I was detained by the police today and accused of stealing. I was also illegally detained against my will by several Wal*Mart employees preceding the detention by police. My crime? Leaving Wal*Mart with four bags of sugar (that I had just purchased) without showing a receipt, because I was not given one by the Wal*Mart cashier. I was threatened with being taken to jail, threatened with physical violence as I attempted to leave, and had to defend myself and my property while Wal*Mart security attempted to rip it from my hands, breaking my bags and causing one of my items to break open on the pavement. After I was released (having been completely innocent all along), I was lectured by the police officer and Wal*Mart manager about how next time I could make it easier on myself by just agreeing to give up my rights to their goons to begin with. While the initial employee who detained me apologized, the others, including the Wal*Mart Manager, did not.

I was at the Germantown Wal*Mart to buy four bags of sugar because earlier in the day I had been at Butler’s Orchard picking 10 pounds of strawberries to turn into delicious jam. And to make delicious jam, you need lots of sugar. I grabbed four bags and headed to the checkout, where I also decided I could use some refreshment. I grabbed a Mountain Dew from the cooler, but the cashier had already processed my card for the four bags of sugar. He apologized and rang up another transaction for the Mt. Dew. At that point, he crumpled up my receipt for the four bags of sugar and handed me the receipt for the Mountain Dew. I headed for the exit, and was greeted by Wal*Mart security who wanted to check my receipt. I produced the receipt for the Mountain Dew and explained that the cashier had tossed the other receipt for the sugar. I would repeat this explanation 6 more times before this affair ended. The rest of the tale is below… Read more

A few days ago, I found myself in a foreign land known as “Capitol Hill”. It took me about 45 minutes to find my way over there from NW DC, partly because my GPS told me to get onto 395 like the stupid gadget that it is. When will I learn to turn that thing off while driving through our complicated crisscross of roads and quadrants? Alas, after going from Dupont to Union Station to L’enfant Plaza to Eastern Market, I had finally made it to my destination on 8th street SE in what was probably the most difficult possible way.

After meeting with my underground stonecutters group and drinking the blood of an English sheep, I decided some food was in order. “What do these people of ‘Capitol Hill’ eat?” I wondered. Do they partake in the sushi, the steak frites, or the spaghetti and meatballs? It was then that I remembered a tale once told by my friend about a place known at Kenny’s BBQ and how it was legendary in this far off land. Low and behold, this famous eating establishment was a mere ten minute drive away.

As I made my way into the establishment, I was greeted by a fine young lady behind the counter. Actually that’s not true. She didn’t say a word and just stared off into the distance, waiting for me to order. She used a toothpick to clean underneath her fingernails. I perused their menu and started to salivate because one, I was starving and two, it’d been ages since I’d eaten some good BBQ.

I asked the customer service oriented counter lady, “What comes with the platter?” She replied, “It’s a platter.” Mmmmm. That was sounding good. I then remembered how much I like baked beans with my BBQ and asked, “Do you have baked beans?” As she stared down at the cash register and ran her fingers over the buttons she replied, “No.” So I decided on the shredded beef platter with a side of macaroni and cheese, and in the absence of baked beans I chose a side of black eyed peas and rice. In ten minutes my food was all bagged up and ready to go, so assuming I could find my way back to NW, I would be eating in no time.

When I got home, I unpacked my Styrofoam container of shredded dead cow as my dog anxiously drooled nearby. To my surprise they had included some cornbread along with my massive meal. I couldn’t wait to see how much of it I could stuff into my face at 10:00 at night. I dove into the BBQ beef and at first thought to myself, “Arrrggggghhhh….BBQ….sooo delicious….” My dog looked at me and said, “Arrrggggghhh….I know…BBQ…sooo delicious…give me some noooow you bastard….” But as my hunger wore off and I actually thought about critiquing the taste, my thoughts changed to, “Hmph. It tastes like shredded beef with sweet and sour sauce on top of it.” The macaroni and cheese had almost no flavor to it. It was more like macaroni and Elmer’s Glue. The black eyed peas and rice tasted pretty good but would have been much better had they been baked beans. And the cornbread you ask? It was pretty dry and tasted like it was premade or had been sitting on a shelf all day long.

So all in all, my Kenny’s BBQ experience wasn’t one that I’m going to highly recommend to you. In fact, I’d rather eat with my grandma in her retirement home’s cafeteria where they serve a delicious ham with applesauce. Plus I get to eat in the warm company of my grandma.

Photo of a flying pig by Grundlepuck

Let me just start with the good part. My good friend Mike got engaged to his lovely girlfriend Monica tonight at Paolo’s in Georgetown. I got to watch this week as my friend went through a lot of the same steps that I did two and a half years ago, visiting the jeweler (Boone & Sons on Connecticut for both of us), talking over settings and stones, stressing about the arrangements and all manner of logistics.

When he invited us to join them in the tap room of the City Tavern Club on M Street, we accepted. I knew that it was not a place I could show up in jeans and sneakers, but I was surprised tonight when I was asked to leave when I merely wasn’t wearing a collar. Sure I had $140 tailored slacks, and a $130 cashmere sweater from Lands End on, in addition to my black Italian-made wool great coat that was a gift from my father at Christmas two years ago. But all I was missing was a $7.50 Polo Shirt from Wal-Mart, as the Tavern Club doesn’t allow patrons without collars.

So, instead of being able to toast our friends on the day of their engagement, we had to settle for a hug and an embarrassed trip back through the club to the street like so much riff-raff.

Never mind that we were guests of a member.

Never mind that we certainly were not shabbily dressed.

But all because I hadn’t had the foresight to wear a cheap-ass polo shirt from Wal-Mart under my sweater… out on the street, riff raff!

So, we will have to take Mike and Monica to dinner some place in the near future, but all of this leaves me wondering: What the hell is the purpose of a place like that in this day and age? Sure there was a time for that, but what purpose is there for me in a club like that? If I can’t go in dressed as I normally do (my winter attire is a nice sweater and jeans or khakis) then what’s the freakin’ point? Surely if they can’t pitch themselves to members of the younger generations (and I don’t just mean Thad, Chad, Lad, Cad and Brad) then they will go the way of the dinosaur. And if they can’t figure out someone who’s dressed appropriately from someone who’s not, then I’ll vote with my feet.

image courtesy of Carf

This Saturday the Shakespeare Theater is going to join the distinguished crowd of local theaters offering material for families interested in taking their kids out for some something a little different than Alvin and the Chimpmunks Get Neutered 7: Totally Nuts. On the Eve of Friday Morning is a play written by local Norman Allen that’s meant for audiences 8 and up. It sounds like a good story regardless of your age, in fact, and I’m sorry that getting Wayan married off is going to keep me from going to see it.

In Iran, Nassrin’s father has been imprisoned for teaching banned books. While Nassrin waits for word of his release, her mother tells the ancient Persian tale of Mushkil Gusha, one customarily told before the Friday holy day. Through the magic of storytelling, Nassrin steps into the story, where she meets Bahad, a boy from a thousand years ago. Together they meet unusual characters, visit worlds beyond the clouds, and learn the ways of the mysterious Mushkil Gusha. On her adventure, Nassrin discovers the importance of passing on good fortune to those in need.

The show’s going to run from the 12th through the 19th with school performances during the week. The shows for the public will be on January 12 at 11 a.m and January 13 and 19 at 11 a.m. and 1:30 p.m. and tickets will be $15.

If you’d like to go a little above and beyond, there’ll be an opening celebration at 1:30pm this Saturday for $75 which will “include a performance of On the Eve of Friday Morning and a special post-performance reception featuring food and activities that celebrate Persian culture.”

Sidney Harman Hall
610 F Street NW (at the corner of Sixth and F Streets NW)

Interested individuals should call the box office at 202.547.1122. Interested school groups should contact Group Sales at 202.547.1122, option 5.

Yesterday, Tiffany brought you information about the David Albo Employment Act, which assesses serious fines over three years for various traffic infractions as part of the omnibus VA HB 3202 Roads bill. Today, the Post brings us the tale of the public backlash about it, including the grassroots efforts by several members of the VA Legislature who want to reconvene the legislature to change the law to affect only felony violations of traffic laws (which include DUI), and to include assessment of fines on all drives, not just those who bear VA Drivers Licenses.

The whole thing is honestly asinine, as in its current form, several misdemeanor offenses will trigger the fine, which is paid in three installments. In addition, the fines are only assessed by the VA DMV as part of the renewal of your car registration. Besides, let’s look at who this law really benefits, and that’s the DUI Defense Lawyers. With mandatory jail time for first time offenders and all manner of fines and fees, this is a place where the lawyers benefit from the number of people who will fight ticket after ticket to avoid paying that $1,050 fine. Bad law. Fix it, folks.

Thanks to Luke Healey for
this blast from the past picture.

Today is the prime picnic day of the year, and likely you are rushing around with a cold, baked chicken, maybe some nice salads, a football, a softball bat and maybe even horseshoes. But likely you don’t have lawn darts. Remember when America was just a little more free and we could play lawn darts until the cows came home or else someone was rushed to the emergency room, gushing blood from somewhere? Ah, those were the days, and that’s what Independence Day means to me.

My grandfather had Jarts in his basement and I remember playing with them with my brother and our cousins when I was about ten years old. Throwing them at targets quickly grew old so we tried to see how close we could get to hitting each other, then it turned into playing chicken and eventually became a test of bravery to see who would run first when the darts were thrown straight into the air.

Boy, those were the good old days, all right. Nowadays Jarts are outlawed, but likely made in basements and available if you know the right people, like Absinthe or crystal meth. You can thank dumbass kids like my brother and me for ruining the fun for everyone.

Although we never had an injury in our Jart play, I am sure it was simply because we all lived too far away from each other to do this sort of thing very often. In other words, I have strained relationships and the breakdown of family values to thank for my survival thus far, at least when it comes to not being buried with Jarts in my skull.

So remember this little moral tale as you have picnics today. Don’t be too friendly with anyone, and if you have lawn darts, be sure to have lots of beer. Alcohol breaks down the moral fiber of our families and, as explained earlier, that keeps people from getting killed by lawn darts.

After all, Dubya has them at his cookouts. And if we are too afraid to play lawn darts, the terrorists have already won.

Former Metroblogger Erin mentioned in the comments of this story that the saga of the pot-growing man with the contentious ladder had come to a sad end, with the alleged horticulturist apparently losing it, setting fire to his home, shooting at police and finally attempting to take his own life. It’s a sad end to a weird tale, but I take some small comfort from the fact that nobody was hurt other than the man himself.

Sherman Alexie, one of America’s up and coming literary phenoms, will be reading tonight at the Warehouse Theater (1017 7th Street NW ). Admission is $5 plus the purchase of his excellent new book Flight ($13).

Alexie presents a potent and entertaining new voice in modern literature. His latest work of fiction Flight is a deceptively short read but packs a powerful punch in its meditations on the cyclic nature of violence throughout history and its ramifications on the personal decisions we make in the current global political climate. The book is also a terrific adolescent coming-of-age tale told with a mind-bending time travel angle. I found the book vastly entertaining and extremely thought provoking.

Check out Mr. Alexie’s reading tonight at 7 pm.

Larry Flynt, no matter what you think of him, is in some regards brilliant. In yesterday’s Washington Post, he ran a fairly large ad which offered $1 million in exchange for your exclusive tale about matters prurient with a congressperson, a senator, or other prominent officeholder. No word yet if Flynt’s on a fishing expedition like he was when he made the offer ten years ago, or if he has a person already in mind.

But, now’s your chance to cash in if you can prove you’ve nailed someone in power. Better yet, interns, want to make a mil and retire before you enter the workforce? Here’s your chance. Seduce your boss, make a Mil, leave Washington happy.

Photo by DC Metroblogger

Now this would be a bad day at Home Depot. The back window of this van looked to be broken while it was sitting in the parking lot last weekend. An errant 2×4 maybe or worse, a vandal?

Could this be the worst done to a car in a DC parking lot? Could you top this damage with a worse parking lot tale of woe?

I challenge you, Washington DC, to share your parking pain. Scratches and dents don’t count, nor do towing companies. Damage must be severe and anonymous.