I wandered over to my new neighborhood bar the other night to engage in an old Valdez ritual: house red and the New Yorker. I took a stool between the two generations of regulars. To my left were the red-faced old men, goofing off and watching sports. To my left, a UVA-looking white hat and his prey, er, date. Mr. UVA looked about 26 or 27, he was good-looking, cocky, talked just a bit louder than everyone else. His lady friend was skinny and big-chested, with curly dark hair and a bit more makeup than she needed. Typical cute Jersey girl. Anyway, Jersey girl was kind of hassling Mr. UVA, I think about wanting to go home or not feeling comfortable about something–I couldn’t tell because she was using her inside voice. He pretended to listen to her and then interrupted mid-sentence and touched the stud in her nose. “Is this new?” he said, going on with some drivel about how she had this great way of spicing up her conservative style. Then he started talking about getting a cab back to the city together. I cringed. Here comes the date rape, I thought.

Jersey girl surprised me then, because she started talking about having a friend come pick her up. The more Mr. UVA told her not to worry, it’d be fine, etc., the more she thumbed out texts on her phone. Then her phone rang. She went outside and never came back. I was so proud. It took Mr. UVA about 15 minutes to realize what had happened. “Balls,” he said, ordering another drink. “That’s what I’m texting her. Balls.”

I think this may be a brilliant idea: John McLaughlin should take over as the new host of Maury Povich, or really, of any of those bitch fight/who’s the daddy shows. Povitch looks a little tired. He doesn’t have any control. He just lets his guests’ natural energy run wild.

McLaughlin might be a bit bewildered at first. But then he would be decisive. He would yell louder than any fat lady. And he would freeze the screaming banshees with his jowly glare and ask unforgiving questions, like, maybe: “How many men were you sleeping with when you claim this man fathered your child?” If the woman swears there was just one, he might respond as he recently did to Eleanor Clift: “Oh come, come, come. … That sounds like such pious twaddle.” If the man really was the daddy, McLaughlin would weigh in with wisdom. He’d say the man was a good-for-nothing jerk. “He’s a jerk. He’s an ultra-jerk. He’s the number one jerk in the house.” Then he’d prove his point: “On a scale of 0 to 10–with 0 representing zero possibility and 10 representing metaphysical certitude–what is the chance of the jerk paying child support?”

I’m less confident about how well Maury would handle the tempers back on the Group: Eleanor Clift and Monica Crowley might sprout acrylic nails.

Dogs! We are all inspired by them. And after the 12-month Wall Calendar Photographer and the Personalized Mug Designer, the profession most inspired by dogs may well be the Poet.

“There is an amazing amount of poetry about dogs,” explains Michael Gushue, poet. Gushue is a member of the Brookland Area Writers and Artists*** collective, which tonight will hold “Dog Days,” a poetry reading “about, by, for and around dogs, canines and man’s best friend.”

Past BAWA* reading themes have included Sterling A. Brown, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, and obscenity. But the dog theme has (four!) legs: This is the fourth year that BAWA* has turned its attention to the domesticated critters.

“In poetry, you can use the dog to talk about anything else you would talk about,” says Gushue. “There are a bunch of corny, brilliant, heartbreaking poems about dogs getting old and dying, which touches one one of the two great themes of poetry: Death. You can use dogs to talk about friendship, about philosophy. Really, I cant think of a single theme that dogs haven’t been integrated into.”

The reading will be held tonight at 7 p.m. in the Brookland Visitors Center at 3420 9th St. NE. Do not bring your dog. “We haven’t figured that out yet, because the reading is held in an art gallery,” says Gushue. “At some point we’re going to do it outdoors and everyone’s going to bring their dog.”

** asterisk theirs.

Dear CNN,

I’m sick of all the primary coverage. I implore you: More rat on cat on dog.

Sincerely,

Amanda Hess

I always turn to Wired’s Danger Room when local news is snoozy. The site doesn’t disappoint today. Pro-Kremlin kiddie activists are getting the blame for this innovative interruption. One of these could really spice up an ANC meeting.

The AltWeekly Awards announced finalists for its final category today, placing Washington City Paper among the top three for Editorial Layout, circulation over 55,000. That bring’s CP’s total to seven, second only to L.A. Weekly, which has eight finalists this year.

Congratulations to our former, much-missed, hugely talented art director Pete Morelewicz, whose layout for “Sects Appeal,” a lighthearted look at alternative Christian churches, impressed what we’re sure is an impressive list of judges. The story, written by Aaron Leitko and illustrated by Tom Deja, appeared in the cover slot of the April 6, 2007, issue. That issue also launched Morelewicz’s redesign of the paper.

City Paper’s other finalists include former staff writers Dave Jamieson and Joe Eaton in the feature category, staff photographer Darrow Montgomery, the CP staff for this very blog, Jeffry Cudlin for arts criticism, and former staff writer Sarah Godfrey for music criticism. Congrats all around!

Whoa. BYT happens upon a juicily secret scoop. A fight club, maybe, at a skate park in DC.

Update: Apparently, this isn’t exactly a discovery.

Forget knitting. Forget Oprah and Bingo and watching sports. This week, D.C. seniors are competing in track and field, bowling, tennis, and archery.

D.C. Parks and Rec and the Office on Aging today kicked off the 25th annual D.C. Golden Olympics for District residents over 50. This year is also a qualifying year for the 2009 Summer National Senior Games in San Francisco, so those who place first, second, or third will get to compete against other overly athletic seniors from around the country.

At this morning’s opening ceremony, Bradford Tatum, 87, and his 89-year-old brother, John, said they have been preparing all year for the Golden Olympics. Both residents of Northeast, they grew up in Georgetown and started swimming almost 80 years ago in their neighborhood pool.

Younger brother Bradford, who is competing in the 500-yard freestyle swim, had the honor of carrying the sort-of golden, possibly plastic torch at this morning’s ceremony in recognition of the six medals he won last year.

So, OK, the paper flames actually fell out of the golden/plastic torch as he made his way around the Emory Recreation Center auditorium. But no matter.

After the pomp and circumstance, wellwishers with mechanical wheelchairs, walking canes, and baggy T-shirts loaded up on private charter buses and made their way to Takoma Aquatic Center for the 500 freestyle.

Tomorrow: track, long jump, softball, tennis, football, archery, and shot put. Thursday: golf, basketball, swimming, and bowling. Friday: pool, table tennis, and the big closing ceremony at Fort Stevens Recreation Center.

Robert King, special assistant for DPR said the Golden Olympics have been so successful because D.C. residents are living longer. “With the senior population at 16 percent and growing, it is important that seniors participate in these games and practice throughout the year,” King said. “It’s never too late to start.”

He doesn’t have to tell it to Sue Barns, 80. A Brookland resident, she started running at the age of 60 and won the gold medal in the Penna Relays Master in 2000 as the oldest female participant.

She’s got some advice for the rest of us: “There is no excuse for young people to be sittin’ around.”

—Whitney Boyd

This weekend I came across the greatest find since moving to D.C. Caveat: My interests tend to skew less toward record stores and more toward woodland creatures. If yours do, too (hey, I know it’s a stretch, but the blog is lookin’ light today, OK?), you should check out Prince William Forest Park. Once you have your immigration papers in order, that is. They don’t like them illegals there, you know, but there are 15,000 acres, so it’s easy enough to get lost no matter who you are. That’s what’s great about this place.

From D.C., the park is only about 35 miles down the road, right off I-95 and the Marine Corps training site at Quantico. That means that in less than an hour, you could be set up at a wonderful campsite deep in the woods for 15 bucks a night. The Oak Ridge Campground inside the park has nearly 100 sites and is located 5.5 miles down wooded roads from the visitor center. Stop in there to get a great map of the park. Each of the three campground loops has decent bathrooms and a water spigot; Loop A has a shower, even, for those who do that sort of nonsense while camping. There are no hookups, however, a blessed deletion for tent campers (there won’t be any retirees and their obnoxious RVs anywere nearby. In fact, having had a few bad experiences with the RV/generator crowd, I found this place with the help of The Best in Tent Camping: Virginia: A Guide for Car Campers Who Hate RVs, Concrete Slabs, and Loud Portable Stereos). One aspect the book fails to play up is the spaciousness of the sites, especially compared to some of the puny ones inside Shenandoah National Park. Each comes with a fire ring and a pole to hang a lantern.

Beware the raccoons, though; they’re cheeky, so hide your grub. Also, I found a tick on my person, quickly tweezed off and killed, so bring some spray, but for god’s sake don’t whine about ticks. Just be careful.

Best of all: There are 37 miles of hiking trails maintained by the Potomac Appalacian Trail Club; several nice ones start right at the campground. The North Valley Trail includes a lovely stretch along Quantico Creek to Lake Quantico Falls and the former Pyrite Mine, abandoned in 1920 after workers went on strike for a 50-cent raise. Apparently, they don’t like them unions in Prince William, either.

Just a word of thanks to the high-class Restaurant K and to the Wrecking Corporation of America (WCA).

They were the stars of the night, as a family member and myself ventured down to the corner of K Street and Connecticut Avenue NW last night to watch the demolition of an out-of-date office building. We arrived at about 10:00 pm and watched as a WCA machine cut into the exposed floors of the building. The contraption was like a pair of scissors affixed to a long cranelike arm, tearing into the concrete and steel of the building, creating loud debris showers. People stopped and gawked.

The action was in full view of Restaurant K, so said family member and I went in for a quick drink. The bartender was nice enough to treat family member with a complimentary cranberry juice.

A while after we reemerged, the star of the show came out. Or came down. It was a wrecking ball that the WCA crane lofted at least 50 feet above the building’s top floor. What a noise it made upon hitting its target! More falling and flying debris. Stuff was going in all directions, though we were at a safe remove, on the other side of K.

A foreman said that the activity will be going on for several more weeks, so get down there. But take into account that the wrecking ball doesn’t start wrecking until late at night, since it disrupts traffic.

Finally: The New York Times’ Andy Newman gets to the bottom of Pope Benedict XVI’s relationship to kitties. This overdue link-up between the pope and crazy cat people is a nice change of pace from weeks of papal coverage that has too often glanced over the ridiculous side of pope and pope-related activity.

Meow:

Benedict’s kindness toward the strays of Rome is already the stuff of Vatican legend. His house in Germany, its garden guarded by a cat statue, was filled with cats when Benedict lived there full time before he was posted to the Vatican in 1982.

The article then delves into a close reading of Joseph and Chico: The Life of Pope Benedict XVI as Told By a Cat, the first (but please, not the last) biography of a pope written from a cat’s perspective. It’s also a true story, Vatican approved.

But with the pope’s schedule filled with human concerns, whither the felines? A phone interview with Chico’s owner reveals the stunning truth. According to Rupert Hofbauer, “Chico, now 10, misses his old friend, who has not been back to visit since becoming pope.”

Photo of “Pope” courtesy of swanksalot

This past Saturday was National Record Store Day. So vinyl nerds and Yo La Tengo fans [OK they are the same] were finally given a special day to scuttle out of apartments, discover day light, and join the masses hungry for free shit, discounts and live in-stores.

The Day turned out to be more fun than seeing nerds in sunlight. It was actually more fun than all the pre-day hype.

The Day wasn’t necessarily aimed at the nerds. Nor was it pitched toward exposing the freeloaders to something they haven’t yet sendspaced.

The A-and-B listers called on to provide testimonials and flog the event have long ago started averaging three stars in Rolling Stone. In other words, we’re talking Paul McCartney and the Boss. Or they were as old-timey as Chuck Berry and Henry Rollins. Or they were Joe Satriani and the drummer from Flipper. Not exactly preaching to the ones who need converting.

I had worries that the whole thing was going to feel like one of those sermons the industry now provides late in the Grammy telecast. You’ve heard it before: the industry is dying, stop stealing music, etc. Even Metallica was participating. Or it would turn into an excuse for the industry to give away last year’s crap no one bought.

But this Day was aimed at the people the industry screws the most: the indie record store owners. If the music biz wants to save itself, they could do better than giving the stores a special day. The industry could stop giving sweetheart deals to the Big Boxes, and stop listing new records at inflated prices. At least on Saturday, the big labels paid attention to the little guy!

I was able to check out Smash and Crooked Beat. Both Adams Morgan stores were crowded and festive. Crooked Beat reported giving away all of its grab bags within an hour of opening up. Sales appeared brisk; the new releases seemed mostly sold out. It was great to hear the store crank up The Argument. So yeah, the nerds got to nerd out. And maybe the store got some new customers.

But now that the day is over, let the debates begin. One has started up over on our music blog.

–photo of Crooked Beat’s Bill Daly courtesy of mudsugar.com.

Eve Zibart told mediabistro.com that she’s taking the buyout offer from Washington Post management.

This is not good news. Zibart’s been a food writer at the Post forever, but I’m too busy eating to read about food. So I haven’t read much of her later work.

But before forever — back in the 1970s! — she wrote about rock and roll. I was a paperboy for the Post for most of the decade, and I remember sitting on my stacks of Sunday papers before delivering ‘em one morning in August 1978 and reading her feature story on the front of the Show section about Bruce Springsteen.

Eve had gone to a Michigan show and written about the experience. She made it all seem so exciting.

Springsteen was going to make his first Capital Centre appearance a couple days later (tickets were $8.80, he didn’t sell out), after a long, post-”Born to Run,” litigation-inspired hiatus from performing. And I was going to see him for the first time.

Springsteen was my Jonas Brothers back then, and up-to-date intelligence on your favorite rock stars was tough to come by. I saved Eve’s story, and still have it, brown and tattered.

If any article meant more to me before or since, I can’t think of it.

If you get one right, you’re way ahead.

Below please behold seven photographs, all of which will appear in Thursday’s Best Of D.C. issue. Your job is to identify the places pictured in the photographs. Pretty simple, Mr. D.C. Know-It-All! Please e-mail your entry to dmontgomery[at]washingtoncitypaper.com.

The first contestant to get all the the most right answers wins the famous Washington City Paper Prize Pack, which includes Landmark Theatre tix, fifty bucks toward a meal at Stars Bistro & Bar, plus various Washington City Paper products in a nice little tote.

Google won’t help you here, nor will any fancy computer tricks. Have at it.

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In an alley in Georgetown. From a reader.