Hey, Internet. I just wanted you to know that I’m not sick or anything. I know it seems like I’ve been constantly in/out of the bathroom all day—and you are no doubt thinking to yourself, “What the hell is wrong with that guy? He eat some bad clams or something?” Well, as you might have noticed, I gave myself a haircut last night—and I just want to make sure everything’s looking good. Because, you know, in this looks-are-everything culture we’ve got going on here, one stray hair and you’re FUCKED.

So yeah, everything's cool. I'm just checking myself out in the mirror. And god damn, I'm one handsome fucking man, know what I'm saying? One of my co-workers even told me that my haircut looked good, so fuck yeah!

Seriously, when I was lovingly staring at my gorgeous mug and beautiful new haircut in the bathroom mirror five minutes ago, I wanted to kiss myself. And I probably would have, if that dude from WPFW hadn't been taking a leak right behind me.

Hey dude, how's that lump on your head treating you? You might not remember getting the shit kicked out of you by Washington Capitals enforcer Donald Brashear last night, so here's a little reminder:

Hahah---pwnt! That looks like it hurt, bro! I like how, at the beginning, you were all "OMG I'm totally going to win this fight! I'm finally going to beat Brashear!,"and then---right after that---you got destroyed. I think that's my favorite part: the whole you-getting-your-ass-kicked thing. (If you're a total glutton for punishment---which, apparently, you are---here's a slow-motion video of the fight. I suggest fast-forwarding to :48, which is where you get your ass kicked.)

Seriously, Colton Orr, why the hell do you keep trying to start fights with Brashear every time the Rangers play the Caps? You pretty much lose every time, much as you lose at life in general. Maybe, when you're playing NHL 2008 at home, you're able to do more than wildly throw a few early punches before Brashear rearranges your virtual face, but don't you ever get tired of being embarrassed in real life?

Also, I don't know if you remember this either, but the Caps won 5-4 in overtime last night. You know, after Brashear was done pummeling you.

P.S.: Please tell your teammate Jaromir Jagr that he still sucks balls.

Attention, all low-flying pigeons at Champlain and Euclid Sts. NW: I am going to punch you right in your ugly fucking bird face.

It's bad enough that you are diseased rats with wings, but I can tolerate that much because it's not your fault that you are diseased rats with wings---it's God's fault. I'll take that up with him when I finally croak, but I would like that inevitable meeting not to be the result of some stupid, ugly, diseased fucking pigeon flying into my eye. So, the next time you see me walking through your little concrete park gathering area, stay the hell away from me. You will know it is me because I will be the angry-looking guy with the Subway bag in one hand (Eat Fresh) and the other hand cocked and ready to punch any pigeon that flies by.

And you know what? Fuck your high-flying pigeon friends, too. I will jump off of a building and drop kick them in their bird asses until they explode. I am 1000% awesome and pigeons suck.

I must say, makers of Diet Pepsi MAX zero calorie cola, I am not impressed. Nor am I invigorated. In fact, all I feel at this point is the soul-crushing disappointment that can only come with the knowledge that my $1.19 purchase of your product—which had promised to deliver a burst of energy into my system, thus allowing me to concentrate on and complete the overbearing number of work-related tasks that I am currently taking a break from in order to write this top serious message—was a complete waste of my hard-earned money.

Look at the label. It says it right there: “MAX,” in all-caps no less. Maximum is not a word I throw around lightly, my corporate friends. It implies “the greatest quantity or amount possible, assignable, allowable, etc.”—and there’s sure as shit plenty of room left in this 20-ounce plastic bottle for more invigoration. Further investigation of the label reveals that this soda contains 46mg of caffeine content per 8 fluid ounces. Now, I’m no mathematician or dietician or anything, but I can tell you that “46mg of caffeine x 2.5 servings per container”=NOT ENOUGH FUCKING CAFFEINE.

The very fact that my hands aren’t shaking enough to prevent me from typing right now is all the evidence needed to prove that your product is a complete failure. What are you giving me here, PepsiCo? Some slight tremors? I want this shit to make my hands shake so hard that I can barely bring the bottle to my lips, and the only thing that allows me to do so is my all-consuming caffeine addiction. Is that too much to ask for $1.19?

William Kentridge tackles some serious political topics in his animated films—but, though his method might suggest otherwise, environmental conservation isn’t one of them. Instead of using separate paper drawings for each frame, the South African–born filmmaker creates one charcoal-based drawing, photographs it, then erases and makes changes to specific parts of the original drawing before committing the adjusted piece to film in order to simulate movement. The end result is that the erased portions leave a charcoal trace—a commentary on memory and the passage of time. The short films in Kentridge’s “9 Drawings for Projection” series, which deal primarily with apartheid, and its lasting effects, in South Africa, will be accompanied by a live musical performance of Philip Miller’s original score; also included is a screening of Journey to the Moon, Kentridge’s homage to French director Georges Méliès’ 1902 silent film, A Trip to the Moon. The films show at 7:30 p.m. Wednesday, Dec. 12, and Thursday, Dec. 13, at the Kennedy Center’s Terrace Theater, 2700 F St. NW. $38. (202) 467-4600. ---Matthew Borlik

Brooklyn’s White Magic cannot heal the sick. Core members Mira Billotte (formerly of D.C.’s Quixotic) and Doug Shaw cannot predict the future, make you a grown-up, or bring your favorite mannequin to life. In other words: White Magic can’t really do any of the things one would traditionally expect from innocent witchcraft. But White Magic is plenty capable of sorcery in the sonic realm. On the band’s full-length debut, Dat Rosa Mel Apibus, Billotte’s voice wafted through the songs like smoke from a burning braid of sweetgrass, and the band carried a spooky sensibility that was alluringly more Aleister Crowley than abracadabra. Yet, for all of the album’s intoxicating charms, sometimes it just seemed too stoned, with a bongload of nonjudicious tamboura-strumming clogging up the stereo field. Luckily, the recently released Dark Stars EP finds White Magic opening up the windows and clearing out a little bit of the smoke. Songs such as “Very Late” see the band traveling toward swampier and bluesier climes while the creaky and slanted “Poor Harold” finds Billotte distilling older ideas into their most enchanting essence. Though White Magic may not be able to help you talk to your dead relatives, they are—at the very least—a bewitching listen. White Magic performs at 9 p.m. Tuesday, Dec. 11, at DC9, 1940 9th St. NW. $10. (202) 483-5000. ---Aaron Leitko

Edward J. Renehan Jr.’s Commodore: The Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt, is the first new biography of the man in some 65 years. In that time, plenty of other historians have examined the Vanderbilt family as a whole, but Renehan focuses solely on the “bootstrapper” who birthed the family fortune through his massive transportation and financial dealings. Perhaps the most weighty new revelations from Renehan involve Vanderbilt’s notoriously erratic final years: According to newly unearthed records from his longtime personal physician, Renehan reveals that Vanderbilt suffered from advanced syphilis. And just in case you think that the Vanderbilt and Rockefeller mean nothing in this day of high-tech billionaires, keep this in mind: When he died in 1877, Vanderbilt left a fortune of some $103 million, which Renehan estimates would represent more than $150 billion in today’s dollars—dwarfing Bill Gates’ current $50 billion fortune. Renehan Jr. discusses and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. at Olsson’s Books & Records, 418 7th St. NW. Free. (202) 638-7610. ---Mike DeBonis

Though born in New Jersey, jazz vocalist Stacey Kent now lives in England and rarely performs in the United States. If that’s not reason enough to catch the internationally lauded singer on her current world tour, she’ll also be performing songs from her latest release, Breakfast on the Morning Tram. The disc is the ideal vehicle for Kent’s affectionate-yet-wearied singing style: She gives thoughtful deliveries of the material, much of which was co-written by award-winning author Kazuo Ishiguro (The Remains of the Day). When not lending delicacy and nostalgia to Ishiguro’s lyrics, Kent finds emotional depth in the French-language songs of Serge Gainsbourg—and even Fleetwood Mac’s done-to-death "Landslide." Kent performs at 8 and 10 p.m. Friday, Dec. 7, and Saturday, Dec. 8, at Blues Alley, 1073 Wisconsin Ave. NW. $27.50. (202) 337-4141. ---Michael J. West

As the Washington Post's Tarik El-Bashir posted on his blog earlier this week, Washington Capitals captain Chris Clark has publicly stated what many Caps fans have been grumbling about all season: The ice at the Verizon Center sucks. Like, it really, REALLY sucks.

As for Clark, here's what he said about the ice at VC:

"There's a lot of ruts in the ice. It's soft. It's wet half the time. I could see a lot of injuries coming from the ice there. It could cost [players] their jobs."

"I"ve been trying to get it fixed. I've been going over the ice reports. I've been trying to tell them that it's [a problem]. But it's been three years since I've been here, and it's the worst in the league. It's tough to play on. Even guys on other teams say the same thing. When we're facing off, they say, 'How do you guys play on this?'"

If you've been to a game at the Verizon Center this year, you've probably witnessed the post-intermission puddles of water on the ice that Clark is talking about. But you don't need to blow your hard-earned dollars on over-priced nachos and Miller Lites at Verizon Center to see the rest of the evidence: You can watch the puck constantly bouncing over players' sticks from the comfort of your own living room.

Clark is obviously not trying to make excuses for his team's pathetic record so far this season. But "home-ice advantage" is supposed to count for something in the National Hockey League: The home team gets to make the last line change, allowing it to control on-ice matchups---which, in theory, should make it easier for the home team to dictate the style and tempo of the play on the ice. And---with the addition of offensive-minded talents such as Michael Nylander, Viktor Kozlov, and Tom Poti, as well as the continued maturation of young stars Alexander Ovechkin, Alexander Semin, and Mike Green---this year's Capitals look to play a puck-control game as opposed to the muck-and-grind game of years past. (Sure, the opposing team has to play on the same terrible ice, but it's customary in the NHL for the away team to play a more conservative game and hope to capitalize on mistakes, bad breaks, and lucky bounces.)

So, how exactly is a team with a puck-control game plan supposed to succeed when it can't even complete a pass due to terrible home ice conditions? The answer: It doesn't. Instead, it winds up with the worst home-ice record in the league.

Ted Leonsis' response? They're working on it. At least Verizon Center has that shiny new high-definition scoreboard on which fans can watch the players falling all over themselves every time they try to make a tight turn.

Stones Throw has become indie hip-hop’s premier label thanks to founder Chris Manak, who obviously knows what it’s like to be a fanboy: The California company’s Web site isn’t merely a store—it’s a clearinghouse of information about the artists (Madlib, MF Doom, the late Jay Dee, and so on) and their intelli-funk/fractured-jazz output, which has spilled into television (Cartoon Network) and video games (2K Sports). But Manak isn’t just playing librarian. Under his stage name, Peanut Butter Wolf, he also DJs and, occasionally, produces songs. Madlib is headlining Stones Throw’s latest package tour, but Manak is No. 2 on the marquee, and word has it that he’ll be using DVD decks instead of regular turntables, cutting up old-school videos and whatever else flips his lid. And there’s a lot under that lid. Peanut Butter Wolf performs with Madlib, J. Rocc, and Percee P at 8 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $20. (202) 667-7960. ---Joe Warminsky

What has Amsterdam done to Tom Rhodes? You may remember the hippied-out, longhaired comedian from his Comedy Central appearances in the early ’90s; you probably don’t remember him from his brief and forgettable NBC sitcom, Mr. Rhodes. Either way, you wouldn’t recognize him now: Bucking all stoners-in-Amsterdam clichés, Rhodes went to the Netherlands looking like a bohemian and has come back to America resembling a clean-cut banker. The wild mane may be gone, but Rhodes does bring with him a considerably longer résumé: He first hosted a Dutch network’s American-style late-night show and, later, the network’s travel show. His next destination, however, is a more familiar one: the stand-up stage, where Rhodes seems most at home. Rhodes performs at 8:30 p.m. at the D.C. Improv, 1140 Connecticut Ave. NW. $15. (202) 296-7008; see City List for a complete schedule. ---Matthew Borlik

Despite still being in an embryonic stage, the members of the bouncy pop sextet Ra Ra Riot have weathered their fair share of tragedy: Last spring, drummer John Pike passed away after disappearing from a house party. It’s clear that Ra Ra Riot is still grieving; not only is their debut EP titled Dying Is Fine, but on the title track, vocalist-keyboardist Wesley Miles borrows a few mournful musings from e e cummings. (Besides, a band with a string section isn’t complete without a few literary references.) Instead of letting their loss slow them down, Ra Ra Riot finds it more therapeutic to soldier on. The band has charged ahead with touring and still puts on an explosive live show—probably the only one in which audience members have to be on the lookout for an airborne cellist. Ra Ra Riot performs with Jukebox the Ghost, Sam Champion, and These United States at 9 p.m. at the Rock and Roll Hotel, 1353 H St. NE. $12. (202) 388-7625. ---Maggie Serota

After each wrongly confessing to the theft of a renowned diamond, three British brothers independently join the French Foreign Legion, where they endure a cruel sergeant and yield to futile self-sacrifice. It sounds like a story that’s been around forever, or at least since the Victorian age, but in fact Beau Geste was published just two years before its first Hollywood adaptation in 1926. Unrest in Algeria scuttled plans to film there, but the Death Valley area proved a fine substitute locale for a picture whose major set piece is the discovery of a fort manned entirely by corpses. Starring Ronald Colman as Michael “Beau” Geste, the movie was deemed “corking” by Variety. Remade twice and then parodied by Marty Feldman, Beau Geste now seems antiquated. But it has an old-fashioned sweep that suits the silent-film aesthetic, which is why the original version is arguably the best. The film shows at 7 p.m. at the Library of Congress’ Pickford Theater, 101 Independence Ave. SE. Free. (202) 707-5677. ---Mark Jenkins

Forget the “Thrilla in Manila” and the “Rumble in the Jungle.” Both of those were legendary victories for Muhammad Ali, but when it comes to the fight most laden with meaning for the sport of boxing, you gotta talk about an Ali loss years earlier: Ali vs. Frazier I, on March 8, 1971, at Madison Square Garden, aka “The Fight of the Century.” That’s also the title of a new book by Alexandria writer Michael Arkush, who gives the matchup the full treatment it deserves, dwelling not only on the fight itself—which Joe Frazier won in a unanimous 15-round decision—but on the run-up to the match, with Ali coming back from his post-draft-evasion exile to take on the undefeated Frazier at the height of his skills. Neither Ali nor Frazier would sit with Arkush to talk about the fight, but interviews with Ali trainer Angelo Dundee and more than 100 others more than fill out his narrative. Arkush discusses and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. at Olsson’s Books & Records, 1307 19th St. NW. Free. (202) 785-1133. ---Mike DeBonis

Hey there, what’s left of the Washington Capitals’ fan base, don’t forget to give a big warm welcome to interim head coach Bruce Boudreau, who—last week—replaced former head coach Glen “Hugs” Hanlon after he was relieved of his duties. I’m only reminding everyone because it looked like none of you made it out for Boudreau’s D.C. debut against the Buffalo Sabres on Monday night. In his post-game recap, the Washington Times’ Corey Masisak said 11,204 people were in attendance; I don’t know if Corey was there, but I sure as hell was, and I’d guess that that number is several thousand people too high—and at least a third of the crowd was cheering for Buffalo.

The other two-thirds of the crowd, meanwhile, didn’t have much to cheer for at all. Coming off of a modest winning streak—during which the Caps went 2-0 under their new coach, the first set of consecutive wins since the beginning of the season—the team had one of its most pathetic games of the season. (And, if you've watched the Caps at all this season, you know that's saying a lot.) I guess you could cheer for Alexander Ovechkin’s highlight-reel goal, but that was also the only goal the team managed to score in the 3-1 loss. A few people might have cheered for the return of defenseman Steve Eminger—a once highly-touted prospect that has spent most of the season as a healthy scratch—but his performance was so poor that he’s already been benched for tonight’s game against the Florida Panthers. Really, the only reason to cheer was to drown out the cheers of Sabres fans. (Giving credit where credit is due: The meager crowd did manage to do so, thanks in no small part to the chant-raising efforts of the Horn Guy, aka Caps messageboard poster “SmileyPen.”)

The entire team—including Ovechkin—looked tired, as if it was playing its third game in four nights. Of course, the team was playing its third game in four nights, but the Caps need another excuse even less than they need another second-round draft pick. Constant turnovers. Boneheaded plays. Piss-poor passing. It was a truly painful experience, one that drew boos and jeers from the frustrated crowd. At one point, the team’s “Unleash the Fury” in-game video was played on the jumbotron; I responded with “Unleash the Futility” and received some sad laughter from those in my section. My friend—who I had convinced to come with me to the game—said, “[That] was the sorriest, saddest game I've attended in a long while.”

I’d have a hard time arguing with him. I asked him if he wanted a free ticket to tonight’s game as well. He declined. As has everyone else I’ve asked. I’ll be going alone. Maybe I’ll get a hot dog and drown the misery of being a Caps fan away in $7 Miller Lites. Go Caps.

Welcome to Washington, Mr. Boudreau. The word is that you're a more vocal coach than your predecessor, and willing to lay into players whose performances are lacking. Please, for the love of God and all that is holy, unleash the motherfucking fury.

In 2005, Frank Delaney’s fictionalized 2,000-year history of the country of his birth, Ireland, was a sprawling success. Delaney’s latest foray into Irish historical fiction, Tipperary, spans far fewer years but is no less ambitious. In Tipperary, Delaney blends myth, fact, and fiction into a late-19th-century Irish meta-history. A present-day historian discovers the memoir of Charles O’Brien, born in 1860, who is an Irish healer and folktale collector. A compelling (though admittedly unreliable) narrator, O’Brien tells of meet-and-greets with William Butler Yeats and Oscar Wilde, all the while going to tremendous lengths to win the heart of a young Englishwoman. A revolution interferes with his plans. The modern commentator tries to remain impartial until he discovers that his own history may intertwine with O’Brien’s, and, as Delaney writes, “that in Ireland everything is personal, especially the past.” Delaney discusses and signs copies of his work at 7 p.m. at Politics and Prose, 5015 Connecticut Ave. NW. Free. (202) 364-1919. ---Krista Walton

Maybe J Mascis was just not cut out for rock star excess. Modern folklore says he lived in his parents’ basement, even at the height of Dinosaur Jr.’s notoriety in the ’80s and ’90s. But then as now, when he steps onstage, Mascis’ quiet, eccentric demeanor becomes lost in a whirling sea of metal grimaces, violently twirling hair, and relentless shredding. That transformation is analogous to the reason it doesn’t feel right to refer to Dinosaur Jr.’s reconstitution—Lou Barlow and drummer Murph rejoined Mascis in 2005—as a reunion, since its latest offering, Beyond, picks up right where the band left off 10 years ago. At this stage, Beyond won’t re-create the magic of Bug or Green Mind—but, at the very least, it’s an effort any seminal band should strive for when they inevitably reform a decade or two later. Dinosaur Jr. performs with Awesome Color and Dead Confederate at 8 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $20. (202) 667-7960. ---Maggie Serota