This morning in the park surrounding the Dupont Circle fountain flocks of pigeons and other winged creatures seemed to be very interested in a pile of fleshy-looking stuff in the grass. This appeared to be gross. From my spot on a bench, I couldn’t figure out what it was the birds were munching on. This appeared to need a closer inspection.

There in the grass: a ginormous pile of authentic (to my eye) glazed Krispy Kremes, some of them sprinkled and frosted, their frosted parts sticking together in a congealed mass.

Birds everywhere where flying to and from with hunks of glazed doughnuts in their beaks. Squirrels scampered off with sticky bits of dough in their jaws. How could this happen? Is Krispy Kreme dumping their unwanted goods in the middle of Dupont Circle?

“We dump them in the trash right outside our door,” says Mercedes, a manager at the Krispy Kreme just off the circle at 1350 Connecticut Ave. NW. “People come after we’re closed and take them sometimes.” The store/bakery is not allowed to donate their extras, she says, so they dump what they can’t sell. Whatever happens from there is not their responsibility. So, take note: If you want some old Krispy Kremes before the pigeons get to them, hang out at the trash around 11 p.m. Consider this yet one more service provided to you by City Desk.

(photo by pohacco20)

Borderstan, an in-between hood described here, is inching toward legitimacy here, with its own website.

My hair has gotten to that point, folks. It’s time for a haircut.

I don’t know if this happens to anyone else, but there’s a point—an actual length—in the afterlife of my hair follicles when all hell breaks loose. In January 2007, I was so sick of it (and it was long enough, after the split ends) to donate the majority of my locks to Locks of Love. Yes, I did revert to looking like my sixth-grade self, but it was worth it just to get rid of the horrible tangles that kept me in the shower for 30-45 minutes shampooing, conditioning, pulling strands apart, and repeating.

I’m not willing to get a cut as drastic as before (I’ve realized that chin-length bobs make me look a little chunky above the neck). I just need to take a couple inches off.

Which brings me to my main problem: decision-making. Sometimes (and when it really counts), I’m able to go confidently in the direction of my dreams…ahem. But for everyday decisions, like, say, where to eat for lunch in a new area or a new place to get my hair cut, it takes me awhile.

I asked colleagues the other day and scoured Yelp! looking for a quality salon with moderate prices and near Adams Morgan. I did a new search online this morning (with, of course, the same results and reviews) and chose a couple of places to call. I thought today would be the day. Thursdays can be relatively slower in terms of content, so I figured I could leave for a long lunch, get my hair cut, and come back beautiful and ready for a date tonight. And then I came to work and promptly forgot about it until I ran my fingers through my hair.

I was thinking Trim (close but expensive), Blondie’s (a bit of a walk but moderate), Urban Escape (I could just tumble down the hill to get there), or Bang (more of a trek but moderate prices, I think). Any (helpful) suggestions?

Photograph by Darrow Montgomery

The “ghost bike” memorial for 22-year-old Alice Swanson was installed anonymously where she died yesterday at 20th and R streets in Dupont Circle.

The tragedy is one that hits home for many: for Alice’s coworkers and former coworkers, for her housemates in Mount Pleasant, for her friends in D.C. and from college at Amherst, and from home in Northborough, Mass. It hits the many cyclists in this town and anyone who witnessed the accident or its aftermath. It’s probably her father, though, who expresses the loss best (from the Boston Globe):

She is so energetic and enthusiastic. She always wants to explore or travel. She’s got a room full of maps here, world maps and things like that. She wanted to travel.

I just feel that she had so many things that she wanted to do—to help people. Now it’s not going to happen.

Condolences to all who knew and loved Alice.

UPDATE: WABA (Washington Area Bicyclist Association) to hold a memorial service and press conference tonight at 6:30 near the intersection. Cyclists and others who attend are encouraged to bring bike lights and flowers.

A bit of neighborhood trivia: Residents living near 15th Street between P and T streets have taken to calling their area “Borderstan.” The not-quite-Dupont not quite-U-street-Logan hood is divided between two police districts, with the eastern side falling under the Third District and the western side going to the Second District. (Not quite Laptopia, either.) The name arose when residents in Eastern and Western Borderstan convinced police in both districts to cooperate in solving crimes centered along 15th Street. These days, residents of Borderstan and beyond are concerned about the return of Darrell Barber, a well-known local hustler suspected of knocking on doors to offer handyman services, then breaking in if no one answers. Barber was released from jail in March.

Dear Landlord Dude:

I saw your ad in the Post and called you yesterday afternoon. The apartment you were offering sounded good enough: 1700 block of Corcoran, $1900, one-bedroom described either as “sunny” or “cozy” or “featuring hardwood floors.”

I thought: I just can’t swing that kind of rent. Not even sharing that kind of rent. No way. Not unless I want stomach aches and no fun for the rest of my life (or at least through the terms of a one-year lease). But screw it. You told me to meet your guy at 5 p.m.

When your guy called my cellphone at 4:30 p.m. to ask where I was, I explained the 5 p.m. meeting time. I was “sunny” on the phone. I told your guy I could change our meet-up time to 4:40 p.m. I showed you—or your guy—that I could be whimsical, flexible, and carefree. I showed that if say the A/C didn’t work I could play along, adjust my schedule to fit your schedule. That’s just the kind of person I am: “sunny.”

But anyway. Thanks for wasting my time. Your ad said nothing about the rundown closet, the stove that looked like it had last given heat to a crack pellet, and the hardwood floors being just the right shade of beat up. Nor did your ad promote the view from the small living room: a Supercan.

I wouldn’t normally care. But you kind of ruined my afternoon. We renters take your ads as truth. They swiftly become the start up points for little dreams. Not big dreams of flat-screen televisions and warm glasses of cocoa. But simpler stuff like being able to live reasonable and sort-of content. We think of all the good times we’d have with your hardwood floors and central AC. So when we show up to find our dreams replaced with the outlines of a slum, we can only be disappointed. Deeply disappointed.

I ended up leaving your rental after about 10 seconds inside. I didn’t need to inspect the small closet to realize I ain’t ready for a $1900 un-sunny junior one-bedroom with view of Supercan.

Walking away, I filled 17th Street with whispered curse words about fairness and the impossibility of living here. Talk about crushed dreams. Two years ago, an ambitious resident could find a two-bedroom dump for $1900.

Not any more. Now there are only over-priced one-bedroom dumps.

Sincerely,

Jason Cherkis

P.S. 17th Street NW hasn’t changed in at least 10 years. It still sucks. Charging $1900 to live within walking distance of one of the worst Safeways in the city is almost criminal.

You don’t have to be PoP to obsess about homes that are not yours. This is one of the city’s great pastimes: walking its blocks and gawking at its homes. We are all rubberneckers for a great built-in library, interesting stained-glass, a well-manicured yard, a big, well-lit living space.

Then there are the mystery buildings–the places that either look like rundown embassies or the once-grand quarters of some senator or freaky cult. I’ve spent a lot of time recently trying to figure out the large Grey Gardens-style joint at 1720 16th Street NW.

The building has 15 bedrooms, 9.5 bathrooms, and covers 6,700 Sq. ft. And a big-ass horror-classic gate. Inside, there must be a candelabra or two, a player piano, some Anne Rice books, and of course, Magick.

I could be wrong about the Magick. The building rarely appears occupied. On only one occasion did I find people hanging out on its stoop. I took this as my big chance to find out what goes on inside.

I carefully walked past the gate. I asked as politely as I could a variation on “What the hell is up with your building?”

Unfortunately, the kids decided to be snotty about it and refused to tell me. Now the building is for sale. List price: $7.5 million.

I’ve still got my gay pride beads on from today’s rain-soaked parade. But here’s a question for the rest of the folks who lined 17th and P streets today: is it just me, or has Capitol Pride gone a little corporate?

The parade started with the Chief of Police and the Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit, followed by Mayor Adrian Fenty, Delegate Eleanor Holmes Norton and a smattering of Councilmembers. But then it seemed like one business after another.

Citibank, Verizon, Bloom Grocery Stores all participated in the parade. Southwest Airlines had one of the coolest and biggest floats all day (they even gave out inflatable airplane toys). You should have seen the woman on the Maid to Clean float gyrate.

The D.C. Cowboys were great, and PFLAG’s “I Love My Gay Son” signs always make me a little teary. And far be it from me to judge how a marginalized community celebrates itself. But it made me a little sad that the guys in leather were so far behind SunTrust Bank’s ATM puppet.

Lance, aka lancefromdc, is pissed. Someone stole his dog last night. The dog is very distinctive, with part of its ear missing. And this is actually the second time someone has literally yanked his dog from his front yard at 16th and S Streets NW.

Concerned, I fired off an e-mail to Lance, who this morning posted on the Adams Morgan listserv under the heading “Missing Dog!”

Then I clicked on the linked video. True, Lance did ID his dog as an “ornamental dog.” But I thought that was just some floofy dog-person nomenclature for a tiny pup you dress up in outfits and carry around in your man purse. But no, Lance’s dog is lawn art. If you see it, let him know, but the Humane Society can stand down.

A very occasional series about escaped cats.

Poor Hugo. He was a street cat rescued from West Virginia and carted to D.C., only to bounce around to friendly and supportive, but ultimately temporary, foster parents. Then Vikram Chiruvolu, 31, who works at home writing a book about philosophies of physics and information theory, met Hugo, loved Hugo, adopted Hugo.

And then Hugo jumped from his third-floor window off Belmont Street NW, swinging onto a nearby branch and landing on a soft patch of brush below. He left behind his collar, as well as his soft cat bed, his favorite game (an extended fishing pole with a string attached), and one very sad Vikram, who had never had a pet before and had Hugo for only about 10 days. “He’s a terrific cat, really friendly and social. He’s the most puppy-like cat, just loved to play and be around people,” says Chiruvolu.

So Chiruvolu papered Adams Morgan and North Dupont Circle with fliers. His friend and adoption coordinator, Omkar Sawardekar—he fosters pets with the foster-only rescue outfit Homeward Trails—dutifully put lost-cat listings on Craigslist and offered a $100 reward. One fine fellow called and said he had a cat in a box and was going to kill it if he didn’t get 50 bucks. Sawardekar says he called the Humane Society.

The whole experience of losing Hugo has opened a “whole world of strangeness” regarding cats, says Chiruvolu. A woman in his neighborhood—she is like the “Jedi cat lady,” he says—sought him out and asked him if Hugo was a recently neutered male. She has six cats, see, and a garage set up as a playground for strays and she had recently smelled some urine she didn’t recognize.

“She had six cat traps on her front porch and told me how they worked,” says Chiruvolu. They then walked around the neighborhood together and the Jedi cat lady taught Chiruvolu “how to think like a cat. I think I almost got it.” But, alas, they did not find Hugo.

Chiruvolu did see him once, completely freaked out with his hair on end, possibly after a run-in with a fox. Hugo bolted past him and into an alley. This was about a month ago and it’s the last time Chiruvolu saw Hugo. If you’ve seen him, e-mail the info to comm-668928260@craigslist.org.

A couple of weeks ago, Washington City Paper named Robert Triolo the city’s premier street performer. The designation came in deference to Triolo’s steady presence at Stead playground, where he shoots free throw after free throw, a succession of one-handed nothing-but-nets that Triolo documents in a pad that he brings with him each day. The hoop sits right above the well-trafficked sidewalk on P Street between 16th and 17th, a visibility that accounts in part for Triolo’s celebrity.

Well, the guy’s going to have to find a new spot to shoot, according to the following press release:

(Washington, D.C) — Beginning April 30, 2008, the Department of Parks and Recreation (DPR) will temporarily close the play courts, plaza, and playground at the Stead Recreation Center, 1625 P Street, NW, to accommodate construction of a new playground. The recreation center and athletic field will remain open during construction. During construction, alternative access to the recreation center will be from 17th Street, NW, via Church Street, NW, to the rear of the recreation center.

**The new playground is scheduled to open in August 2008.**

Tough luck for the city’s most tireless free-throw shooter, but good luck for the community at large, which could use a shadier Stead playground. Place is brutal in summer.

Though I haven’t combed through records of all Supreme Court hearings, I think it’s fair to say that yesterday was the first time that the TrueValue Hardware store at 17th and Corcoran Streets NW was mentioned before the country’s highest court.

The context, of course, was the big-news hearing on Heller v. District of Columbia, in which the city’s hyper-restrictive laws on handguns came under a fusillade of skepticism from the Roberts court. At issue, as many justices saw it, was the imperative of self-defense, an imperative that justices appeared to believe was hampered by D.C. law. That law outlaws handgun possession but allows rifles and shotguns–but they have to be “unloaded and either disassembled or bound by a trigger lock.”

And that’s where Chief Justice Roberts tangled with lawyer Walter Dellinger, who rep’d the District in the proceedings:

Roberts: “How many minutes does it take to remove a trigger lock and load a gun? Because both the gun has to be unloaded; it has to have a trigger lock under the District laws.”

Dellinger: “You place a trigger lock on and it has the version I have a few that you can buy them at 17th Street hardware has a code like a three digit code. You turn to the code and you pull it apart. That’s all it takes.”

First of all, not so sure that a trigger-locked, unloaded shotgun or rifle is going to be much use in an emergency.

Second, do they really sell trigger locks at a hardware store deep within the confines of a city with such a Draconian gun law?

Answer: You won’t find them on the shelves. “They’re available special order,” says TrueValue manager Joe Trotter. “We don’t carry them in the store.”

Guess there aren’t a lot of hunters living around Dupont Circle.

A new report from the Brookings Institution says that the Washington area has the most “walkable places” per capita–one for every 264,000 people– of all the nation’s large metropolitan areas. “The two major reasons for the high number of walkable urban places in Washington are (1) the success of the Metro system and (2) the aggressive use of “overlay zoning districts” that allow and promote walkable urbanism around Metro stations.” Also, District residents favor walking because of “the high educational level of the population (the highest percentage of college graduates of all metro areas in the country according to the Census in 2006), given the apparent, though not yet proven, propensity of the highly educated to prefer walkable urban development.” The report identifies Capital Capitol Hill, Adams Morgan, Georgetown, West End, Friendship Heights and Dupont Circle as model “walkable places” in the District.

Last week, I escaped the District for a pre-Halloween trip to Homestead Farm, a pick-yer-own-punkin’ site in something called “Poolesville.” There, I spent a moderately pleasant afternoon scrounging for gourds, ducking wee ones in winged costumes, and wandering in a field of trampled corn (A word to the wise: Homestead’s “corn maze” is not, as they may lead you to believe, “as high as an elephant’s eye.”) Upon returning to the District, I waddled down the city street, pleased with my bounty but clearly overburdened with a pumpkin in each arm. As I schlepped the 10-pound beauties home, I passed the time with idle dreams of my plans for them: I would disembowel them of their seeds, rip beauteous designs into their flesh, then display them for the enjoyment of the neighborhood children.

Soon, a man in the back seat of a car rolled down his window and interrupted my scheming. “Where are you going?” The man yelled. “The too early for Halloween convention? Oh, burn! Pumpkins! Burn!”

I tried to explain that I had just arrived from just such an event, but the car had puttered on, seeking, no doubt, new targets for its burns. Clearly, the holiday whimsy of my overgrown farm produce had offended the urban sensibilities of this jaded motorist. I secured the pumpkins in my modest basement apartment, where they await the appropriate moment to engage in holiday cheer.

But beware, man in the backseat of a car: Halloween arrives in earnest to the District tonight in the form of Dupont’s legendary High Heel Race. The 22nd annual event begins with a parade at 8 p.m., then continues with the race at 9, which starts off at J.R.’s Bar & Grill at 1519 17th Street and ends at Cobalt Nightclub at 1639 R Street. The race doesn’t include the liquor-shot pit-stop like it used to, but what it lacks in booze it should make up for in moxie and fanciful head ornaments.

But warns Cobalt, “The event doesn’t work on fashionably gay late or drag queen time,” so get there before 9—or prepare to catch a ride to the too late for the drag race convention. Oh, burn!