What better way to celebrate the successful end to three whirlwind months of exhaustion and exhilaration than sipping a sazerac on a balmy patio while being serenaded by Ella Fitzgerald?

I’ve been wanting to try Acadiana for a long time, so when the stars aligned and the very weekend I finished costume designing a show and two extremely busy friends finally all were free, we jumped at the chance. Not to mention I follow in Don and the DG’s footsteps, and they liked it back in January.

I was a few minutes late and arrived to my friends blissed out on the terrace with cocktails, both eyeing the last biscuit in the basket. They had restrained themselves just long enough for me to enjoy its addictive flavor, but another minute and it would have been gone. Our convivial server Franklin hooked me up to the aforementioned sazerac and relaxation quickly set in.
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There’s a magical time of day that comes just before sunrise and just before sunset. Twilight? That may be the term to describe it. It’s when the sky turns a dark shade of blue and the gradient is just amazing. Say goodbye to the harsh, scorching light of day and paint some romance into your photograph with the subtle, fading light of dusk or dawn.

I think this time of day goes strangely neglected in photography. Maybe because it’s such a short period of time? Maybe because it’s when you’re either asleep in the morning or eating dinner at night? The fact is, it’s a perfect time to get your camera out, especially when you’re photographing things like an outdoor Christmas tree, or a quaint plaza, and you want to see a silhouette of your subject. When the sky is pure black as it is when night has fallen, there is too much contrast and it’s hard to expose just right.

Fellow Flickrian ehpien has used this lighting to perfection here with his beautiful sunset reflection of the Lincoln Memorial. I don’t know about you, but I’d love a huge print of this hanging on my wall.

I was in the right mood for a show because I had just seen The Plague Dogs, the animated film based on the book by Richard Adams (writer of Watership Down). It was the most upsetting movie I’ve ever seen. Some films leave you feeling down about what happened in them, this one leaves you down about life. I recommend it!

I did my pre-concert ritual: I made sure the ticket was in the car. I took off my good watch and put on my cheap one and, because I’ve had a fear of pickpockets since I was 18 and saw a kid darting through a crowd in Amsterdam surreptitiously sticking his little hand into tourist pockets, I moved my bacon wallet from my back pocket to my jacket’s inside pocket.

I hate parking at The Black Cat. Looking for a space makes me resent how nice the neighborhood has become. Ten years ago when half the buildings around there were boarded up you could find a space right away, the only drawback being you might get mugged when you did.
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Twilight tonight was quiet and misty, perfect for a twenty-minute walk from my office downtown up to my house. Most nights I’m too tired to walk, preferring to sink into a seat on the bus, but sometimes it just feels necessary, almost cathartic. Somewhere after Massachusetts Avenue the streets narrow, the enveloping tree canopy always encouraging me to shake off the workday and clear my mind of petty stress.

At the end of the walk tonight as I turned onto my block, I heard the gentle clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. It could almost be 1890. Wait, Halloween was weeks ago - what, am I so exhausted that I’m hearing phantom horses now?

No, just an officer of the House-mounted unit of the US Park Police, guiding a superbly beautiful chestnut down my street. Though I’m close to Logan Circle, it’s a rare sight to have a horse actually in front of my house. The pair seemed so confident and steady, the horse’s coat gleaming in the light of the streetlamp. I stopped on my porch and watched them pass by, horse and rider, as the sound echoed tranquilly through the night.

Did you like The Afghan Whigs? Did you like Screaming Trees? Do you like the rock music? Do you have $15? Then join me Wednesday night at the Black Cat for an evening with The Twilight Singers. They’re the band founded by legendary Afghan Whigs frontman Greg Dulli. Their shows are fantastic — they go all out with sets that rival what you’d see at an arena/stadium show. Plus they’ve now been joined by Screaming Trees singer Mark Lanegan.

Not so many years ago Dulli’s Afghan Whigs would sell out the 9:30 Club faster than a thrown bra hits a mic stand. Now times are tough for minor rock gods and there are still tix available for Wednesday’s show. Rumor has it that they canceled their Athens, GA show because of low advanced sales (though the official story blamed it on “Greg’s vocal strain and severe sore throat”).

Stars of Track and Field will be opening.

Update: My Athenian friends are now backing off that ticket sales rumor — Greg’s voice was reportedly in very rough shape. Let’s hope it’s healed up by Wednesday.

Columbia Heights Yahoo Groups is off on another beautiful tangent again, one that’s worth a few minutes of your work day leisure time. Started off with this short description of a robbery

There were three black males in their early 20s. They held a gun in the cab driver’s face, but thankfully did not shoot. Even though they were handed cash, they also demanded my husband’s wallet. Then they ran down the alleys toward the housing complex on Columbia.

the discussion has spiraled out into a grand display of neighborly love where moral quandaries take on Twilight Zone dimensions. Case in point, this fun quote:

I said when a rich white woman smokes a cigarette in her SUV and a poor black woman smokes a joint in front of her baby - I don’t see them as different.

Wanna enjoy the display yourself? Go on your own merry adventure here.

Hey Sammy,

Rumor has it the guys over at RFK have offered you half a million dollars for a one year contract here in DC. It also seems that you’re a bit, how shall I say, conflicted about taking what amounts to a major pay cut to be one of the outfield platoon here in Washington.

I remember six summers ago when I drove from Ohio to Chicago to watch you roam right field at the friendly confines and smack the cover off the ball against the Astros. It was great to see someone with so much passion for the game. Then came the bat-corking. And maybe even the steroids. And while you never tested positive, you suddenly weren’t hitting quite like you were once upon a time. Last year, even in friendly Camden Yards, you only managed 14 homers in 102 games.

Tell you what, Sammy, take the money and come to DC. You can sprint out to the outfield in front of fans who really won’t care how many dingers you hit into the cavernous outfield, just that you came to DC and showed some hustle in the twilight of your career. Sign the deal, Sammy.

Best,
DC Baseball Fans

Little points of yellow light are popping up in my yard tonight, dancing in the twilight. The little bugs are dancing their mating ritual, not entirely like the folks in the clubs and bars of DC. The signs of summer are multiplying, the sidewalk cafes, the teeming masses of tour buses and tourists, the increasing humidity and now the fireflies.

I grew up in the West, where fireflies are a storybook tale, not the joyous indicator of the impending summmer. This is one thing I would miss back home.