Is this like ironic LARPing? Will there be a Darkon of tube fighting? The Seattle Cardboard Tube Fighting league (typical twee Northwest goofiness) is coming to D.C. to host a participatory tournament on the mall on July 26. Organizers recommend cardboard armor, and also, business suits. Sounds pretty silly but I like it better than those messy pillow fights.

It boggles my mind how all you District dwellers don’t appreciate the scenery around here. Yes, I’m a recent transplant to D.C., and to the East Coast in general, so my sense of newness really helps the amazement of seeing the beautiful architecture and famous buildings and monuments. But let me tell you, on my drives up and down Interstate 5 in Seattle, not once in two years did I glance at the skyline, see the Space Needle, and not feel amazed. Every single time I saw that World’s Fair monstrosity hovering over the Seattle Center area, I felt a tinge of excitement. “I LIVE in Seattle,” I’d say to myself with a bit of a smile. “I live in Seattle!”

Almost every day since I moved, I’ve caught myself in a moment of equal amazement. I watched the fireworks from the Iwo Jima memorial and said to a date, “I live in D.C. I’m watching fireworks in the capital!” While on another date Thursday night, a guy and I took a stroll by the White House, the Mall and over to the Jefferson Memorial. I felt the little-kid giddiness start to swell up in my chest, and I asked him if we could pause to look at everything and take it in. He humored me, and I think I perplexed him with the huge grin plastered on my face. I went to a Nationals game Saturday night and saw the Washington Monument in the distance. “Holy crap!” I said to my group. “We’re in Washington, D.C.! Do you see that?!”

Each person I was with had the same sort of reaction: “Huh. I guess I’m jaded.” To which I’d say something like, “Really, how cool is this?! We’re in Washington, D.C.!”

Don’t give me that “I guess I’m jaded” nonsense. That, to me, translates as “Gee, I’m so caught up in my everyday life that I can’t take 10 seconds out of my busy day to appreciate my surroundings.” I’m sure you get that rush when you travel, right? It’s not that hard to feel the same way about a familiar place—and it might lower your blood pressure a bit, too.

Thankfully, on a bike ride to Virginia (Virginia!) yesterday, my housemate picked up on my excitement and pedaled with it (though he’s lived in the DMV area his entire life).

Try to enjoy here while you’re here, because there’s no here anywhere else.

Bicycling Magazine named D.C. it’s #1 Most Improved City for biking! Meaning, look how bad we used to suck and how hard we’re trying!

Their profile on D.C., coming out in their June issue, focuses on bells and whistles like the SmartBike program, sort of a Zipcar for bicycles. SmartBike is due to launch this month, with 10 stations and 120 bikes you can rent with a swipecard and return to any other station. It’s kind of cool, though I’m a little hard-pressed to think who needs it. Locals who want to bike probably have a bike already, and tourists wouldn’t pay the $40 annual membership fee if they’re visiting for a weekend.

Yes, bike valet parking at the stadium rocks. And yes, the new Bike Station they’re putting in at Union Station will rock. Now let’s just get back on track for building bike lanes (even Bicycling Magazine had to acknowledge that we’re just over halfway to where we should be with striped lanes at this point) and maybe next time around we’ll be #1 Most Awesome Bikey City Ever. Go, D.C., go!

Cherry blossom tourists and kite-flyers had a chance to get star-struck over a total nobody last weekend. Some guy you don’t know organized an “Improv Everywhere” event in which another guy you don’t know acted like a celebrity, and some 40 other people acted like paparazzi, bodyguards, photographers, and adoring fans; and in the end, all the randoms on the National Mall were following him around and taking pictures with their cell phone cameras. His fake girlfriend even got fake-mad when a fake-fan demanded that he sign her (real) boob.

The supposed singer of the supposed hit song “Trapped in My Heart” attracted dozens of hangers-on and fans-for-a day but failed at his ultimate mission of being allowed to go to the top of the Washington Monument without a ticket. Apparently the security guard nearly came to blows with the tour guide in the Abraham Lincoln costume over it. (You can always count on Honest Abe to reassure us that we’re all still created equal, and we all need a ticket to get to the top of the Monument.)

Together with the Freeze Action that happened in Union Station a couple weeks ago, this is almost enough to convince you that Washington is becoming absurdist-artsy-hip like we always dream it will.

Photo by Bruce Witzenburg.

I grew up in a rural area. I like hiking. I know how to put up a tent and start a fire. But the lovely people who live in Front Royal, Va., are good; they can smell the city folk from two blocks away. Last weekend some friends and I rented a cabin for a little R&R, which included a couple trips into town. Here’s what I learned:

1. Don’t Buy Firewood. This is a dead giveaway. After an unsuccessful fire from the soggy wood we chopped with random tools we found in the basement–including a mini chainsaw, a sledgehammer, and something called a wedge–we went searching for wood to buy. We found it at a 7-Eleven. And we got heckled. Actually, we got passively heckled. Two guys getting in their car had a very loud conversation that went something like this: “Shit! They’re buying firewood!” “Oh my god, I can’t believe it! They’re buying firewood?!” Not enjoyable.

2. Don’t Buy Fancy Coffee. OK, this one should be obvious. But if a town has a cafe, it seems reasonable to stop by it and buy a cappuccino. We did this. As we were walking down the sidewalk of this sleepy town, there were suddenly people hanging out every window (or so it seemed) making fun of us and our coffee. Much laughing ensued.

3. Don’t Take Pictures of the Anti-Abortion Signs. It’s hard to resist, especially with gems like: “If you can read this sign, you weren’t aborted.” But I’m pretty sure we got a nasty stare from a guy on his dirt bike.

4. Don’t Drive a Rented Chevy Impala. Enough said.

Last night, I awoke in the darkness to the sound of a low buzzing near my ear. A woman who was temporarily sleeping in my apartment was attempting to reach me by telephone. Though I questioned why she had called me from such close proximity, I answered.

“Hello,” I said.

“I found a mouse,” the woman informed me. As we were both stationed within the apartment, I could hear her voice clearly without the aid of the telephone. Still, we did not abandon the mechanism. “It ran under a pile of clothes,” she added.

Months earlier, my landlord spoke of a similar class of rodents that had invaded his home in search of shelter and food scraps. He informed me that though he had once been pestered by the vermin, he and his housemates had since been able to systematically locate, isolate, and delete the creatures. A housemate explained one particularly cruel game they had played: “All I had to do was corner the mouse into the sink,” she said. “Then, I took hold of the spray faucet and shot the mouse until it had drowned.”

I did not relate this to the woman over the telephone. “What should I do?” she asked me.

Several years ago, while living in the Los Santos province of Panama, I found the helix of my ear caught between the jaws of a large and brazen rat. I had been sleeping soundly at the time–lost in the midst of a strange, hallucinatory dream, the specifics of which I do not recall–when the rat approached, squeaked violently, and bit. After the modest flow of blood from my head confirmed that I was not, in fact, still hallucinating, I located a man outside my domicile for help. The man offered me illicit drugs, an oversized conch shell with which to conceal a gaping, rat-friendly hole in my bedroom wall, and an outdoor hammock as a temporary bed. I accepted two of his offers.

Back in my apartment, I considered the mouse. I had no drugs, nor shells; my sole hammock was folded deep within my closet, out of use during the cool winter months.

“Sleep on the futon,” I suggested to the woman. “I will call my landlord in the morning.”

The Drink: The Zola, aka The White Knight
The Location: Zola, 800 F St. NW, (202) 654-0999
The Price: $9.50
The Buzz: When you don’t work in downtown D.C., it’s pretty easy to forget that this is the nation’s capital. But even with this convenient amnesia, I function under a rule of avoiding possible tourist traps at all cost. Which is why I’ve never been to Zola. I’ve heard only good things about the restaurant, but its proximity to the (children-attracting) Spy Museum made me wary. Would I spill my drink when a fanny pack bumped into me? After a matinee at E Street (If you haven’t already, go see No Country for Old Men.), I ventured in. I’m not sure what it’s like in peak hours, but the bar is the perfect place to be midafternoon. It was almost empty, with huge, gorgeous windows that offer a nice view. Their cocktails have cutesy spy-themed names (Black Tie Bawl, the Blue Sting), but the concoctions are the real deal. I chose the White Knight, which is similar to a cosmo but a bit classier with the use of quality liquor (Turi vodka, a rye vodka from Estonia, and Cointreau), a substitution of white cranberries for cranberry juice, and crushed limes instead of lime juice. It’s the right balance of still tasting like vodka (I don’t care what people say, vodka has a taste), but having enough fruit to take the edge off and add some more flavors. And the best part is the little pile of liquor-soaked Craisins sitting in the bottom of the glass. I had no shame eating them with my fingers. And at least if someone had given me a look, I could always just claim I was from out of town.

The other day I got to explore the massive Pentagon City Mall. Figuring out (a) where the parking lot was; and (b) how the parking lot connects to the mall were difficult enough. The real issue with that place is navigating through the hordes of tour-bus kids. On a Tuesday night, there must have been thousands of pasty children running around, plastic badges clipped to their shirts or worn on lanyards. They cued up six or eight deep around the escalators, raced around the food court, and bombed the store devoted to ballcaps.

Many of them hovered around the store simply called “America!” This is a store devoted unconditionally to the U.S. of A. and still apparently believes George W. Bush can sell T-shirts, if not a troop surge. Don’t these kids watch South Park? Or this?

All this got me thinking: I get why the kids end up at the mall. It’s massive, safe, and air conditioned. It has that sprawling food court that can deal with hundreds of kids all at once and allow for a relatively stress-free dining experience (unlike, say, California Tortilla in Chinatown after a Hoyas game). But why stick them in a mall, an experience they’ve surely had in Des Moines, Altoona, or wherever. Why not keep these kids and their dollars inside the District?

What about converting the old convention center space into a depot for these kids? Give them a food court. A library, even! There’s enough space in that lot. What do y’all think? Do we want their money? Or do we want to keep them lining up at America!?