In the emergency room at Montgomery General Hospital in Olney, there is a cabinet with drawers variously labeled “CRICOTHYRODOMY TRAY,” “TRACH TUBES,” and the like. The bottom drawer carries the sign “OVASSAPIAN AIRWAYS,” to which some wag has affixed a label reading, “THE ONLY WAY TO FLY.”

An appropriate joke, because hospitals are much like airports: both locations demand that you wait for freakin’ ever.

And, as of course you know, an ovassapian airway is “intended primarily for use in intubations utilizing a fiberoptic endoscope,” as it is designed “for removal without disconnecting or displacing positioned endotracheal tube.”

On Sunday, Mark Opsasnick spoke at Cameron Perks Coffeehouse about his latest book, The Lizard King Was Here: The Life and Times of Jim Morrison in Alexandria, Virginia, concerning the dead Doorsman’s school days at George Washington High School. Three of Jimbo’s classmates showed up to testify: Randy Maney, Bill Thomas, and Stan Durkee.

Randy called Morrison a “great writer”; Stan called him a “great intellectual.” But among such revelations that Morrison “hated rock ‘n’ roll” as a teen—preferring poetry and Kerouak Kerouac, and opted for thriftwear as opposed to the “Gant shirt” crowd—Bill Thomas related an alarming tale of a Morrison encounter—in 1991.

While taking his son Brian to baseball camp in Arizona, father and son stopped at a cafe in Flagstaff that curiously featured a photo of Morrison in its ad. Mentioning his personal connection to the rock god apparently freaked the waitress out, for she immediately left and surreptitiously made a phone call. Moments later, a hairy, shaggy, bum-like personage slipped quietly into the cafe and sat in the booth behind the Thomas’ with his back to Bill. Son Brian insisted that it was Morrison. Bill resisted turning around, and when he did—the ghost was gone.

Though Bill Thomas offered the tale somewhat reluctantly and with a shrug, as if he didn’t really believe it, he says his son still insists the apparition was Morrison. The story does give hope to those who have kept the Doors on the charts 36 years after the “official” death. (To that end, Rhino has just released yet another best-of collection.)

If true, it could be bad news for the Soft Parade. But you can still get your Lizard King fix when “the world-famous Doors tribute show” plays the State Theater this Friday, Oct. 5.

CORRECTION: Due to an error by poster Dave Nuttycombe, this post originally mispelled the name of Jack Kerouac.

These are pictures of my sister on her way to her senior prom. (Go, Richard Montgomery Rockets!) Why she wore her hair that way I don’t know. (She’s not happy that I found the photo.) It was certainly not her usual style. I don’t think it was anybody’s style.

Until May of 1977, when Star Wars debuted at the Uptown Theater. My sister graduated in 1972. Obviously, the character of Princess Leia was inspired, in part, by Patti Nuttycombe.

For more evidence, let’s turn to page 146 of the paperback edition of Dale Pollack’s biography Skywalking: The Life and Films of George Lucas, the Creator of Star Wars:

“George had been waiting since childhood to see a romantic-fantasy-adventure story set in a distant time and place….When he finished editing American Graffiti in February 1972, Lucas went right to work on his idea.”

So the script began the same year as the photo. Interesting, yes? I’m still investigating how Lucas or designer Ralph McQuarrie found their way to a high school in Rockville. Perhaps they were searching for Dagobah locations. Maybe Patti’s date, Dave Traynor, gave them a tip. Haven’t seen him around lately. But, really, the picture speaks for itself. Ipso facto, case closed.

So, George, reach into that big bag of money you sit on all day while you’re dreaming up new ways to ruin the franchise and toss some coins this way. Don’t make me get out the pictures of my slow cousin, Binks.

Spoiler alert: Anyone who hasn’t seen the 1973 film Soylent Green—well, what have you been waiting for?

In the movie’s dystopian future—actually the not-that-far-away 2022—the natural world has been utterly destroyed and the population has exploded to the point where the main food supply is, er, other people, packaged as the titular product.

But before you go into the processing plant, you’re treated to a private Imax-type screening of glorious vistas of the world as it was—snow-capped mountains majesty, amber waves of grain, etc. The film ends with the doomed Edward G. Robinson strapped to a chair, weeping with delight and sorrow at all that’s been lost.

Like Edward G., my father is dying. Last night, as I approached his room in the very 2001-ish surgical unit of Holy Cross Hospital (if I may mix my filmic metaphors), I saw him strapped to a bed alone in a darkened room. Soft New Age flute and harp music played from an overhead TV, which showed an endless loop of tranquil nature scenes: rolling green hills, deep blue lakes, sailboats in the distance….

I applaud the hospital’s efforts to provide as comfortable an experience as possible. But will Dad be chopped up and sold as dinner? That’s a product even the Chinese wouldn’t try to sell.

We were rummaging through the Nuttycombe Archives™ and came upon a copy of Love Letters to the Monkees, the “new wild mad groovy” 1967 nonbook tie-in to the TV show. We found the slim paperback in some area secondhand store years ago and it’s inscribed, “Joyce from Chris, Christmas 1967.”

But our interest was piqued by the very first letter, which reads:

Darling Micky,

I’m not just another fan writing to you because you’re a Monkee. It’s you I love, Micky, that happy-go-lucky, carefree, funny person inside you. And I don’t care if you are crazy, pug-nosed, scrawny-necked, hairy, skinny, or funny looking. Nobody’s perfect, and I’ll love you always.

Your truest fan,
Toni B.
Silver Spring, Md.

So, Toni, if you’re still in the area, we wanna know:

1. Did Micky ever get back to you?
2. Are you still his truest fan?
3. Were you aware that your letter was published?
4. Were you aware that the Monkees were entirely fake, a cynical ploy by the entertainment industry to cash in on the success of the Beatles?

And to Joyce: Why would you get rid of such a classic work of literature?

A packed house at the Silver Theater Sunday night for the final Silverdocs screening of Helvetica, the feature documentary about a typeface that seemingly brought out every graphic designer in town, some with laptops in tow. Director Gary Hustwit (pictured) was on hand for a Q&A afterward and jokingly challenged the audience to come up with a shot-by-shot remake of his film “starring” the font Comic Sans.

Comic Sans is a much-despised font among the design cognoscenti, and rightly so, as it is but a cheap Windows knockoff of the more elegantly amusing Dom Casual. Dom, seen most effectively in comic books and cheesy advertisements (picture this headline in Dom: “Hey, kids!”), is actually older than Helvetica, having been created in 1951 by the eponymous Pete Dom, about whom Google knows nothing. I’m therefore announcing that production begins immediately on my documentary celebrating this delightfully outdated font. Who’s with me?

I never warmed to the D.C. statehood argument. Voting rights, yes, absolutely, right now. But the idea of our tiny District as a state seems unwieldy. Admittedly, the main reason I’m against it is that adding another state will totally mess up the flag. Fifty-one is an odd odd number, and I can’t envision any elegant way to cram one more five-pointer onto the field of blue. As it stands, America has the most kick-ass flag on Earth. (Nice try, Latvia!) We certainly don’t want to end up like this.

But here’s a solution—why not just get rid of another state? Like Florida. I spent the weekend in that benighted region, and now understand completely why most episodes of Cops are filmed there. The long, flat streets are bordered day and night with shirtless, aimless-looking men, usually carrying a bottle, invariably sporting some variation of a mullet. It’s also no coincidence that News of the Weird’s Chuck Shepherd calls Florida home–it pays to be close to your sources.

Not only is the geography stultifyingly dull, but this photo…

…represents the apex of local architecture. In Florida, you can count the buildings taller than one story on your flip-flopped toes. But you don’t want to count the buildings, because that would mean you have to look at them, and they are of a piece capital-U ugly.

Now, I must say that I was in the Sunshine State for the wedding of a dear friend—it was lovely. And I have relatives who I also adore who live there. But on balance, Florida has long failed to uphold its end of the Constitutional bargain. For 200 years, its populace has focused almost entirely on the “pursuit of happiness” clause of the Declaration of Independence, which, for the record, is not legally binding. And as far as voting goes, we don’t have to rehash that mess again.

Plus, there’s an economic argument: We can offset some of George W. Bush’s irresponsible deficit by selling Florida to the highest bidder. I’m willing to bet that Disney will want to finally own the whole shebang.

So, D.C. gets Florida’s vote and its star. Done deal.

Now, when we get around to annexing Canada, I’ll have a few words to say about South Carolina.

Unlike much of America, D.C. filmmaker Jon Gann watched the Fox reality show On the Lot Tuesday night. As chronicled previously on City Desk, Gann spent a fair amount of time and effort trying to land a spot on the program, which pits hopeful moviemakers against each other for a chance at a million-dollar “development deal.” After seeing, again, how reality TV manipulates reality to contestants’ detriment, one might be happy for Gann that he didn’t make the cut.

But Gann is more sanguine. He knew several of the contestants, having met them at festivals. (Gann runs the D.C. Shorts Festival, which City Paper is a sponsor of.) “I figured out the ringers right away,” he says. “People I know who are going to make it to the next level.”

But Gann’s complaint is less personal than provincial. “I find it amazing that out of 50 semifinalists, there’s not one person between Richmond and Baltimore. That there’s not one person representative of the D.C. area—and this is the third largest film town in the country. It’s really kinda disgusting.”

Perhaps D.C. filmmakers are too busy with actual work to bother with tiresome reality show trickery. Or just didn’t want to be that close to Brett Ratner.

Gann believes the show was “pre-cast. They went for specific characters,” he says. Indeed, most of the hopefuls fall narrowly into the 25-35 age range. Also, Gann notes that the producers culled from “specific areas of the country,” that is, mostly midwesterners. That’s a ploy for ratings, he contends.

“In case you’re starting a reality show and you want support from people, people who call in, I’m sure [the producers] know that statistically more people call in from the midwest than from the coasts.” Overnight ratings for the show, however, reveal that On the Lot lost more than half the audience from the show it followed, American Idol.

Still Gann found On the Lot “relatively fascinating,” and says he’ll continue watching. “Now it’s a trainwreck.”

Behold the Suzuki X-90 4×4. It’s got the “X” thing going, so you know it’s rad. But what’s the “4×4″ mean? Total square centimeters of space? The only off-roading you’re gonna do in one of these is time spent in the garage. And that spoiler on the back? Puh-leeze!

And, seriously, if you’re going to be selfish enough to buy a two-seater, at least buy an actual sports car. This thing looks like a child’s drawing of a car that somehow wound up on the assembly line.

Against all evidence, The X-90 was marketed as a “small SUV.” But it didn’t sell much and disappeared from showrooms in 1998. To bolster my headline, note that in 2004, the U.K. magazine Top Gear called the X-90 the worst car of all time.

For the record, I drive the unhippest car in America, the Chevy Cavalier. The Cav was sanctioned as such in the hippest film of 1996, Swingers. You remember the scene: the hipsters attend a “model party” in the Hollywood hills and a model asks Jon Favreau, “What car do you drive?” “Cavalier,” he jauntily replies. The models just turn and walk away without a word as Favreau calls out impotently, “But it’s red!” My Cavalier is red, too. My date that night laughed and laughed and laughed.

So, what car do you drive?

The Depression didn’t seem so depressing for Washingtonians according to a March 13, 1935, page from the Washington Post. (Once again, sent to us by tireless truth-hunter Jeff Krulik. Should we add Jeff to the masthead?)

In addition to Ed Sullivan’s breathless “Broadway” column (”We are living in a fright-wig era, populated by such ‘colorful’ gentlemen as Huey Long, Dizzy Dean, and Max Baer“), the page is half-filled with 17 ads for various nightclubs, restaurants, and other establishments offering live music and entertainment.

The Jockey Club at 5th Street and Florida Avenue NE, under the management of “Unk Grinder” (quotes in original) offered “hot music,” “exhilarating drinks,” and music by the Jockey Club Orchestra, featuring Ray Rannie, vocalist.

It’s three floor shows daily at Child’s Gingham Club at 1423 Pennsylvania Ave. NW, where luncheon is 40 cents, dinner 60. Among the “5 Big Acts” are Fern and Lorraine (”Musical Comedy Misses in Smart Dances”), Verne and Arlene (”Direct from the Deauville, Miami”), and Mary-Jo Hamilton (”Red-Hot Songs”).

At Cafe La Paree, “Washington’s smartest restaurant and supper club” at 14th and H Streets NW, there is “never a cover charge” for Emory Daugherty and his Orchestra’s “dazzling floor shows.”

The Lotus at 14th Street and New York Avenue NW presents an “exotic review” featuring 16 stars three times daily featuring “Broadway Dancing Dolls” and adagio dancers Charles and Celeste, with Bill Strickland and his Capitolians. My next band will be called the Capitolians.

Club Troika at 1011 Connecticut Ave. NW also offers reviews three times daily “in the gay Gypsy manner.”

The Shoreham in Woodley Park continued offering high-toned entertainment into the 1980s. (Mark Russell was resident there for 20 years.) In ’35, there was ballroom dancing, German dancing, and the comedy team of Barrett and Smith.

Over at the swanky Mayflower Lounge, Sid Cowen “sings them all,” all being Russian, Italian, German, Spanish, and French tunes. For reservations, call Teddy at District 3000.

Off-topic item for the copy desk: When did clue stop being spelled “clew”? As in the headline, “Clew Claimed in Girl’s Death,” and another story involving a “church scuffle” in Hagerstown.

Was joshing on the e-mail with Tyler Smith, co-founder of the new improv-with-band outfit Claymore Productions. The U-Md. grads are launching their comedy Web site with a party at the Red and the Black next Tuesday, May 22, featuring “in-house band” Little Justice.

During the banter, Tyler quoted Thoreau to the effect of people living lives of quiet desperation, and then he joked about meeting the Walden recluse on MySpace. Turns out it wasn’t actually a joke. Here’s Henry David’s page.

Also on the social networking site is Ralph Waldo Emerson, though his “profile is set to private.” As is Edgar Allen Poe’s page. Not surprising, that. More surprising is that Emily Dickinson welcomes all with the gentle greeting, “Into my garden come!”

“Emerson,” however, lists himself as 23-years-old from Reno. And “Walt Whitman” describes himself as “high-maintenance, demanding, and toxic.” Where doth the truth lie?

Hey, kids, let’s catch some live country music in Bethesda!

OK, that sounds absurd. The Land of 1,000 Restaurants is hardly compatible with anything Opry, right? But in living memory, downtown Bethesda was home to an authentic country joint, the Red Fox Inn, as this photograph from the Nuttycombe Archives® attests. (Click image for a larger view.)

Located on Fairmont Avenue next to an auto parts store (something else you won’t find in the tony suburb these days), the Red Fox was a shotgun shack-style bar featuring live country, country-rock, and bluegrass music most nights of the week. Indeed, the tiny club was the first home base for the Seldom Scene, and in 1975, Emmylou Harris was playing on the small stage in the front window when Warner Bros. came calling with a record contract.

Today, as with the rest of Bethesda, the honky-tonk past is well hidden—behind the ivy and topiary of chi-chi Positano Ristorante. (Click image for a larger view.) Indeed, a City Paper Restaurant Finder Rater wrote that the restaurant’s interior “is decorated to feel like you are eating on a friendly Italian neighborhood street.” So I’m guessing the place doesn’t still offer pitchers of Blue Ribbon? Let’s all sing one of Emmylou’s songs from her first album, shall we? “Tonight the bottle let me down /And let your memory come around…”

Coincident with Mark Jenkins’ erudite history of the Town Theater and downtown development, a bit of e-mail arrived in my inbox from indefatigable researcher Jeff Krulik. Jeff enjoys sending around scans of newspaper movie listing pages from days gone by. On the page from the June 2, 1972, Washington Post, there are several ads for businesses in the Town’s neighborhood that were closed by D.C.’s downtown redevelopment. These two are most prominent on the page and most typical of what the Pennsylvania Avenue Development Corporation sought to abolish.

A couple things to note: In all my years of reading, listening, watching, discussing, performing, and studying comedy, I have never heard of the “fabulous” Strong Bros. Also, the original subhed on the Gayety ad surely read “The most erotic flick of the year.” F-l-i-c-k. The Post was, even more so in 1972, a family newspaper.

While my colleague Justin Moyer and his Antelope pals traverse America bringing art-rock to the hinterlands, others make different use of music. For instance, Saturday evening at the Hilton (recently the Doubletree) on Rockville Pike, the Bar Association of Montgomery County held its annual “Barrister’s Ball.” Music was provided by an oldies band consisting mainly of lawyers, with some doctors and accountants in the horn section. And me on drums.

The evening’s highlight was a quintet of Maryland judges dubbed the “CONTEMPT-ations,” who indeed performed several Motown classics with gusto and synchronized dance moves. This you never see on Court TV.

But what continues to surprise me is how very much people enjoy singing the “Laaaa-la-la-la-la-laaaa” part of “Crocodile Rock.” And now that you’ve read that, it’s in your head, too. My sincere apologies.

Maybe the Reliable Source gals don’t actually look at their page inside the Style section, because they missed an obvious cheap shot in today’s paper.

In the column’s upper left, Newsweek columnist Eleanor Clift’s mug. In the lower right–well, isn’t that also Eleanor? At least it’s another elderly white woman—oh, wait, no…it’s actually Phil Spector leaving the courthouse at his murder trial. The increasingly unpredictable Spector’s latest ’do makes him a perfect doppelganger for increasingly predictable pundit.