“Hungerectomy”?! Really? Mars Inc., what the hell you were thinking? When I walk away after seeing this ad, I’m not thinking about buying Snickers. Their word doesn’t suggest satisfaction of hunger to me, it reminds me of gastric bypass surgery–something someone who has eaten too many Snickers might need.

In conclusion, stay away from marketing mashups with -ectomy.

It’s 1:30 AM and I’m walking home to Columbia Heights from Dupont Circle. Close to the intersection of 17th and U, I pass by a group of twenty people huddling around an object I can’t see. Some of them are holding red plastic cups and I assume that there’s a keg and that this group of revelers come from a house party that’s spilled outside. Gutsy, I thought, to bring the keg outside.

As I walk by a woman calls out to me. “Hey, you want some toast?” she asks.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“You want some toast?” she asks again.

I finally see why the small crowd is here. There’s a table with four toasters and various spreads laid out–butter, jellies, jams, Nutella, and what would be my favorite, white chocolate peanut butter. Power cords hang loosely from out a third floor window connecting the toasters and a small pair of computer speakers attached to an iPod. One guy walks around with a kettle pouring out hot apple cider.

Most everyone there is like me, a stranger who just happened to be passing by. We discuss where we’ve been that night and whether if you fold toast in half it legally becomes a sandwich. There’s no consensus on this issue.

Someone talks me into a third piece of toast “for the road” before I resume my walk home. As I move on, I can’t help but think that this is about more than just toast. It’s a shot across the bow of a city culture and nightlife which is too rarely funky, spontaneous, and generous.

And I wouldn’t mind some imitators.

Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships. Mulder and Scully launched ten thousand fan fics.

The relationship between the man of faith and woman of science simmered warm for most of the series, bubbled up occasionally, but never came to the boil we wanted. But, here in DC, a city packed with singles, we especially celebrate that most elusive of qualities: chemistry.

Then there were the actual X-Files: shapeshifters, clones, ghosts, vampires, lycanthropes, telepaths, you name it. Evey week we watched Mulder and Scully leave their dimly-lit basement office in the FBI building to discover a different side of America. And it was freaky.

And of course there were aliens too. “The truth is out there,” Mulder swore, but the truth around the alien conspiracy was murkier and more sinister than we expected. As Mulder and Scully moved closer to understanding the mystery, it enveloped their lives. Both were abducted for a time. Scully offered her baby up for adoption to protect it from the constant surveillance in her life. Mulder was convicted of murder and sentenced to death in a kangaroo court. After a narrow escape, Mulder and Scully learn The Truth: The alien invasion begins 2012. Shit, we didn’t want to know.

Other Fictional DC Residents

Name: Jack Ryan
Education: BA, Economics - Boston College; Doctorate of History - Georgetown University
CV Highlights: Second Lieutenant (United States Marine Corps); Stockbroker (Merrill Lynch); Professor of History (United States Naval Academy); Analyst (CIA); National Security Advisor; President of the United States of America.

[Note: Not to be confused with the other real-world politico whose Senatorial career imploded after divorce details became public. ]

When I was growing up on Long Island, there was always a Tom Clancy novel on my father’s nightstand. He would read the books slowly, very slowly. Come to think of it, I never actually saw him with the book in hand, reading, but every two or three years I’d notice he had moved on to the next volume in the series. In researching Ryan for this post, I understand now my father’s persistent if leisurely-paced dedication to the series: Jack Ryan is the Republican Jed Bartlett, the clever, conservative, media-savvy war president that could unite red, blue, and purple states.

It’s hard not to get excited about Ryan after reading his resume. After a post-college military career cut short by injury, Ryan made millions investing in stocks. Reluctantly pulled into government service, Ryan eventually embraced this career and rose from CIA analyst to NSA to VP and ultimately to the Presidency when a terrorist action destroyed the Capitol, killing the former president and most of Congress and Cabinet. In his government service Ryan foiled numerous terrorist plots and mostly famously assisted the defection of a USSR submarine crew. He also negotiated a workable Mideast peace plan and won a land war in China.

While the the world we live in isn’t as chaotic as Clancy’s (the US fights wars with a merged Iran-Iraq, Japan, and China in less than a decade), I look around us and I wouldn’t mind a Ryan presidency navigating our geopolitical waters.

Other Fictional DC Residents

Spender aka Cigarette Smoking Man aka Cigarette Man aka Cancer Man aka Old Smokey has more nicknames than a Maureen Dowd column. No wonder: deciphering the intricacies of his plots inspires one to epithets, if not hard liquor.

Cigarette Smoking Man is the ultimate Washington insider. His multiplicity–pies his fingers have been linked to include cover ups of alien invasion plans, assasinations of JFK and MLK Jr., fixing Superbowls and Academy Awards–is only matched by his survivability. Marion Barry has met his match: Cigarette Smoking Man outlived cancer, sniper bullets, and betrayal by his operatives. Just when you think he’s out of the picture, he’s back smoking up the place.

In our last encounter with Cigarette Smoking Man, it looked like a missile barrage finally did him in. I, for one, hope this spooky sonuvabitch stays dead.

Other Fictional DC Residents

I’m not writing about this here because there’s a local hook inside of the play. There isn’t. I’m promoting this because I don’t think there’s a play out there right now that better captures the first-world complications of love and friendship in your twenties.

I like Studio Theatre’s write up:

“In his erotically charged new play, Adam Rapp tracks a dark love triangle from a tiny hostel in Amsterdam to the chilly streets of New York City. Friends Davis and Matt stand at opposite ends of the sexual spectrum: Davis collects sexual encounters like souvenirs, while Matt waits on the sidelines for romance. The appearance in their lives of a mysterious woman stirs up a dangerous combination of fierce longing and festering rage.”

There’s a pay-what-you-can performance of the play this Saturday, September 9th at 2 PM. Studio Theatre is at 1501 14th St. NW (a ten minute walk from the Dupont Circle or U. St Metros). If you can’t make it for the pay-what, consider splurging. While I don’t recommend it for a date–the play is dark and graphic and Studio’s literary manager described to me a production staff discussion on how to show fake semen (winner: hand lotion)–this is a play you can bring your friends who don’t normally go to theatre. They’ll get it.

I’ll be at the pay-what. If people want to discuss the play afterwards, I’d be up for meeting at Busboys and Poets (2021 14th St. NW) twenty minutes after curtain close. If you’re interested, let me know at jmp@jmprice.net.

Bonus: a clip from the New York production of Red Light Winter.

What’s the F.W. Thomas Performances? Damned if I know. I think it’s still finding its feet but as near as I can tell it’s a loopy lecture series that showcases local talent ruminating on offbeat or ironical topics. Who’s F. W. Thomas? A jack of all trades and, I think, master of none who still doesn’t have his own Wikipedia entry. But he’s got a lecture series which is more than I got.

I’m intrigued by two of the presenters participating in the next event on September 18th:

Reihan Salam, a writer living in Washington, D.C., explaining the hilariously lamentable phenomenon of the “Beta Male.”

Elspeth Reeve, a reporter at the New Republic, on her forbidden love for Ann Coulter.

I think you need to have DC Bachelor chime in to have a well-rounded conversation on the Beta Male, but let’s see how it goes.

Monday, September 18, 2006
7:30 PM
Warehouse Theater
1021 7th St. NW
(upcoming.org link)

Maybe I’ll see you there.

Photo courtesy of fairlyawesome

We’re tied with San Francisco, ranked 20th out of 35 cities compared in Forbes’ America’s Drunkest Cities.

20th out of 35? I guess that’s pretty respectable. I put our stats below. You can read the study’s methodology here.

Washington-Baltimore Score
State Laws 4 (score out of 8)
Drinkers 14 (rank out of 35)
Heavy Drinkers 24 (rank out of 35)
Binge Drinkers 25 (rank out of 35)
Alcoholism 16 (rank out of 35)

Our numbers suggest a weird parabola of moderation. Our liquor laws are mildly restrictive. We’re not especially hardcore drinkers, our heavies and bingers are in the back of the pack. But we’re not teetottalers either and our score is buoyed by social drinkers who had at least one drink in the past month but fewer than two per day on average. But those heavies and bingers we do have must be going to AA meetings because we’re ranked 16th in that area.

That last figure is interesting, especially compared to a city like Philly which has absurdly high scores (6th for social drinkers, 4th for heavy drinkers, 5th for bingers) but ranks for 30th for AA attendees as a percentage of its population. Maybe Washingtonians are just more likely to realize they have a problem?

Finally, some will be cheered to hear that DC beat NYC, #32, if this is an important contest to you.

Photo courtesy of racingsquirrel

I just stumbled across this Metro Bits list celebrating metro art and architecture. There’s 40 cities singled out of the 161 that have underground metro systems. DC makes the cut.

Still I feel like we’re the Plain Jane at the supermodel party. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been desensitized to DC Metro’s artistic stylings by thousands of trips–though I don’t know that I ever took five seconds to appreciate G. Byron Peck’s mural at Metro Center. I can’t help but feel this might be an East Coast thing… our lives are scheduled down to the minute and we’re too busy getting from place to place to appreciate the aesthetic we do have.

As you’d expect, the list is long on stories of politicians with a not-so-tragic flaws (money, power, sex) and short on stories of people who call DC a home and not a means to an end. That’s why I’m intrigued by Edward P. Jones’ upcoming book All Aunt Hagar’s Children: Stories.

From Publisher’s Review:

[...] As in his previous collection of short fiction, Lost in the City (1992), Jones centers his storytelling on his native Washington, D.C. Here, though, Jones broadens his chronological scope to encompass virtually the entire 20th century and a wide range of experiences and African-American perspectives, from a man who has kept the secret of his adultery for 45 years, to another whose most difficult task on leaving prison for murder is having dinner with his brother’s family. Often, Jones presents characters who have been away from the South long enough to mourn the loss of values and connections they traded for the too-often failed promise of urban success, but he also portrays the nation’s capital as a place of potential redemption, where small curses and small miracles intertwine, and where shifting communities and connections can literally save one’s life.

Has Jones written a Dubliners or Ulysses for DC? We’ll find out when the book comes out in September.