed perpetually stunned by life, a quality I'm sure he gets from me. And no, it doesn't wear off. At this stage, he lived almost entirely in my lap.


At nine weeks old, he was still mastering the art of stairs. The slick hardwood surface of the inside staircase sent him skidding across the landing like a greased chicken in a bowling alley...always good for a laugh. The deck stairs (pictured) seemed easier to negotiate, but it obviously took the concentration of a brain surgeon.

At eleven weeks, he began developing that quintessential Boxer trait: Severely Advanced and Terminal Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder Sicko Craziness. At random times, he would stare into your eyes in a desperate attempt to make telepathic contact. Once telepathy was achieved, it became clear that he had nothing to say. All you heard was the echo of birds and crickets in his empty, cavernous mind. Sure, he's smart. But he's an idiot. And that's marvelous.


Regarding the obsessive/compulsive thing: At twelve weeks, Gomez discovered that the greatest, most magical thing on earth is any damned stick he could find. In the photo above, Marian is off-camera, simply holding a stick. And Jumping Jesus, Gomez just can't believe it. GOD-DAMMIT, he says, THAT'S A FREAKIN' STICK you got there...


At 13 weeks, he was fully in the gawky adolescent stage, where his body looked like a mixed bag of pieces and parts: feet growing faster than his torso, head growing faster than his feet, damn...it's a miracle this mess of an animal could even stand up.


Four months old here. He still had the leash-walking manners of a demented speedfreak, but he was well-behaved at the vet, despite all the horrific things they did to him in there. This photo was taken just after the visit where he came face-to-face with a fully grown neapolitan mastiff in the waiting room. It was surely the biggest creature he'd ever seen. Nothing like a dose of sacred humility: Don't ever think you're the big man in town, 'cuz you may turn a corner and have to face one of those beasts. Afterwards, he still had to negotiate the mind-numbing array of smells that 18th Street/Adams Morgan had to offer. He slept a very long time after this.


The Obsessive/Compulsive thing evolved a bit, and Gomez becomes more discerning in his freakouts. Here, he has abandoned all his previous toys in favor of a disposable flowerpot, worth about nine cents. It became his best friend for nearly a week. OH, how they romped and played in the sun...


...which brings us to present day. Six months old, and he's probably around 45-50 pounds, definitely forming his adult set of jowls, and still as bright-eyed and insane as the day he latched onto Marian's nose, declaring her "mummy."

We should definitely stage one insane barn-burner of a one-year birthday party. Assuming he (and we) live that long.

one kid's river

It looks like Ernesto, be it hurricane, tropical storm, or other, will be doing its thing to the DC area tomorrow. The early rains already started, which was a treat, after several dry summer weeks.

It was such a delight to have cooler air, that I decided to haunt some childish stomping grounds. The photo above shows a wee bit of the Patuxent River, which winds through Laurel, Maryland. Seems like it was always just beyond the trees outside any of the several apartments we had, all over town. I'd come home with obscenely muddy shoes, after exploring all day...... what was I, eleven? Twelve years old? Thereabouts.

So the Patuxent still has that smell of careless childhood adventure about it. A melancholy thing to sniff nowadays, but nice. Even in the rain. The occasional dead Coors Light can would float by, keeping it real, but i still dig this tiny river as if it was mine by birthright.

Speaking of nature, we leave tomorrow for a week of tree-hugging splendor, somewhere in the top of Michigan... Not the Upper Penninsula; that would be the top-top. This is just the top. Or rather, the sub-top.

The under-top?

It's time for a break anyway. I'll have the camera. It'll be a blast. A nice, quiet, relaxing kind of blast. With obscenely muddy shoes at the end of each day's adventure... I hope.

Returning to the scene of the shrine...

I was about ten years old. Perhaps eleven. Certainly not twelve, yet.

By the age of twelve, certain sophistications begin creeping in; a growing understanding of science and logic, and the myths begin to fade. Before that age, mysteries still share the world with adult reality. It is a precious and dangerous time, when monsters or angels might confront you as easily as policemen or teachers.

In those days, I remember being taken to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in DC's Brookland neighborhood, for Catholic holiday services... High Mass, you might call it. At this particular cathedral, with its fantastic architecture, it was quite a HIGH high mass. It's perhaps the grandest church in DC. The pipe organ embraces your head from nearly all sides with its tonal mood swings; from whispers to full-on explosions of sound.

It was during those explosive moments of organ music that I locked eyes with that fearsome dude behind the altar: not the priest, he was tiny by comparison. The human priest was a mere insect beneath the truly Fearsome Dude, who lined the convex arch of the North Apse with hands wide, eyes burning with challenge.

What was this crazy, monstrous thing? It was like praying to a savage, feral Sun God who threatened to bitch-slap the entire congregation with one mighty sweep of its bloody palms. The power of this mosaic image was shocking, at a time when childhood still had faith in magic things...

Needless to say, we all made it out alive, and I have since lost my irrational fear of angry gods with the face of Donald Sutherland. But one need not be a Christian to appreciate their churches. They are still quite transformative places. Particularly this shrine; its vibe is still quite potent after all these years.

While browsing the gift shop, it occurred to me that they would do well to design a t-shirt that says "naw, I'm not a christian, I just dig the buildings..."

Main Street

I seem to be on a shop-front photo kick these days, but this one is different. Those of us who grew up in Laurel (Maryland) share a certain respect for the surreal. On a deeply subconscious level, the town "feels like" Lumberton, where the film Blue Velvet takes place, but it's more concentrated: almost urban, but not quite. Very schizophrenic. It's still a sleepy suburb with tiny pockets that haven't been touched by the scraping fingernails of time.

The photo above is Main Street, which is one of those timeless pockets. When I return for a quick nostalgia fix and walk the length of Main Street, I pause with eyes closed and detect the stubborn vapors of 1977 still hanging in the air. Those blue polyester uniform shirts from St. Mary's always made one's neck itch like the plague.

The Laurel Meat Market could always be trusted for all my one-stop shopping needs, from Gayla kites to balsa-wood gliders. I suppose "meat" was in there as well, but I never cared to look for it.

9:30 club, 2005

So, after that melancholic nostalgia freakout a few days ago, visiting the grave of DC Space & finding a Starbucks (previous post), I figured the old 9:30 club had to be next.

Of course the 9:30 did not vanish, but simply moved: they now have a much better sound system, more space, bigger bar, actual "climate control" and other creature comforts, but many of us cranky farts lost our club virginity in the old place. Hawkwind, Psychic TV, Swans, etc...the brightest stars of the underground had blazed from the stage in there, in that stinking, crowded, fabulous cesspit.

...just had to sneak one last peek behind the chainlink fence & plywood barriers, before it mutated into another Starbucks...

DC Space, 2005

I am a nostalgic beast, by nature: a personality-flaw that doubtless tests my wife's infinite patience. Nevertheless, upon arriving back home after some 14 years away, I had a shopping-list of Sacred Places to visit...to re-visit.

Somewhere amongst the top five places on the list was the site of DC Space: For me, it was a homey, comfortable spot for live music and artistic strangeness: too small to hold crowds for more popular bands, it seemed comfortable with the freaks of the underground. From the annual Noise Fest shows to the I AM EYE indie film gatherings, DC Space was a seeping well of creative ooze.

My first public performance was there, as part of Positive Force's radical poetry event: my bit involved spontaneous word association shouted over backing tapes of crying babies, howling wolves, smashing glass, etc... Later, as part of the noise-music trio Pythagoras, we played there with Lida Husik (pre-ShimmyDisk) and freaked out more than a few "medicated" members of the crowd. Tomas Squip (of Beefeater & Fidelity Jones fame) had photographed my (then) wife and I in the studio upstairs for the "State of the Union" compilation on Dischord Records... all great memories, all feeding into that Nostalgia Lobe for future milking.

Fast-forward to 2005. I had to see the remains, after all that time. I knew DC Space had closed long ago, but I didn't quite expect to see the ultimate symbol of the American Corporate Virus, sitting there, gloating at me... Starbucks?!?!? Sure, I've had my share of Venti Cafe Americanos, but my god, this is adding quite the insult to a nostalgic injury.

Perhaps there's a lesson here. There's always a lesson, isn't there?

Poltergeisting Columbia Heights

Some 15 years ago, I was renting a share of a (semi-legal) sublet in the basement of a Victorian rowhouse on Monroe Street. It was about a block from the long-abandoned Tivoli Theater, which slept in a cocoon of barbed wire and plywood, dreaming of the inevitable wrecking-ball.

It was a schizophrenic place, stranded between the relative safety of 16th street and the rancid horror of 14th street. My roommates and I furnished the place almost entirely from nearby eviction leftovers (the stinky burlap couch was a personal favorite). Cops chased young hoodlums past my window and I watched their sprinting feet through the bars. Sometimes I heard their gunfire as I tried to sleep. Despite this, there was a homey, real-neighborhood vibe to the area. Between the outbursts of gang warfare and mornings spent waiting for "that guy" to wake up and get offa my front steps, Columbia Heights imprinted a strangely complex and appealing flavor on my memory.

Fast-forward to 2005: I've spent a few years in New York, nearly a decade in Arizona, and a year in Maine. Now I'm back home and "poltergeisting" on weekends (poltergeisting = the obsessive re-visiting of old neighborhoods). After 15 years, I feel like a ghost wandering these streets.

For example: the Tivoli Theater has shed its barbed wire and is fully renovated. The Scary Giant has moved next to the Tivoli and has become a clean, shiny, and huge grocery store (it seems VERY ODD to find curries and imported wine in a Columbia Heights Giant). High-priced condos are sprouting everywhere like fragrant, garish blossoms seeking wealthy suburban hummingbirds. Weird.

My ghost-wandering took me south on 16th Street to Malcolm X Park (officially known as Meridian Hill) -- Back in the old days, this was the one-stop-shopping district for various narcotics, and it was absolutely unsafe. Now, the park is filled with sunbathers, families playing croquet, frisbee-tossing jocks, soccer games, student-types with books, and innocent camera-wielding wanderers like myself.

My goal in Malcolm X Park was to see if SERENITY was still there, and she was. Serenity is the white marble statue of a seated woman whose facial contours had long since been eroded by acid rain, time, and abuse. I remember black, Alice Cooper-esque streaks running from her eyes and down her cheeks, making her name, "Serenity," a dark and cynical joke... Her goth streaks were gone, and someone had thoughtfully colored her eyes a charming shade of blue.

From there, the August heat drove me back to the Metro, and home: Poltergeists, it seems, aren't any more immune to the weather than their human neighbors...