For a guy who doesn’t live in one, Mark Stein sure knows a lot about states. The D.C. resident’s book, How the States Got Their Shapes, delves into the geographic biographies of the 50 messed-up pieces of land that made the cut——with the District’s wonky diamond thrown in for good measure. The book promises to explain the United States’ most pressing border mysteries: Michigan’s floating peninsula, Texas’ bigness, West Virginia’s creepy finger up Pennsylvania, and Delaware. The history of our 4-million-square-mile jigsaw puzzle is a bit of a departure for the local boy: A playwright and screenwriter, Stein’s previous claim-to-fame was writing the 1992 Steve Martin—/Goldie Hawn vehicle HouseSitter. Thankfully, Stein’s better at tracing border lines than he is scripting wacky squatter comedies. This volume isn’t just smarter than his film work——it’s funnier, too. Stein discusses and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. at Politics and Prose, 5015 Connecticut Ave. NW. Free. (202) 364-1919. —Amanda Hess

The boy-and-his-dog tale at the heart of David Wroblewski’s debut novel, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, is deeply observed, as symbolically deep as any epic, and most surprising of all, devoid of easy sentiment. After all, the rough outlines of the novel would be perfect for a three-hanky affair: Edgar Sawtelle is a mute adolescent who’s coming of age on a rural north Wisconsin farm where his parents breed “Sawtelle dogs,” exceedingly well-trained service animals, and Edgar has to help keep the family afloat after Dad dies. Wroblewski keeps from drifting into Marley & Me–brand cutesiness partly by way of the plot he’s constructed; the book is a widescreen tragedy, its version of small-town America as suffused with fuckups and failures as good-hearted country folk. More critical, though, is the crisp, unfussy language that Wroblewski employs throughout to temper the high emotions that the Sawtelles——humans and dogs alike——go through. It’s a reserved and not especially colorful style, and it seems unique to rural American writers—fans of Kent Haruf’s Plainsong and Thomas McGuane’s recent work already have a sense of its straightforward music. And just like those two writers, Wroblewski gets some surprising effects from it. The book’s most powerful sections aren’t noisy, just full of relevant detail, expertly woven—one section depicting Edgar’s solitary journey away from the farm gets so much emotional mileage by merely describing nearly every step he takes, to the point that it’s almost shocking to realize that the kid didn’t really wander so far at all. Wroblewski discusses and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. Thursday, June 26, at Politics and Prose, 5015 Connecticut Ave. NW. Free. (202) 364-1919. —Mark Athitakis

Washington Capitals all-star winger Alexander Ovechkin's trophy case is getting a little crowded.

During last night's NHL Awards Show, Ovechkin picked up both the Hart Trophy (Most Valuable Player) and the Lester B. Pearson Award (Players' choice for the most outstanding player). Two weeks ago, Ovechkin was awarded the Maurice "Rocket" Richard Trophy (NHL's top goal scorer) and Art Ross Trophy (NHL's top point scorer). He's the first player in NHL history to win all four awards. So suck on that, haters.

Good God, just look at all that totally sweet hardware.

“Summer Camp Film Series”
Special-effects legend Ray Harryhausen crafts campy creepy-crawlies and marauding saucer men with an imagination unmatched in modern cinema. From the famous skeleton swordfight of Jason and the Argonauts to the expressive apes, centaurs, snake ladies, and Gorgons of Clash of the Titans and the Sinbad series, Harryhausen’s stop-motion masterworks quiver with an otherworldly weirdness that leaves CGI feeling DOA. Making masterful use of miniature models, multiple images, and in-camera optical trickery, Harryhausen’s work is less animation than—as he likes to call it—“kinetic sculpture.” It might be fitting, then, that the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden has chosen three B-grade, atomic-age Harryhausen classics for this year’s “Summer Camp” series, which kicked off last week with 1955’s It Came From Beneath the Sea, the age-old tale of an irradiated octopus that puts the squeeze on San Francisco. In addition to marking the beginning of the film fest, It Came From Beneath the Sea also happens to be the first film in Harryhausen’s longtime collaboration with producer Charles H. Schneer. In fact, all of the “Summer Camp” films are Schneerhausen joints: The pair partnered on the cult favorite Earth vs. the Flying Saucers (at 7 p.m. Thursday, June 12), as well as 20 Million Miles to Earth, about an alien hatchling that bulks up and sacks Rome (at 6 p.m. Sunday, June 29). Film scholar David Wilt introduces each movie in the series, which runs through Sunday, June 29, at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden’s Ring Auditorium, 7th St. & Independence Ave. SW. Free. (202) 633-1000. —Rin Kelly

If you’re trying to make a statement about moral extremes in modern America, filling a novel with terrorists and pole dancers isn’t a bad way to stay on message. A number of 9/11 highjackers visited strip clubs during their brief tenure in the United States, a detail that Andre Dubus III uses as inspiration for his third novel, The Garden of Last Days. Set in Florida just before the attacks, the novel roots inside the head of numerous characters, mainly Bassam, a jihadist who can’t resist the Champagne room, and April, a stripper whose toddler goes missing during her shift. The brief chapters and Airport-style shifts in perspective make the novel feel like a breezy beach read, but the characterizations are strong throughout—excepting the illiterate bouncer who keeps a book-on-tape of The Waste Land in his glove box, Dubus’ cast is convincingly drawn and rich with emotional detail. Dubus III discusses and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. at Politics and Prose, 5015 Connecticut Ave. NW. Free. (202) 364-1919. —Mark Athitakis

Right below the band’s name on the online promotional poster for Band of Annuals’ five-week tour is the phrase “Over America.” Whether that’s simply a reference to the band’s tour schedule—which takes the Salt Lake City-based six piece from Spokane, Wash., to New York and back—or an indication that they’re just done with the U-S-of-A remains to be seen. But one thing’s for sure: Band of Annuals certainly isn’t over Americana. Tracks such as “Ain’t Looking Back” and “Don’t Let Me Die” on the band’s 2007 release, Let Me Live, show an undying fondness for the kind of folksy, wistful alt-country that defines the genre. Dubbed “best alt-country music to ever come out of Salt Lake City” by a hometown magazine, Band of Annuals provides the perfect soundtrack for some whiskey-drinkin’, porch-sittin’, and yearnin’ for the better days of yesteryear. Band of Annuals performs with Birdlips and J. Guden at 9:30 p.m. at the Red & the Black, 1212 H St. NE. $8. (202) 399-3201. —Matthew Borlik

Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos are the best example of the mechanical elegance of baroque music: a perfectly scripted, rapid-fire conversation carried from instrument to instrument that’s just a little too glib for its own good—like an episode of The West Wing. Which isn’t to say the scripts are nearly as predictible, however; with the Fifth, Bach introduced history’s first keyboard concerto, while the Sixth takes out the violins completely to give the violas—the string orchestra’s perpetual neglected stepchildren—a rare spotlight. Concertmaster Jonathan Carney leads the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra through the last and best three of the concertos, plus Bach’s double violin concerto at 8 p.m. Thursday, June 5, at the Music Center at Strathmore, 5301 Tuckerman Lane, Bethesda. $21–$84. (877) 276-1444. –Mike Paarlberg

They're saying "Love Ovechkin," right?

Alexander Ovechkin:

The Alexander Ovechkin bobblehead:

Sami Lepisto:

Not that I'm complaining. I got this sweet beauty for free at the Caps' last regular season game right before they kicked ass and made the playoffs, and it's been sitting pretty right next to my television for the last week getting me pumped for tomorrow night's Game One against the Philadelphia Flyers.

Of course, no team in the history of the NHL had ever found themselves in last place within their conference midway through the season and then gone on to make the playoffs. (Okay, again—technically, the Caps were dead last in the NHL on Thanksgiving Day when coach Glen Hanlon was fired and replaced with AHL coach Bruce Boudreau but 14th in their conference midway through the season. But you know what? No team has ever been in that position midway through the season and made the playoffs, either.) So, when the Capitals defeated the Florida Panthers (who had actually saved the Caps' playoff hopes by defeating the Carolina Hurricanes the night before) by the score of 3-1 Saturday night, the team not only secured its first Southeast Division Championship title since the 2000-2001 season and first playoff appearance since the 2002-2003 season, it also secured its place as one of the NHL's greatest comeback teams in the league's history.

Some other results of Saturday night's thrilling victory:

• Franchise left-winger Alex Ovechkin—who won the league's Art Ross Trophy (most points) and the Maurice "Rocket" Richard Trophy (most goals) and also set an NHL record for the most goals (65) ever scored by a left wing in the regular season (previously held by "Lucky" Luc Robitaille with 63)—is now a shoo-in to also win the league's Hart Memorial Trophy for most valuable player. Leading up to the Capitals' final regular season game, the only argument against Ovechkin not winning MVP was that many hockey journalists felt the award should only go to a player who led his team to the post-season. Well, there you go, guys.
• The Caps are automatically awarded the 3rd seed in the Eastern Confernce as Southeast Division champs. As a result of the Philadelphia Flyer's victory over a Sidney Crosby-less Pittsburgh Penguins team yesterday afternoon, the Flyers advanced to 6th place and will play the Caps in the first round.
• The Hurricanes—who led the Southeast Division for the majority of the regular season—were eliminated from the playoffs. Honestly, it's kind of a shame—they're out by a measly two points. I guess they could blame NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman's "overtime-loser-gets-a-point-for-losing" points system: Carolina (9th place), whose 92 regular season points only included 6 Loser Points, didn't make the playoffs while Philadelphia (95 points, 11 Loser Points, 6th place), Ottawa (94 points, 8 Loser Points, 7th place), and Boston (94 points, 12 Loser Points, 8th place) all did. Do the math, and you figure out that—without the Loser Point system—Carolina would have jumped up at least two, if not three spots. Then again, Carolina would be better served placing the blame on themselves for losing to the Caps, their divisional rivals, twice in the final weeks of the season, as well as losing to the lowly Panthers in their final regular season game (in which a win would have secured a playoff spot).
• Rookie center Nicklas Backstrom will have to be given more serious consideration for the Calder Memorial Trophy, which is awarded to the rookie of the year.
• Boudreau will have to be given top serious consideration for the Jack Adams Award, which is given to the coach of the year, for miraculously taking a last-place team to the playoffs.
• I'm going to have to do a lot more blogging.

So, what now?

• Well, the most important thing you can do is BUY PLAYOFF TICKETS. A sellout for the first two home games against Philadelphia is inevitable (if it hasn't happened already)—but, unless Caps fans swallow up every ticket they can find, there will be a lot of Philadelphia fans invading Verizon Center. Philly is only a short distance away, and Flyers fans have a hard enough time getting tickets for regular season games as it is, so you'd better believe they went searching for tickets the moment the playoff seeding was finalized. It'd be a shame to lose the amazing atmopshere we've had at Verizon Center during the last month or so.
• Continue with the "Red-Out." If you don't own a red piece of clothing already, buy somthing red and wear it to the games. It doesn't have to be a $185 Ovechkin jersey purchased at Verizon Center's gift shop (although I'm sure Ted Leonsis and Co. would appreciate such a purchase). It can be a raggy old t-shirt or hoodie or whatever. As long as it's red.
• Grow your playoff beard. Even if, like me, you can't grow a beard worth a damn, do it anyway. (In that instance, call it "playoff scruff.") Don't worry about looking unshaven/unkempt at your workplace. All you have to do is explain that the Caps are in the playoffs and you have to support the team...by not shaving. As any hockey player or fan will tell you, shaving during the post-season is bad luck. REALLY bad luck. So don't do it.
• If you're really hardcore, give yourself the mohawk that Caps defenseman (and leading goal-scoring defenseman) Mike Green said he would give himself if the team made the playoffs. I haven't seen him sporting the 'hawk yet, but he did it when the Hershey Bears made the Calder Cup playoffs the last two years—so you know he'll probably make good on his word. I'm sure a faux-hawk will do.

There has to be a sick clown car of psychosis constantly doing doughnuts inside the mind of Dirty Projectors mastermind and Ivy League dropout Dave Longstreth. How else would he get the idea to re-imagine the Black Flag anthem "Rise Above" as a multilayered tapestry of soothing vocals and loungy loops? At this point, the iconic track is nearly unrecognizable—but it works, mainly because he doesn’t result to the usual gimmicks such as self-congratulatory irony. Longstreth is just creative and ballsy enough to take a mainstay and funnel it through his own fractured perception. The man seems to love nothing more than to flirt with both sides of a paradox, being more than willing to take wild conceptual risks but still provide enough rhythms and enticing choruses to offer up a tiny taste of accessibility. It’s no wonder a place like Yale, with its overly starched Thurston Howell types, couldn’t hold onto this guy.

Dirty Projectors performs with No Kids at 9 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $10. (202) 667-7960. —Maggie Serota

How many viola players can brag that they’ve worked with Jay-Z and Kanye West? At least one: Marla Hansen. Her anomalous association with the hip-hop world is, however, not her only claim to fame. Hansen’s list of credentials including backing the New Pornographers, the National, and pretty much any other vaguely indie-flavored band that has at one point or another required a viola. Emerging from behind the string section to explore her own range of melody, Hansen took care of the songwriting and vocals on 2007’s Wedding Day EP while some of her more famous friends filled in the background. Backed by a slew of collaborators, she plucks her way through six tracks of indie-folk, and now she’s taking the familiarly sunshiny sound on tour. It’s doubtful that Jay-Z will make a guest appearance at any of her live solo shows, but you never know.

Hansen performs with Jens Lekman and the Honeydrips at 8 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $13. (202) 667-7960. —Matthew A. Stern

Hey, idiot. Yeah, you—the one behind the wheel of 5,000 pounds of steel on 18th Street NW. Come here. There's something I want to say to you.

No, come closer. It's a secret. It's an important secret meant only for you. Are you ready?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOOOU!

OK, I lied. It's not a secret that just about every person who drives a car in Our Nation's Capital is a fucking dumbass. And my ALL-CAPS "Fuck You" isn't meant only for you, either. It's for every stupid prick who bought a Hummer to compensate for a tiny dick, every soccer mom who traded in her mini-van for an Escalade, and every compact SUV owner who thinks buying a hybrid makes them less of a piece of shit. Fuck you, every last one of you.

Oh, what's the matter? Do my words hurt you? Are you upset? Are you furiously typing away a defensive comment right now telling me what a great driver you are, how you need that Ford Escape because every once in a while you buy a big piece of furniture at IKEA, or that you picked up that 4x4 option not out of vanity but because you never know when you'll feel like getting a little off-road action in through Rock Creek Park while chugging some Coors Light?

Well, dumbfuck car-owner, go for it. And, while you're at it, P.S.: Go fuck yourself.

And do you know why? It's because you suck. Try walking through the city for a change instead of spending a million spacebucks on gas each month for the privilege of sitting in traffic while the rest of us get to and from work in less time than you do. Do you know what you'll see at EVERY FUCKING INTERSECTION? An asshole running a stop sign. Another idiot making a right turn on a red light without stopping. Some dipshit accelerating into a crosswalk trying to beat a pedestrian. "Oh, look at me! I'm an important person driving a tank and I can't be bothered with civilians trying to cross the street!"

You don't believe me, because you're too busy being an asshole in your car, honking at people like the prick that you are. But if you were to get your fat, lazy ass out of your automobile and take a nice stroll or bike ride through town, you'd see drivers such as yourself endangering the lives of pedestrians at every goddamned intersection in the city. It's true.

So it is for you, the stupid car-owning resident of Washington, D.C., that I write this blog entry—as well as those that will inevitably follow it as I continue to be almost killed by stupid shits such as yourself during my daily 10-minute walk to work. No, no—don't thank me. Thank the batshit crazy driver of the silver Nissan Pathfinder who refused to stop at the crosswalk on Columbia Ave. Road NW in Adams Morgan even though I was in the middle of it. Thankfully, he wasn't going fast enough to prevent the big fat fucking loogie I hocked up from landing right in the middle of his rear passenger side window.

Yeah, that's right. I spit on your fucking car. Deal with it.

Not since Queen’s “Bicycle Race” has an artist been so fixated on the two-wheel mode of transportation. But now we have Paul Fattaruso’s latest book, Bicycle, which falls somewhere between prose and poetry, with one sentence, one thought, per page, accompanied by an occasional sketch by Adam Thompson. It is, above all else, an ode to the bicycle, not merely as a machine but as a phenomenon that shares characteristics with so many living and nonliving things that it somehow comes to encapsulate life’s experiences. Fattaruso’s observations, fantasies, and adorations of the bicycle veer from the quirky (“Though it does not complain, my bicycle is clearly uncomfortable on the couch”) to the beautiful (“Already noon, and still the sunlight is thin as Bible paper; women ride through the streets in their nightgowns”). It’s touching enough that you’ll want to go polish your bike for good measure.

Fattaruso reads from and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. at Olsson’s Books & Records, 1307 19th St. NW. Free. (202) 785-1133. —Kim Gooden

If David Fischoff tends to look a little pasty, well, there’s a reason. Namely, he’s a guy who probably doesn’t see the light of day much—and the cold glare of a MacBook screen is a poor substitute for sun. Fischoff would rather seclude himself away in his basement apartment in Chicago or—according to his Web site—his bedroom closet, and play around with the expansive sound menagerie he pulled from the Chicago Public Library. Using that material, Fischoff explores the vast terrain of orchestral pop as a one-man, self-contained band. While the droning synths on his third album, The Crawl, tend to wander into Postal Service territory, he gives his compositions a pulse with drumming culled from hip-hop tracks. It should be interesting to see how Fischoff’s intricate orchestrations translate to the stage, assuming he can handle being above ground for that long.

Fischoff performs with the Known Unknowns, Lode Runner, and E. Joseph at 9:30 p.m. at the Red and the Black, 1212 H St. NE. $8. (202) 399-3201. —Maggie Serota

The exhibition is on view from 10 a.m.-5:30 p.m. daily to Sunday, July 6, at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Independence Avenue & 7th St. SW. Free. (202) 633-4674. —Maura Judkis