(The bottom guy is Eric Bana and the top guy is Joe Mangiald;flakneowlllllllllllllio. I realize I should have put Eric on the top if I was going to list their names in this backward order but hey, it’s late and I really need to take a shower, and also sometimes I don’t completely think things through.)

I won’t go into her face or her impossibly-flat tummy because Photoshopping isn’t my main concern here.

My concern is that monstrosity of a dress, which I’d wager came directly from some sort of Project Runway All-Stars challenge / Lucky crosspromotion, Make a Dress Out of Items From CVS, using the following materials:

• Tissue Boxes
• Gum Wrappers
• Washcloths
• Hair nets
• Tampons

Seriously, who thought this dress was cover-worthy? But no, I’m wrong. It’s not from All-Stars (is anyone watching that? no? me either, didn’t think so). It’s Stella McCartney. And costs $3,845.

Bill was the new kid in school.
He’d taken the empty seat in front of me in reading.
We’d been paired up to work together on our King Lexicon reading dictionaries.
He hadn’t been in class all week.
Every day I’d look up at Mr. C., note Bill’s absence with a nod of my head, and give him a “What should I do?” shrug. He’d shrug me off and I’d work alone, bored.
Honestly, I barely knew him, aside from spending an hour a day with him for a few weeks, but I knew he was diabetic.
He got to have orange juice whenever he wanted.
I had a little crush on Bill.
He looked like an older Atreyu from The Neverending Story.

I don’t know the details, but there were complications from his diabetes, and he passed away over the previous weekend, which is why he wasn’t in class. Mr. C. must have known and never said a word. Most kids must have just assumed he had moved on, but Maureen’s mom was a nurse, so we knew.

I spent the rest of the party in the bathroom.
Not crying, just stunned.
Died? What does that even mean?
To a sixth-grader, not a whole lot.

At the agreed-upon time, my Dad picked me up. I sat up front, while my older brother Mike and his best friend Jamie sat in the back. They were sophomores in high school. They must’ve been really bored. It was Saturday night; we’d always listen to “Saturday Night at the Oldies” on the local radio station. The song “American Pie” came on; my Dad, Mike, and Jamie screamed the words at the top of their lungs. To this day, I have an absolute aversion to that song. I hate it because it reminds me of death.

It would get worse.

***

A few things happened that summer. I set off fireworks in the street outside my house with Mike and Jamie and twin boys who went to the rival Catholic high school. I forget their names but I believe they were very cute. I remember having so much fun that I turned to Mike and burst out with, “Mike, I love you!” and he looked at me in the strangest way, and sort of scoffed and gave me a hug with his arm hooked around my neck. He was in high school, for Pete’s sake. You can’t go around saying “I love you” to your little sister when you’ve also got your driver’s license, but I knew it.

Later that summer we went to a concert! My first concert: Billy Joel, Storm Front, at Hershey Park. My Dad went, and my Mom, and Mike, and my best friend at the time, Nicole. My Dad let Nicole and I wander through the crowd by ourselves, but I realized later he was watching us with his binoculars the whole time, because when a rough-looking biker started giving us a hard time, he was by our side in about 5 seconds.

I bought a Storm Front t-shirt. The one with the big red flag. So did Nicole. My brother got a different one, “Only the Good Die Young,” with a big circle and a cross and a rose and a whiskey bottle. It looked very Catholic and very scandalous at the same time.

***

Two years later, eighth grade for me. I was thinking about trying out for the volleyball team when I entered high school the following year, so my Dad was going to take me to a game to see what it was all about. Mike was a big-shot senior at this point, getting ready for his final wrestling season. He was good.

We were just getting ready to go the volleyball game when Mark, who happened to be my best friend at the time Katie’s older brother, ran up to our front porch. Mark and Katie lived two towns over, so it was odd that he was on foot. Mark and my brother weren’t especially close, so this was even more odd. Mark was drenched with sweat and crying, so it was triply odd.

“Jamie died,” Mark gasped when we opened the front door.
My Dad and I just stared at him.
“JamiediedisMikehome?” Mark repeated.
My Dad made him come inside and sit down.
My brother came downstairs; he had probably just gotten home from wrestling practice.
He had on his “Only the Good Die Young” shirt.
Of course he did; he wore it all the time even though it was fading and ripped.
My Dad and Mom and Mark and Mike went to the hospital.
I went to my room and did homework.
And then I probably read a Babysitter’s Club book.

The next day, it was all true. Jamie had had an aneurysm. He’d been out hunting, up in his tree stand, and felt something. And just like that, he was gone. He and Mike had just been elected co-captains of the wrestling squad. They would each keep that title through the season.

The local paper ran an article about his death, about the shirt my brother was wearing at the hospital, about the heartbreak. My high school would create a memorial award in Jamie’s name. My brother was the first recipient. Last year, as a senior, his son Nick received it.

I have no idea what kind of heartbreak my brother felt, losing his best friend.
We never talked about it, and I am not even sure I can imagine it.
I’m sure he thinks of him.

For Mike, and my Mom, and my Dad, “Only the Good Die Young” never plays too far past the opening bars. It’s too painful. I don’t disagree. But I have that same reaction to “American Pie,” too. It comes on, I turn it off. I didn’t know Jamie well but I can remember him clearly in that moment, singing happily, driving home after learning of Bill’s death. The two are intertwined in sadness in my memory, and it does seem equal parts maudlin and portent: The truth was in the title all along.

***

(This melancholy post was inspired by Will Stegemann’s project, A Year of Billy Joel, which made these long-buried memories pop back up in my brain. You should be reading it.)

Luckily, we live with two very willing subjects.

Namely, Miss Indiana Mousekowitz:

I love her little jellybean toes so very dearly.

And, of course, Mister Reno Diego Garcia:

We were in the middle of changing the sheets, and as he always does at that time, Reno came in and insisted on playing on every level of mattress, fitted sheet, flat sheet, fuzzy blanket, and duvet. I love how Scott managed to catch him in such an active pose — he really is an athletic cat, though he is also very evil. Don’t let the photo confuse you.

I was pleasantly surprised.

The Cults are fairly new (only about a 7 months old by their own admission) and they’ve got just one album, which I’m guessing they played in their entirety last night. There was never a moment where I felt like they were playing a bad song or a song I didn’t like. That makes me really excited for what they’ll do next.

Highlights of the show (I’ve included Spotify links to specific, available songs for the curious):

• Abducted — They opened with this song, which has a lovely back-and-forth between Madeline and Brian. One point against the show overall was that it seemed like both of their vocals needed to be turned up, especially through the first few songs.
• Never Heal Myself — There’s a lovely point of this song where all the instruments fade and Madeline sings, “Yeah I try to heal myself, and turn around cuz someone else, but I can never be myself … so fuck you.” You were really able to hear her voice — which is so clear and so gorgeous — and the expletive made the crowd go nuts.
• You Know What I Mean — The band introduced this song as their “slow jam.” So much screaming and angst, I beg to differ.
• Everybody Knows — If you’ve only got one album, you’ve got to do a cover. They went with a prettied-up version of this Leonard Cohen song.
• Go Outside — They saved this one for their encore, and very politely told the crowd that, no, really, this was their last song — they didn’t do the thing where they pretend to leave the stage, we all yell, and they come back. This is probably my favorite song on the album … mostly because I like to pretend my cat is singing it.
• The Crowd — The band played two shows at Black Cat, a 6 p.m. and a 9 p.m. We were at the early show, and I realize I’m old and crotchety, but the crowd was polite, calm, and sober, which was a treat. I’m not sure how often we’ll encounter that through the year. (Also, getting to go to a show AND be at home on the couch in my PJs reading a book before 9:30 p.m.? SCORE.)
• iPhones — It’s funny to watch people try to take photos of bands with their phones, all the pinching and stretching and fumbling and holding up in the air and the end result is never good. Though, Scott got a few decent shots with his new camera:

Cults at Black Cat 1/14/12

Cults Overall Grade: B+

Opening Band: Dirty Fences
You know how, when you go to the movies, the trailers usually match the genre of the full-length feature you’re there to see? If you’re at New Year’s Eve, you’re seeing other comedies. If you’re at Haywire, you’re seeing action.

The opening band for Cults, then, ran completely opposite of genre. Dirty Fences describe themselves as “soul punk rock and roll” and it was a bit jarring — we learned the first lesson of The Concert Project:

Always bring earplugs.

Where Cults are pop and all sweet, twee, Urban Outfitters in their presentation, Dirty Fences are all black leather jacket and swagger. They played fast, with no breaks between songs — almost like they wanted to get it over with (which I appreciated). The second and third songs they played were pretty good — they’ve only got two songs on Bandcamp but I don’t think either is what I heard and liked. Maybe I’ll kick myself for saying this one day, but: I wasn’t a fan at all.

Dirty Fences Overall Grade: D

Little did we know, Ethiopic shuts down entirely starting in mid-December through the first week of January … so we weren’t able to finish. Out of luck, out of ideas, and, well, lazy, we ended up at Graffiato, where we made a rule that we couldn’t order anything we had ever had before — we ended up having broccolini, wild boar, and the Jersey Shore pizza.

Here’s what we learned: The dishes that are considered “great” at a restaurant got that way for a reason. (Because they’re great.) The dishes you don’t hear a lot about are under-the-radar for a reason. (Because they’re not that great.) Lesson learned: Stick to what you love.

And that’s it. It was a great year, we achieved our goal of getting out and trying different places, we fell in love with Penn Quarter, and we managed to do it all without gaining a shitload of weight.

The Restaurant Project was a success.

But we’re over it.
In 2012, there’s a new monthly event: The Concert Project.
We’ve got plans and bands and tickets lined up already for January, February, March, and April.
The first one is tonight.
First recap, soon.

We’ll also be cooking a lot more at home in 2012, because we can’t afford all that dining out and all those concert tickets. Last night we made linguine carbonara and braised and glazed Brussels sprouts (both recipes courtesy of Mark Bittman). So good, right?

Scott got a fancy camera for Christmas so expect more photos in 2012, too.

Previously:
November = PS7
October = We the Pizza
September = Four Sisters
August = We Suck
July = Graffiato
June = Smith Commons
May = Lyon Hall
April = Pubbelly (Miami)
March = Volt
February = Kushi
January = Let’s not talk about it.

I will argue this point to death.

Which makes it utterly ridiculous that Apple stores:

1. Do not have that song on their “tester” iPhones and iPods.
2. Do not allow customers to unplug the headphones and then subsequently plug them into their own, Kids-With-Guns-loaded iPhone.
3. Allow their employees to look at you like you’re a crazy person when you try to explain how there is only one decision-making appropriate song for new headphones. HEY, YOU’RE THE ONE IN THE FAKE TORTOISESHELL GLASSES FROM FOREVER 21. YOUR VISION’S 20/20, ISN’T IT?? WHO’S THE ASSHOLE NOW???

Stupid.
What’s that?
You don’t charge a restocking fee?
So I could just take these home, listen to whatever I want and then mull it over for a bit?
Ohhhhhh.

Spotify

Maybe one of the reasons I didn’t have a favorite album this year is because I listened to such a wide variety of music thanks to a premium Spotify membership. Ten bucks a month gets me unlimited access to any album, anywhere — I use Spotify for gym playlists, for driving, for work … everywhere. My iPod has mostly been rendered useless in favor of my iPhone and the Spotify app.

As far as albums I did love this year … The Black Keys (Duh), Jay-Z/Kanye’s Watch the Throne, The Streets (Computers and Blues), Katy B (On a Mission), Patrick Stump (Soul Punk, a guilty pleasure), and hands down — Cults. Maybe I’m forgetting something but overall not a great year for music, 2012 holds more excitement: Sleigh Bells, Heartless Bastards, Santogold, Cat Power, Air The Shins, The XX. The New Pornographers aren’t on that list but that must be an oversight.

Equinox

It’s funny, in my 2010 wrap-up post, I wrote: And as far as resolutions go, I’m not going to kid myself: I won’t go to the gym, I won’t watch what I eat for longer than a few days, and I won’t be as frugal as I’d like.

Two of those three things ended up being false, starting in August. I met a new friend who referred me to this place called Equinox, which turned out to be a gym for snobs like me … ultra clean, modern, hip, filled with Kiehl’s products, and conveniently right down the street. After my knee injury, I spent about two years just being sedentary. I enjoyed it (I got to spend more time with Indy, after all), but when I joined Equinox, a lightbulb sort of went off, and I remembered that I have, historically, not been a lazy sloth, but actually fairly active and borderline athletic. I’ve tapped into that again in the back half of 2011 — I’m probably the fittest I’ve been, in life, and it’s thanks to Equinox for creating an environment where I want to be, where I want to get sweaty, and where I don’t just feel like I belong to a gym, but I feel like I belong. It sounds pretty corny, but I’m really pleased to be back on track with my health after an injury and an extended pity party.

The Earthquake

If you had told me a year ago that I was going to experience a mid-sized earthquake in 2011, I would have thought, “Ugh, great, I guess I’m going to stupid L.A. sometime this year.” But that wasn’t how it worked out; on August 23 I was standing at work, on the 16th floor, in the corner office peering out the window, wondering if the floor always shook so much when a big truck went by but hey there aren’t any trucks OH SHIT THIS IS AN EARTHQUAKE. And then I briefly thought, oh, huh, is this how I’m going to die? That obviously didn’t happen, but the 30 seconds or so that the building rocked and the light fixtures swung back and forth was utterly surreal and humbling. The earthquake, combined with Disaster Commute in January, proved that I become somewhat hysterical at first in dangerous situations, but then quickly become resigned to my fate. Which is good to know.

Lush

I’m not going to get sick at all in the winter of 2011/2012. It’s partially because I got a flu shot but I will also give Lush South Beach credit for this as well. Scott and I took two trips to Miami this year, and during both we made several visits to this dive bar, which calls itself “Day Care for Drunks,” and is disgustingly, filthy dirty, yet we played endless games of beer pong. The amount of bacteria I introduced into my body — and subsequently defeated — has undoubtedly turned my immune system into a goddamn monster. (Also one night we were there I did pushups on the sidewalk outside with a former drug dealer, so yaaaay for making new friends!)

The Rest

It’s been an up-and-down year, to say the least. I won’t go into the downs. But the other ups: I ran two 5Ks, I got to sit ON THE FIELD at RFK stadium for a D.C. United game, I ate at a ton of excellent restaurants (Graffiato, Volt, Kushi, Pubbelly), I fell in love with Lululemon, my best friend left Hawaii and now lives 10 minutes from me, I kidnapped a panda from a zoo and now I feed it bamboo all the time.

What?

There are so many thriving restaurants (PS7, Graffiato, Rasika to name just a few that are within walking distance of each other, not to mention The Source and Riot Act Comedy and Poste), you can’t miss on a night out in this area, unless there’s a Caps game you’ve forgotten about and parking is a nightmare, which is what happened to us for November’s project. But we survived.

It’s been on the project docket since winning the people’s choice award at the Top-Dog Half Smoke Challenge back in May … but we finally made it to PS7 in November. Here’s what we ordered:

• Nutty goat flatbread — I loved this. LOVED it. You can’t do better than bread and goat cheese, but toss in walnut butter? Amazing, and the portion is perfectly sized for two people to split.
• Roasted fig salad — This dish got rave reviews in a recent writeup in the Washingtonian, but I wasn’t a fan. The figs combined with the candied orange and the cashew vanilla were too rich and sweet, and the frisée didn’t do anything to undercut it. However, the ginger crumbs were yum.
• Black pepper gnocchi — Scott ordered this as his entree, for a compare-and-contrast with Graffiato’s. He loved it; I had a few bites — it’s very good, a little heavier than Mike Isabella’s, and not at all black peppery.
• Roasted pork loin — I am unable to resist a menu item that includes Brussels sprouts. These, however, weren’t particularly memorable. The loin itself was really nicely cooked, with just the right amount of crunch on the skin, which made the crispy onions feel like overkill.

The Verdict: I’d definitely go back to PS7, but I’d stick to the lounge, where the flatbreads are available, along with the restaurant’s award-winning half smoke (you can see the trophy from the contest above the bar!). They’ve also got a good-looking selection of cheeses and delicious burgers, and an extensive beer and wine menu. Who’s up for cocktails?

Previously:
October = We the Pizza
September = Four Sisters
August = We Suck
July = Graffiato
June = Smith Commons
May = Lyon Hall
April = Pubbelly (Miami)
March = Volt
February = Kushi
January = Let’s not talk about it.

Sorry, Spike.

Previously:
September = Four Sisters
August = We Suck
July = Graffiato
June = Smith Commons
May = Lyon Hall
April = Pubbelly (Miami)
March = Volt
February = Kushi
January = Let’s not talk about it.