my niece, the one old enough to talk, she wanted to watch “Curious George,” but Uncle Matt said to hell with that noise. it was entirely too early in the day, I reasoned, for children’s programming. you want to watch a movie? okay, I said, I got a movie for you. so we sat there and took in this pop culture staple while my younger, newborn niece slept on my lap, until my older niece got bored and ran off somewhere. she may be a bit too young yet to dig Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker and the rest playing great archetypes, staring wistfully at the two suns, teaching us lessons conveyed through swashbuckling romanticism, all while shitting all over the droids, the underclass in a galaxy a long time ago and far away.

that’s okay, she shouldn’t watch too much TV anyway. but Catherine was sawing logs and I couldn’t reach the remote from the couch, so I finished it out. not like it was pulling teeth or anything because, goddamn: “Star Wars” is a great flick. it involves a pretty simple plot, employs plenty of crazy shit to look at, and makes sure to roll out dozens of little one-liners that imply a lot. which reminds me …

I read a book recently, sometime back in the foul year of our lord, 2011, called “Neuromancer.” it was science fiction and very dense — kind of like a noir set in a future dystopian Internet age. I was impressed by it, and started looking up reviews, and came across an interview with the author, William Gibson, who made mention of how struck he was by a throwaway line in “Escape from New York” – a movie that’s great on its own and I could riff on for hours. in the scene he referred to, Manhattan warden Lee Van Cleef says to Snake Plissken:

“you flew the Gullfire over Leningrad. you know how to get in quiet.”

this is the only mention of Leningrad in that entire movie, to my knowledge. and that could mean any million of things (mostly about a USSR that didn’t collapse in 1991, and a World War III where western commandos infiltrated a Soviet citadel). but the ability to do this is an important, necessary and wonderful facet of science fiction — you can intentionally leave an implication just hangin’ out there, swinging, and allow it to add color the depths of the scenario you’re trying to create and maintain. I can’t do this; I haven’t written fiction of any sort since college. but this is something I’ve always dug about this particular genre.

anyway, something as fantastical – and, as I said, full of “plenty of crazy shit to look at” — as “Star Wars” has a lot of these implications. here are a few:

the appropriately named Greedo: “Jabba’s through with you. he has no time for smugglers who drop their shipments at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser.”

Han Solo, that rascal: “even I get boarded sometimes. do you think I had a choice?”

hmm … just who is this Jabba character, and what kind of illegal mobster shit might he be into? or consider this line …

Han, referring to his boss-ass ship: ”it’s the ship that made the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs!”

wait, the ‘Kessel run?’ and what in the shit is a parsec? my mind is blown! but here’s the one that always got me:

Luke, to Obi Wan, in response to an offhand remark by the ol’ Jedi: “you fought in the clone wars?”

now, I remember this line from back in the day, before George Lucas got a money bug up his ass and decided to make three pull-out-all-the-stops, kid-in-a-candy-shop sequels to the original “Star Wars” trilogy. before Lucas showed his starving, supple audience what the “clone wars” his characters were referring to actually were, it was a fictitious contest left entirely to our imaginations. and imagination was not wanting. these movies titilated nerds’ daydreams the world over. hell, I only watched these movies a couple dozen times each, and at the utterance of this particular line the pubsecent version of me always thought: ”holy shit! the clone wars? what is that shit all about? clone wars, that sounds kind of terrifying and exciting at the same time.”

but then, I had my answer. Lucas started making his prequels. and in them he explained all of the backstory as to why Vader is Luke’s father, and how the storm troopers were an army raised and trained at a clandestine space facility by CGI space elves to serve then-Prime Minister Palpatine — who was actually an evil Sith Lord in disguise – and that these petri dish soldiers were all clones of a bounty hunter named Jango Fett, whose only price for allowing himself to be copied was a clone he could raise as a son, which explains the origin of the minor villain Boba Fett from the earlier-made episodes V and VI … and so on and so forth, and in great detail and to little effect. 

because when you weren’t crushed by how bad these new movies were, and by how blatantly driven they were by the promise of a revenue bonanza, you knew that what was originally left implied, I tell you … what was left implied was so much better before we were given an answer. 

so, to end: happy 2012! my niece is healthy, and I’ve changed a diaper. let’s see where we are in another year.

Friends and family, coast to coast: The McMullans wish you Feliz Navidad!

The new millennium is in its ‘tweens, and 2011 is coming to a close. Just like our own childhoods, it was an awkward year, one of character-building experiences for the US of A; Someone pulled out a can of Mace at a California Walmart during a Black Friday shopping frenzy. But, against all odds, Hollywood managed to churn out a halfway decent “Planet of the Apes” reboot. See? That’s American resolve. There’s hope for all of us yet.

But how are we, how are the McMullans, you ask? Well. Read on:

At the mother ship in northwest Indiana, Val and Grandma have been doing well. Val served on the committee that planned festivities for the family church’s 100th anniversary, which was celebrated in October. Grandma’s parents were founding members of the Protection of the Virgin Mary Orthodox Church, and many of their progeny descended upon a banquet hall to represent the family at the centennial event. Nobody made a mess of the table cloth, and Val hijacked a dozen souvenir wine glasses. Thus, the celebratory weekend was a success.

And the two remain busy, at home and on the road. They’ve been keeping up with the latest technological leaps in telecommunications (the house phone now has voicemail), and they managed a trip by rail to the east coast this summer. While in Boston to visit Mar, Val briefly drove a duck boat during a sightseeing tour on the Charles River. This is no small feat, Val reminds us: “The duck boat is an amphibious, World War II-era vessel. It goes on both land and water.” Can your car do that? Nope. It can’t, no matter how much bathtub caulk you’ve lined on your Toyota’s doorframes.

Mary now has a full year under her belt as Numero Uno book slinger at Milton High School, and has been reporting on the many horrifying vagaries of teenage society she glimpses from her perch behind the checkout desk. “What is high school, if not a terrifying carnival show, a witches brew of pep rallies and petty cruelty?” she asks. To that we have no answer, Mar.

While in Washington, Val and Grandma glimpsed upon the dank hole of an apartment that middle child Matt now calls home; close enough to downtown that he can walk to the office where he works as a public relations shill for an education nonprofit. As housewarming gifts the pair brought with them a used toaster and a Ziploc bag full of Vegeta, because, as Grandma explained, “it goes on everything.” After experimentation with a variety of foodstuffs, Matt agrees.

But Val and Grandma spent most of their time in DC across town, visiting with Mike, Va and granddaughter Anna, now five years young and halfway through her kindergarten campaign at a Capitol Hill elementary school. Anna the Energizer Bunny runs, jumps, swings from the monkey bars with the best of them, and has picked up a little Spanish in the classroom too.

And she is terribly excited, because the size of her family is about to increase dramatically: Va and Mike are expecting their second child, who well could be here by the time this letter reaches you. The due date is January 2, the crib has been assembled and the nursery walls have been left a neutral yellow, because they’ve decided to let the baby’s gender be a surprise. Anna is about to be pressed into service as both a big sister and emergency nursemaid, and parents Virginia and Mike are preparing for 4 a.m. bottle feedings. Ah! Familiar bliss.

So much has been happening! But that is our 2011 in a nutshell: Duck boats, high school libraries, Vegeta and a baby on the way. Who knows what 2012 will bring? An IU basketball championship? A Gingrich presidency? Flying pigs?

Who can say? All that can be said with conviction and sincerity is that we’ll weather it together. By the time our next holiday card reaches you, our family will be one person stronger and one year older, if not wiser. We hope 2012 is as good to you as 2011 was to all of us. Happy holidays to you and your family, and make sure to keep in touch. Remember: Val now has voicemail.

- Us

Zsa Zsa Gabor Morris arrested in Lake County on multiple warrants

this story, I think, captures the essence of northwest Indiana — or at least my skewed interpretation of it:

turns out she was wanted a county over for driving while intoxicated and failure to appear. so, you’ve got a few things of note here.
first, there’s the headline – written, obviously by some stooge, just like me, that is meant to entice you to click on the link. it works like so: ”holy shit! what the hell is Zsa Zsa Gabor doing in Lake County? and why does she have arrest warrants?!”
and then secondly, there’s the story itself — a brief window into someone’s world:
that of a woman who has spent 50-plus years on this earth named after a nine-times-married Hungarian actress and socialite;
who has found herself with a Gary address in this terrible year of our lord, 2011;
and who narrowly cheated death, clipped by a mirror on the roadside of an eight-lane superhighway after her ride broke down;
in northwest Indiana.

I wish I had a photo of 80/94 in northwest Indiana, but I don’t so I’ll try to paint you a picture with words, man:
it is wide, and as it is almost always experienced at about 65 mph, it is loud. it is a major artery in the Interstate system – across the border in Illinois it splits for Iowa and Wisconsin, and farther east it splits for New York and Detroit. as such, it is heavily trafficked, there’s a lot of trucks.
it is overwhelmingly grey, as if the road’s volume, plus the heavy industry all along the lakefront, actually color the landscape. the marshy land in Gary looks like it was brushed with dull silver.
and it is lined with billboard advertisements — for personal injury lawyers, strip clubs, discount fireworks, among other things.
oddly enough, when I fly into Chicago on the way to Valparaiso, I look forward to the drive. it may be slave almost entirely to the whims of traffic congestion, but there is plenty of shit to capture your imagination — in one way or another, for better or for worse – in the 70 miles from airport terminal to home. vast South Chicago — its enclaves and its midways. then depending on your route, the Nation of Islam mosque, the Chicago Skyway, abandoned industry, and casino boat gambling. or a massive landfill, oil refineries, the US Steel yard, Gary city hall, and then past the spaghetti bowl of the 65 terminal, and then off the Interstate and past the landmark, the big cement hobo clown in front of the Vienna Beef stand in Lake Station, and then farther on the town of Wheeler, where mom used to count out loud as we cruised the main drag, past the post office and grain elevator on our way to church: 30 seconds, at 30 miles an hour.
the highway’s character is a testament to the region, to its economy and its demographic, to what it once was and to what it is, and to where it’s going. maybe it’s doomed. maybe not. I’ve got no idea.
it’s a  long way from here. where the grass is always greener, but I love it anyway.

this movie has a ridiculous amount of kick-ass music in it. if you have spent any amount of time driving around in my truck, you’ve probably heard the soundtrack. it’s one of the dozen CDs I have in the cab. but if not, if you are unaware, click on this. make sure you have a towel handy, cause you’re gonna make a mess.

there’s a couple of scenes, right around the beginning of the second act, where Jimmy Cliff starts singing in the church choir so he can get close to the preacher’s daughter — and, hopefully, bang her. and the camera rolls on about three solid minutes of a preacher testifying, his call-and-response with the faithful, and then the entire singing a gospel hymn. and it’s interspersed with these two kids making eyes at one another, flashes of sex,  juxtaposing faith and lust. er, maybe not lust, but passion, rather – or one interpretation of it, at least.

no, it’s lust. definintely lust. click on the picture above to see a chunk of it. it will make you want to get up and dance.

it’s too quiet in this place. and I need some new movies. no disrespect to Sir Alec Guinness and company, of course. it just is what it is. honest to god, I associate him with this movie before I think of “Star Wars.”

but let’s get down to brass tacks. it’s been a notably shitty week. thankfully, here comes a pick-me-up – the 2012 holiday letter fast approacheth. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy writing it. here’s a couple of things to look for, as suggested by mom, in this year’s addition:

mom: “well let’s see. we got the new baby coming.

“and I served on the committee church anniversary.”

me, typing: “okay.”

mom: “put ‘keeping up with technology at work and at home.’”

me: “what?”

mom: like, we have 300 messages on the house phone. and we don’t know how to retrieve them.” 

me: “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. keep going.”

mom: “I drove a duck boat on the Charles river in Boston.” (mom and grandma visited Mar — they went on a duck tour.)

http://youtu.be/WqG7eSRAyfg

me: “that’s right. you jumped in front of a bunch of kids, right?”

mom: “no, I let all of them go first, asshole. shit yeah. what do you think i spent all that money for?”

me: “didn’t you pay off the mortgage?”

mom: “yeah. but about the duck boat …

“a duck boat is an amphibious, World War II vessel. it goes on land and in water.”

http://youtu.be/wNvOktGFA8s

me: “… okay …”

mom: “and I came in third in the garden-in-all-seasons category in a photography contest. they had the picture up at the expo center.

“and we couldn’t change the channels on the new kitchen TV for the first two months of 2011. thank god Judge Judy was on the right channel.”

me: “yes! thank god.”

mom: “what else … oh, we had two sleepovers with our gigantic, unemployed cousin. tons of fun. but hey, he pointed out 300 messages on the phone.

“there’s so damn dany! that was a while ago. there’s probably 3,000 by now. we no longer give out home phone number to important people like doctors.”

me: “to hell with doctors.”

…. …. …. …. …. ….

MERRY MUSIC MEMORIES — I was in the seventh grade, and it was Christmas Morning. the big gift that year from Santa or grandma was a Sony Discman. moments after its arrival, the first CD to ever fall into my possession became “fashion nugget” by Cake.  it came as the requisite accessory.

I remember sitting in the La-Z-Boy in the living room in Indiana and listening to that album. it was, and remains, a good one, but not one that’s left a lasting  impression on me. I don’t mean any disrespect to Cake’s music, you see. it just didn’t stick; I was more interested in getting stupid stickers to smear all over the new Discman. I remember feeling that was of great import. my piece de resistance ended up being one that I got from a Klondike Bar wrapper. but I digress.

Cake’s good, I really mean it, yeah. but the second album that I ever came to own, the second one was called “the action is go” by Fu Manchu. Fu Manchu, they stuck around.

I thought this shit was great. my brother got it for me, and I remember later listening to them at his apartment in Mount Pleasant in 1997 or 98. when he got rid of a bunch of his old records, I got earlier and later albums. Fu Manchu ruled. they played so loud that the music sounded fuzzy, like it was coming in hot, and the band felt cool while I was not. and that last sentence just … rhymed. totally unintentional.

they sang about shit that I couldn’t understand — and I later figured out why that was; they were singing about nonsense like drag racing and pin ball. but I found myself listening to them through college, into my twenties, and even now. still in my twenties. but Aarti gave me an old iPod of hers and I’ve got a couple of their albums on that thing. you get the idea.

anyway. I was able to see them play once, with my friend Pat, about five years ago when I briefly lived in California. the club was in a small strip mall in Costa Mesa. I went to In-N-Out Burger just before the show, and watched them unload their own shit out of an Econoline van after the opening act.

and then I was able to see them again last year, here in DC with Aarti, who would totally tell you it was an awesome show. and now it would appear they are coming back again.

fine by me, I say! the guys from Fu Manchu have got to be 40, or only months out, but they’ve got enough left in them that I can double that up with nostalgia and spend a School Night going to see them. as such: if you live in Washington DC, you could probably do better on a thursday evening than checking out Fu Manchu. yeah, probably. but you could do a whole lot worse.

Fu Manchu next thursday at the Black Cat.

I haven’t looked at this blog in … over a month. I don’t even know what’s at the top of the page right now; something banal, no doubt. sometimes, it would seem, you just need a break.

so what’s been going on?

okay, well, I ran a marathon.

not well, by any I means. I just ran it — I kind of, sort of purposefully avoided using any training schedule beyond “run far on the weekends.” and having done so I don’t think there’s anything especially wrong with doing it this way. though I’m not suggesting that this, uh, open-ended approach to marathon training made me the fastest motherscratcher on the course. I finished in a little under four and a half hours, dying. and I had wanted to run a sub-four-hour race. shows what my opinion of myself was.

I just … I don’t know. the culture of running is a little grating sometimes. you should have heard the awful rap rock the PA system was blaring at the start of the race. and you should see all of the dumb athletic gear that people blow money on. and when the hell did running shoes get so goddamn expensive?

all of this, I will readily admit, I complain about while recognizing the fact that I am a curmudgeon and a cynic, even if my station in life shouldn’t position me to be. (I’ve got it pretty good.) but that doesn’t make it any less true.

because the best thing about the marathon was training for it. running a long way by yourself on a weekend afternoon when you’ve cleared away all of the other shit you have to do — that’s fun, or it is to me at least. all you have to do is run, and pay attention to the traffic. it’s a good way to get to know your city.

the marathon itself is simply the goal, and it’s one that cost $100 to sign up for, so you might as well run toward it. while it keeps you moving, it’s not like most of us will be setting any records on the big day. so appreciate what running that much over a drawn-out period does to keep your office-bound ass flexible and moving, and take what it gives you. you could be sitting on the couch, working on increasing your cholesterol count.

this is how I try approach running.

what else … I went on a business trip — honest to god, I did — to the bustling metropolis of Kalamazoo, Michigan, where we held a semi-successful press conference highlighting the short- and long-term economic benefits of support for early childhood education programs. are you convinced? if not, let’s go drink a cup of coffee and I will try and convince you. anyway, while there I got my own room at the Quality Inn, so I stayed up late and watched Skinemax. you would have too.

I grew a beard. I’m pretty sure Aarti hates it. and it kind of itches. I don’t know how long it’s gonna last. no pictures of it as of yet.

and, politics. In Washington, you have a bunch of recalcitrant assholes (Congress) have named some of the worst among themselves (the “supercommittee”) to come up with $1.2 trillion in deficit cuts over the next decade, or automatic cuts will affect programs that everyone holds dear. they’ve had a month or so now to figure out how to do that, and have gotten nowhere. they have two weeks until their deadline. don’t hold your breath.

while in Real America, this cartoon character is still somehow on top of the polls, despite blonde lady after blonde lady from sexual harassment claims past coming out of the woodwork. I feel bad for these women. when GOP presidential primary candidate Herman Cain began flailing around a few months ago, pleasing crowds of self-assured Bitter Clingers, his then-unknown accusers from his wild years at the National Restaurant Association must have made dour faces at the television– but reassured themselves, happy that he’s bound to be an also-ran. and when it became his turn to be Not Mitt Romney, these accusers probably brought up Cain’s depressing growth in popularity with close acquaintances and husbands, who probably felt just a touch of emasculation. and when it became clear that Cain was going to turn his 15 minutes in the glow of the spotlight into something like 30 or 45, and ridiculous shit from his past started to surface …

.
… they probably thought, “O Jesus Christ. when will the opposition research boys and Professional Journalists get to his on-file sexual harassment claims? it’s only a matter of time.”

and then it was here, a Sunday that the story broke. and there was Cain arguing with a press gaggle, flustered and unbelieving that this kind of thing would get brought up while he’s trying to Save America from Socialism and Wealth Redistribution. and his accusers knew it was only a matter of time before some media outlet broke rank and made their names public, even if they didn’t want to be named. (turns out it was TheDaily.com! what’s that, you ask? “The Daily is a category first: a tablet-native national news brand built from the ground up to publish original content exclusively for the iPad.” sounds serious.)

and now, the Herman Cain campaign is shitting all over these women, in an effort to disparage their characters, and therefore make their claims less … believable? that’s the plan, right? I wonder how that will go.

oh well. the cat’s out of the bag, and their holiday seasons are going to suck. all we can do now is wish the best of luck to Herman Cain. he’s got another televised debate with the other stiffs who are in the running for the GOP nomination in about … 20 hours. I’m sure none of this will come up. and he can focus on his flat tax horseshit, and mispronouncing the names of a few foreign countries.

… and that’s it. I’m sure that’s more than enough bullshit to get me back in the habit of vomiting up whatever’s on my mind. tomorrow is Wednesday. that’s only a day away from a new Beavis and Butt-head cartoon. cause we got that cartoon back. so yeah, I’d say we’re making progress, America. since you’re asking.

I’m serious this year, serious as all get-out. last year, around this time, I blew a flat tire — what I’m assuming was a muscle tear or a tendon strain in my calf. funny I don’t even remember which one. but I wasted a lot of time on driving out to Fairfax City to see a chiropractor, and I bought a pair of incredibly tight, constricting socks that run up to just below knee in hopes of some dopey miracle cure. turns out, it made no difference, and I didn’t run the race. but I will this year, so help me …

I’ve been running like a horse, or as like one as my sloppy ass is liable to get. this does not mean I’m running well; a week or two ago I ran to the point of dehydration and, an hour and a half later, ended up vomiting into a garbage can on Date Night. and I’ve since bought a handful of these energy “goos” and a Camelbak — basically a backpack with a long straw snaking out of it so you can go a long ways with plenty of liquid. more purchases than necessary, I’m sure. but less of a boondoggle than last year’s chiropractor.

but I feel good. I just did a short run this evening, something just over six miles, and I’ll get in a legitimately long one this weekend. Aarti and I are going to Puerto Rico at the end of the month for a few days of goofing off, and I plan to take my shoes. I’m thinking about just showing up for a half-marathon the weekend before the trip that’s planned for Philadelphia and running without registering. I think this is called “running bandit.” and it’s like hopping a freight train, only much tamer.

like last year, I have signed up for the race through the nonprofit run by Aarti’s brother and sister-in-law. it raises money for researching a cure for neuroblastoma, a cancer that affects the nervous system and is found primarily in children. it sucks.

so I signed up to fundraise. and here is my fundraising page right here, in longform — because I’ve been away from WordPress for so long that they went and updated the publishing tool on me and I don’t know how to work it:

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/matthew-mcmullan/2011marinecorpsmarathonor10k

 so come on, man, be cool. it’s tax deductable!

I just baked two potatoes, and I’m hungrier than a mean son of a bitch. my attention is waning. but at least I got this much onto the blog this month, if only by half an hour. hello, September!

but seriously for a second: do you remember Van Morrison singing that song, ‘Gloria’? yeah. you’ve heard it before, becuase you grew up in America and have walked past a radio a couple of thousand times in your life. it’s pretty awesome. and you already knew that.

the scene: it is late. I’m watching – on the television, and out of one eye – ”Forbidden Planet,” and I’ve got no idea what’s going on in it. despite the hour, we’re still in hot-as-a-mug territory, and I can’t hear shit over these air conditioners.

a few months ago I noticed a restaurant up by Howard University Hospital that showed some promise as a breakfast spot — or, as much promise that a glance can provide anyway. so today, I went.
this place can be added to the short list of breakfast spots I’ve identified in the city. here’s a brief rundown of them — consider that I’m pretty easy-to-please foodwise, and I’m more impressed by ambiance and price. anyway, you’ve got:

The Capital City Diner, over on Bladensburg Road, which is about a mile from my brother’s house. it’s an honest-to-god silver bullet diner that the owner had trucked down here from New York state. the breakfast menu goes all day, and it’s open for nearly three days straight til the end of the weekends. also: while the coffee is mediocre, the food is good, and only slightly more expensive that it should be. and, bonus: it’s got a slushee machine.
as my brother has noted, the Capital City Diner in a shitty neighborhood without a lot of dining-out options, so success is a testament to how its mere presence is good for the surrounding community. but alas, that doesn’t make it a hidden gem; you’d hope that being out on Bladensburg would allow you to dodge white people bedecked in Wayfarers and the latest fads who hog the few booths with their laptops long after the table has been cleared, but this isn’t the case. if you scrap the wifi, the hipsters won’t come — it’s just like “Field of Dreams” said.

Trio Restaurant, at the corner of 17th and Q streets northwest, has been my go-to breakfast place since moving here. I think that’s because it’s always been sort of a landmark for me, owing to the infrequent late-night car tours I’ve taken with my brother over the years.
this place caters to a slightly different (gayer) crowd, and has a full bar. as such, you’ve got shit like eggs florentine and mimosas on the menu … neither of which I’m particularly drawn to, but I can appreciate all the same. Trio has been at this corner in northwest DC for decades — it’s the kind of fixture that I imagine the Capital City Diner will be in Trinidad if it stays put for a while –and I’m pretty sure some of the waiters there are lifers.
being a professional waiter in a place like Trio means you’re pretty attentive — they hook you up on coffee pretty regularly — and that you also might take your job too seriously — the maitre d’ once yelled at Aarti and made a big show of throwing a water glass into the garbage after the dog drank out of it. but it evens out. I think this place has wifi as well, but that works out okay because they’ve got plenty of seats. so you can take your time and read the paper. or check your email. or read a blog. jesus.

The Diner is not too far from Trio; up on 18th Street in Adams Morgan. it’s a goddamn zoo every time you walk in there. it never closes – which is its main draw – and is always packed. the food’s not bad, judging by the handful of times I’ve been in there. but despite having plenty of real estate, it always feels like its capacity is testing the limits of the city fire code.
this, I think, sucks balls: as mentioned before, the food isn’t bad, but it’s not cheap. that iss a knock. and, I don’t like bumping elbows with some other shlub when I’m trying to focus on the Metro section, and I don’t like being hot because of being in close proximity with too many of my fellow men. DC isn’t really that dense, population speaking, until you walk into a handful of places that make you rub shoulder to shoulder: places like Chinatown, the entire Metro system, and the Diner in Adams Morgan. and that is another knock.

Jimmy T’s Place on East Capitol and 5th Street is where you go, as Spencer said, “if you’ve got a copy of the Sunday paper and a couple of hours to kill.” I put that idea to the test a few months ago, and it worked out pretty well.
Jimmy T’s only takes cash. it’s a very small place, with a small counter and a couple of booths, but there was no line out the door to get in.  the food wasn’t too bad, and the coffee neither. to be fair, though, I’ve only been there the once, so I’m hardly an authority.

and then there was today’s restaurant: Torrie’s at Wilson, up across from Howard University Hospital. it was baking-ass hot this morning when I got there, and I wanted to read the paper so I could find out what the hell was going on in Norway (I didn’t; the Post’s story this morning was surprisingly bad, lacking in detail of what actually happened) and with the debt negotiations. I walked in with the intent to stay a while.  so I sat at the counter and ordered coffee, which the waiter kept refilling.  
this place isn’t going to float everyone’s boat. Torrie’s is a soul food restaurant, and judging by the scores of autographed pictures on the walls, the kind of place you show up to if you want to win a city government election or score a good photo op. I was the only white boy in the building for the hour I was there. the portions were big, the food was cheap, and there was plenty of room to spread out. also of note: they rolled a TV on a stand out in the back dining room so a couple of preschoolers could watch Saturday morning cartoons. legit.

other places I need to try:

Murray and Paul’s, up on 12th Street near Catholic, which I’m sure I would’ve gotten around to by now had I moved to Brookland;
the Florida Avenue Grill, which I find myself skeptical of; and …
I was going to say somewhere like Ted’s Bulletin over on Barracks Row, but I know I’ll hate it so I doubt I’ll ever go. it’ll be too expensive, and too crowded. so: you got any ideas?