Washington D.C. My Hometown

Saving With An Electric Range

2012-01-16T22:54:00.000-05:00

This Pepco ad featuring my mother appeared in 1950 in the Washington Post.

Blob's Park Americana by Ben Pagac

2011-04-06T10:24:00.002-04:00

Coming of age in the Maryland 'burbs in the 1970s inevitably lead many of us to a large, hill-side German polka joint within a stone's throw of the BW Parkway. It's curb appeal wasn't apparent at first. The name "Blob's" perhaps only drew those with a smirky sense of humor. (In fact, some might have been taken there by their parents. Ugh!)

But once discovered, it was natural to develop a soft spot for the place. One reason high on the list- cheap pitchers of beer. Even better, a weird policy of charging a $1 (returnable) deposit on the pitcher. (Did they really fit in a purse?) This turned out to be a source of much-needed income for those who closed the joint, capitalizing on the forgetful. If you were fast enough, your night could be free!

But it was more than just cheap beer. Despite bathing in the excitement of the creative Punk and New Wave DC scene bubbling during that time, there was something comforting about watching polyester-suited gentlemen and perfectly coiffed ladies move to the rhythmically predictable. And how could you help not join in the Chicken Dance, still secure in the knowledge that your ripped jeans and Ramones T-shirt made it very clear that you were just visiting-not one of “them.” It seemed so afar from what our ears and bodies were tuning into, that it sounded and felt...well, good!

Remarkably Blob’s still exists. And looks pretty much the same. Sadly no more pitcher deposits. But the mural of Prague (huh?) is still behind the bandstand. And it is now showcasing diverse, danceable music. Their once-a-month Honky-tonk night has been building steam. The familiar neon “Blob’s” sign fell down 10 years ago, but rest assured, Blob’s is still there- for now.

My Mother's Obituary by Emma Brown for The Washington Post

2011-02-03T08:32:00.001-05:00

Bernice "Bebe" Cokinos, 93, a native Washingtonian who modeled for local companies and stores in the 1950s and '60s, died Jan. 15 of complications from heart disease at her home in Potomac.
Mrs. Cokinos was once featured with her mother and daughter in a Washington Post story titled "Three generations in size 9!"

Her modeling clients included Woodward & Lothrop and Lansburgh's department stores as well as the utility company Pepco. She modeled in runway shows at the Shoreham and Mayflower hotels and for magazine and newspaper advertisements.

In 1958, she won a local radio station's beauty contest for women over 40. Her prize was a backyard swimming pool, which she turned down, telling a reporter at the time: "I don't swim if I can help it. I'm strictly an indoor girl."

Bernice Calvert was born in Washington and graduated in 1935 from the old Western High School, where she met her future husband, George Cokinos.

His family owned a bar and grill at the corner of Macomb Street and Wisconsin Avenue NW. The young couple worked at the restaurant during the 1940s before moving to Potomac in 1955.
Her husband of 72 years died in 2008. Survivors include four children, 11 grandchildren; and seven great-grandchildren.

Greek To Me

2010-07-22T17:58:00.000-04:00

My cousin George Alec Cokinos made a copy of this photograph for me. It was taken in 1926 on Macomb Street near the corner of Wisconsin Avenue. The man in the picture is my grandfather, Peter George Cokinos. (That guy in the chair is actually our great grandmother from Greece.) My grandfather built and lived in the building to their left which is now Cactus Cantina.

Anyone Remember the Madrillon?

2010-06-23T15:03:00.000-04:00

According to my father, The Madrillon was the place to go in Washington in the 1940s. That's my dad, George Cokinos, with the wacky tie on the far left. Guess they had a band there, too...

Bring your own memories or just your curiosity to the Historical Society this Saturday June 26 for a trip in the way back machine with Jeff Krulik:

Eat, Drink and Be Merry in 1950s-60s DC:
A Panel Discussion, Slide Show and Oral History Presentation
with the Photos of Emil Press 2:30- 4:00
801 K Street, NW at Mount Vernon Square

Free

Emancipated But Still Vote Free Here in DC

2010-04-16T11:34:00.000-04:00

It's Emancipation Day here in the District of Columbia which is sometimes called " the capital of the free world." In reality our fair city is a bizarre little fiefdom where the denizens are still denied the right to vote basically because Republicans fear that one more Democratic voice will tip the world into the abyss. DC Vote is working to change that. Check it out.

Sometimes Good Things Don't Come To Those Who Wait

2010-04-15T11:29:00.005-04:00

(My neighborhood post office early this morning.)

Tomorrow may be Emancipation Day, but today-I proclaim April 15- Procrastination Day.

Mayor For Life

2010-03-03T09:36:00.009-05:00

Marion Barry. He got his comeuppance in DC yesterday when the council censured him for unethical conduct, but as a DC native, I feel a bit sorry for him today. He was just doing what he has always done.

I remember in 1994, when Barry was re-elected-post that little crack smoking incident- I was depressed that people would fall for this guy, again, but then I was driving around Ward Circle when I heard Mayor Barry on the radio saying that "White Ward Three" would just have to get over it. I had to laugh.

He was right, and over the years I realized this was a smart surprising man, an Eagle Scout with a Masters in chemistry, and a big problem with substance abuse. His penchant for cronyism stretches as far back as his years of public service. Even as a child I remember my father complaining about him, but Barry himself will be the first to tell you he has done nothing wrong from "the bitch set me up" to the latest girlfriend incident which got him censured."Those are all just distractions, efforts by the government and the media to distract me, to discombobulate me and separate me from the community," he said. In 1992 his campaign slogan was " He may not be perfect, but he's perfect for DC." How perfect, how DC is that?

His biggest problem is every now and then he gets caught.

Still the bottom line is Marion Barry spent most of his life as a public servant and a Black civil rights activist. He will always be a part of our landscape- a local legend captured in wax at Madame Tussaud's beating out the likes of Oprah Winfrey and Cal Ripken Jr in a popularity contest. He's also immortalized in a song by Jake Flack which I'd like to echo here: "Say what you will about him. I'll never judge that man except when I'm back in the alley next to my double wide 2 ply can. It's easy to form an opinion from the outside looking in, but Strosnider's, Hechinger's and Peoples Drug can't hold a candle to him. Marion Barry he's the man- he brought us the Supercan....and I just want to shake his hand and say thank you."

Thank you.

Snow Musing by Lynn Thorp

2010-02-11T09:46:00.001-05:00

Nicole and Richard, December 2009

Big snows are (were?) rare enough around here that traditions and memories are firmly imprinted. My mom had traditions: always bake or make a big pot of something and instruct Dad to take an Irish Coffee to Elmo next door while he was shoveling. Without even realizing why, I stopped on the way home Friday for Irish Coffee makings. I didn't even remember the tradition until today when I offered one to my shoveling neighbor Cece.

When the news reports previous historic snow totals, they all prompt a memory:

1979 - Wearing what Dan called "weird chic" cloth Chinese shoes while walking home to 4884 MacArthur from an all-night party in Foxhall Village. Even the drugstore and Safeway didn't open for a day or two and people were skiing down the Boulevard.

1982 - Walking the several miles home from work at Georgetown University to find roommate Matthew Klena watching the news of the Air Florida crash and the Metro accident.

1996 - Being snowed in here, in Mt. Rainier, for over a week with young children. They got so sick of sledding that they just wanted to play on the plow hills at the corner. That was easy because these plow hills were right in front of the house and the kids didn't need to be so well suited up.

What will be this season's memories? Well, first the sheer number of events, including the "mess up holiday plans storm" of December 2009. Then the January 30 six inch interlude during which we held Bob's big birthday party and grilled in the backyard. For the "big one" which just passed, it will be neighbors Kathy and John coming every night to play board games with Richard and me. And neighbor Dave and I embarking upon a committed relationship with Battlestar Gallactica by watching the first disc. Also our local brewery/restaurant Franklins has a new brewer and tonight's "meet the brewer/try two new beers" will stick in my mind because many of us who made it there hadn't been anywhere in days and yet another big snow was beginning. Staff were outside to push people out of the parking lot.

It's easy to make fun of snow hysteria, but it can be rough when the power goes out or the infrastructure collapses in various ways. But it also is just unusual enough to put us in a festive mood and makes us mark those friends and family who get us through, and it imprints traditions that we barely know we have. Fare well Washington DC area friends... spring will arrive for us.

Commander Salamander Blues by Chip Py

2010-02-05T10:02:00.003-05:00

Twenty five years ago Commander Salamander was really something to see. We used to drive all the way from Nags Head to buy clothing, sunglasses, buttons and all of the radical raging supplies a punk rock kid needed. I was really heartbroken when I heard that the store was closing. I went one more time to say goodbye, but when I walked through the doors, I had a better understanding of why it had met its demise. Except for a Cobain poster over the register, this store was no longer unique. It looked like any other store in any other shopping mall anywhere. Man, this was where Andy Warhol would shop when he came to DC! Someone totally mainstreamed their inventory and their presentation. No corrosion in their conformity. Somewhere down the line Commander had ceased to be cutting edge and unique and, like almost everything else in Georgetown (and retail in general) it became just another common denominator.

My Mother Slept Here (and here)

2009-10-13T20:58:00.021-04:00

I don't know where George Washington slept, but I do know that my mother, Bernice Bailey Calvert, gave him a run for the money. Her family moved at least eight times while she was growing up, and all of those addresses were within the confines of the District of Columbia starting with the old Sibley Hospital on North Capitol Street where she was born on November 18, 1917.

Wednesday was my mother's birthday, and I'd planned a tour of all her former residences, but first we needed sustenance. We stopped in at my favorite place for soul food-the Hitching Post near the Old Soldier's Home for a fabulous fried chicken feast thanks to the proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Carter.

After the birthday lunch, we headed to 1346 Quincy Street NW- one of the many addresses I have for the Calvert family.

Built in 1918, these homes must have been fairly new when my family lived there. (As far as I can tell this was the second place the family lived- the first being 2107 F Street-"near the gas works" according to my mother.)

We then headed west to Mt Pleasant neighborhood where the family settled for quite a while though they did still get around. The next address, 1370 Irving Street has given way to "new luxury condos," but the Argonne Apartments- built in 1921 at 1629 Columbia Road- are still standing. The family lived in two different apartments there. They also lived in the Chalfonte- built on Argonne Place in 1918- right behind the Argonne. Mom remembers lying in her bed at night hearing the lions roar at the National Zoo down the hill.

The house at 2606 Motzart Place is still there although the big side yard where my mom climbed a tree has given over to a parking lot just like Joni Mitchell predicted.

She remembers the floor plan of this place- having a fireplace angled between the living room and the hall to the kitchen. She could walk out her back door to HD Cooke Elementary which was on the other side of the block.

Cutting across town we passed by the rather grand Broadmoor-3601 Connecticut Ave. My grandparents were the first managers when it opened in 1929- just before the Big Crash. They lived in at least 4 different apartments there. (Is anybody keeping count?)

Back out on the Avenue, I thought we were finished when Mom started waving at yet another building on the corner of Connecticut and Ordway. I veered over to the curb and found out that she lived there as well when she was about seventeen. She graduated from Western High School that year in 1935, and it was from this place that my mother left "home" for good.

The Broadmoor-Once Upon A Time and Still Here Today

2009-09-16T16:59:00.012-04:00

My grandfather, Roger Louis Calvert, was the first manager of The Broadmoor Apartment Building on Connecticut Avenue when it opened in 1929 which was a long way from the farm he grew up on outside of Meridian, Missisissippi. Here is a clipping from the Washington Post:

Today the Broadmoor is a modern co-op, but still has the details of grandeur. A friend of mine is a current resident and is looking to gather history about it. Recently she found out about another restaurant there (pre-1948) called The Marguery.

If you have any stories or memories, please write or leave a comment here.

So Long Old Friend by Chip Py

2009-06-12T17:14:00.002-04:00

I bought this TV in 1986 at the Peoples Drug Store on Old Georgetown Road for $129.00. It was a wedding gift to my sister. For the last ten years, it has been my basement TV. Something to turn on while I painted furniture, strung up my fishin' poles or any other basement project. It has no remote, the channels are changed with a knob, and it gets UHF! (that round thing on top is a UHF Antennae) I have chosen not to buy it a conversion box because it just doesn't seem right.

I will miss my basement TV. It will probably sit in my basement for a few more years until I take it to the dump. Or perhaps, like LPs, I could wait for the analog TV comeback! That High Def is probably just a fad. One day my TV will be retro cool, and I'll be cutting edge!!

Georgetown by David Arnson

2009-04-06T14:55:00.023-04:00

I always loved Georgetown. I remember going for the first time with my parents when I was about 8 or 9 years old and marveling at the hippies, boys and girls strolling down the sidewalks with their bare feet and guitars, the lava lamps in the gift store windows, and the psychedelic poster shops. I still have my "White Rabbit" poster from the East Totem West Company! Georgetown was such a hip and fascinating place. In junior high and high school I would take the bus down Wisconsin Avenue on weekends. I might eat an amazing sandwich at The French Market atop the hill across from Dumbarton Oaks, and then stroll down to the bookstores at Wisconsin and P or the one down by the brick Canal Street mall between M street and the river, to search for science fiction and Conan books.

I would always check out the record stores, the one on Wisconsin above P had (to my teen eyes) the unnerving poster of John and Yoko nude, and my fave was Orpheus Records on M street. I remember (I'd read reviews in Rolling Stone or Crawdaddy or something) asking the bearded hippie hipster behind the counter whether I should buy the new LP by Bob Weir or Blue Oyster Cult. He started to mock me by loudly chanting (his coworkers chimed in) "Blue Oyster Cult! Blue Oyster Cult! Blue Oyster Cult!" which to them clearly seemed like a joke band. I went home with Blue Oyster Cult, and damned if I didn't like it! So what if it wasn't hippie music? Orpheus would host cool Halloween parties, and the most eccentric people would show up, my fave being the striking blond with the albino lil ' ferret climbing around her neck. I remember me and my buddy buying Mott the Hoople's Mott and Johnny Winter's Still Alive and Well on Halloween night 1973. ( I think I was in 10th grade?)

We all knew it was uncool to hang out at Blimpie's on the corner of Wisconsin and M, because "that's where the narcs hang out." Ikaros Pizza on M (where I learned what a gyro was) around the corner was way cooler. Also on M you could see cool arty movies at the Biograph and at the Cerberus 1/2/3 , with its cool art deco neon numbers in its window. Also notable was the always amazing Key, that would screen Rocky Horror Picture Show and Eraserhead- both among the best variety of midnight movies in town.

We were barely (actually maybe not really) old enough to go see Patti Smith at the Cellar Door in 1975, but she was like no other performer I'd seen before: cracking jokes, spitting, arching her back upside down on all fours doing a yoga bridge on Ain't it Strange.

Across M street from the Cellar Door was Desperados, a great club that mainly featured roots music, but later hosted lots of new wave acts like us Insect Surfers. Next door was a multi level army surplus store where I kept myself attired in Italian and Belgian army jackets. If you walked further west, you could find the famous Exorcist stairwell that the priest tumbles down in the movie. And let's not forget The Bayou, at the end of Wisconsin where it hit the Potomac, had some of the best club shows in DC.(photo by David Nuttycombe)

WGTB, broadcasting from Georgetown University, was the absolute coolest station, and I remember attending a rally (unsuccessfully) to keep it on the air. (The Jesuit administration evidently didn't like them running an ad for a clinic that sponsored abortions.) I got turned on to such a wide array of music from WGTB. G.U. had the most beautiful campus with its medieval looking buildings and courtyards. In between college semesters I worked at the university hospital while punk rock was slowly taking the city by storm. You could go to Haagen-Dasz Ice Cream and talk to a slightly goofy Henry Garfield behind the scoop counter before he joined Black Flag as "Henry Rollins" to became a professional angry guy. (photo by Alan Kresse)

I still miss the old Little Tavern Hamburgers ("Buy 'em by the bag!") on the east side of Wisconsin and P, with its white and green 40s style architecture and teeny burgers with oniony lumps o' meat. The Little Tavern chain was a late-night mainstay for me, and I sadly saw them slowly disappear from D.C., then Bethesda, Wheaton, and finally, the last store in College Park.
Also let's not forget: The Brickskellar, a great student haven for a myriad of beer varieties and the sadly mundane tasting buffalo burgers. Commander Salamander- the shop where the punk world clashed with the poser fashion world. AND Kemp Mill Records, The Crazy Horse, Poseurs, Olssen's Record and Tape Exchange, Blues Alley, Up Against the Wall-I know I'll think of more later! All of these places have stories.

I drove through Georgetown recently, and it seemed to have become a lot more upscale and definitely less interesting, but I will always have great memories of its vibrant pop-cultural past. BCC High School Yearbook 1976

Nick's Valet by Nick Ruggieri

2009-02-17T14:00:00.007-05:00

My name is Nick Ruggieri and I am a second-generation Italian-American raised in the Washington, DC area. My memories of growing up in Washington have strong roots with my Sicilian grandfather, Nonno, as he was affectionately called by my family. Nonno was born Nicola Ruggieri in Fiumadinisi, Sicily in 1896 and came to America in his early twenties. Fiumadinisi was a small town where crime was relatively non-existent due in large part to a town center that engaged in public displays of its own form of civil law. Those caught stealing got a finger chopped off in front of all to witness. It was that simple…you do the crime, you pay the price.

Nonno’s travel experience to this country was never discussed and we gather his time at Ellis Island was quite unpleasant. Legal entry to the United States required a sponsor from one’s country and $50 cash in one’s pocket. In years to come, my grandfather sponsored other Sicilian immigrants who followed his lead in making a new start and finding work in America.

In the early 1930s Nonno launched his business, Nick’s Valet on 14th and Irving Streets NW. He set out to establish himself as a shoe cobbler and haberdasher of sorts, providing shoe repair and design, as well as tailoring, dry cleaning, and shoeshine services. The back of the shop housed living quarters in which he and my grandmother, Nonna, raised two daughters and one son - my dad. All were born with the assistance of a midwife in this tiny little apartment. The family later moved a few blocks away to 3805 13thStreet NW. They lived in a beautiful row house with three floors, each having long narrow rooms that seemed to stretch on forever. Planted in the backyard were wonderful fig trees that many Italians seemed to cherish back then.

As kids growing up in the 6os my brother and I had the wonderful opportunity to work in Nonno’s shop performing the more menial tasks - sweeping floors, working the cash register and greeting the customers, but our greatest joy came in observing and talking with Nonno’s employees. By the time we started frequenting the shop, most of the older Sicilian workers had either retired or passed on. They were replaced by African-American men hired by Nonno. Two guys I will never forget were Joe the shoeshine man and Louis the tailor.

The shop shoeshine stand, quite in vogue back then, consisted of five leather-cushioned chairs that sat high upon two steps of smooth white marble. Joe would grab his tools of the trade and begin slapping shoe polish directly from his hands to the shoes. With a brush in each hand, he’d go about polishing the shoes in a rhythmic pattern that sounded quite like a jazz drummer playing with brushes. Next he used his buffing cloth to draw a brilliant shine out of each shoe. When he snapped that cloth three times over each shoe, you knew his work was complete. Man, in all my then-eight years of existence that was the coolest music I ever heard coming out of a human being! I truly believe my interest in drumming came from watching Joe do his thing.

Louis the tailor, on the other hand, was a character to say the least. By week’s end, when Friday rolled around, Louis was already half in the bag and spinning more yarns than cloth. He shared wild stories with my brother and me, staring at us with his gleaming madman eyes, while his wicked smile proudly showed off his two gold teeth. He often argued with Nonno, and I can recall one incident in particular in which Louis threw a shoe at my grandfather beaming him right on the head. My grandfather wasn’t the kind of guy to take crap from anyone, and many times my dad had to jump in between those two to keep the peace. One Saturday morning I accompanied my dad to the DC penitentiary, which at the time was located next to the DC Armory. I distinctly recall waiting in the car while my father trudged through the gates to bail Louis out from yet another Friday night venture that landed him in the drunk tank. (My father said it was the eeriest feeling to have those gates slam shut behind him, and I often recalled those words when growing up - they helped me in choosing between right and wrong on many an occasion.) After what seemed like an eternity, my dad finally re-emerged through the gates with Louis staggering behind him, sporting a fat shiner on his right eye and reeking of cheap booze. We drove Louis straight to the shop to start his work day not even stopping for a cup of coffee. Louis may have had his shortcomings but he was a good man and I loved him dearly, as did all who came into contact with him.

Not only were those two guys a constant source of wonder to me but the endless stream of persons who walked through Nonno’s door on 14th Street were like none other I had ever experienced in my lifetime. But I’ll save those stories for another time.

Nonno’s shop burned down in the ’68 riots and for years there was an empty lot where Nick’s Valet once stood. From time to time I would drive by and just stop and stare, remembering what once was. I would still have the same special feelings that I once had as a kid on that block. Some memories are just etched in time.

The Last Valentine

2009-02-12T13:39:00.001-05:00

My parents George and Bebe were born and raised in Washington DC, but this isn't really a DC story so much as a love story that happened here. As far as I know my mom and dad have always tried to celebrate Valentine's Day. Maybe it was because they had a rare sort of love- the kind that lasts. They met while still in high school at Western and weathered deep family disapproval over their multicultural backgrounds. My grandfather forbid all his local business friends to hire his son in an effort to thwart the young couple's chances long enough for my father to come to his senses- which he never did. He stayed in love with my mother for over seventy years. And it's not too dramatic to say that only death could part them.
That's a lot of Valentines.
Though my father was a warm and funny man, he rarely showed his romantic side, but I have written proof:

(Get the Kleenx now)

Here is a note my father wrote sometime in the last 10 years when he was in his eighties:

"Dearest One,

Why can I not say the words I can write. At least once a day and sometimes more often I think how much I love you, not only as a wife, but as a friend and companion....My love is 60 times stronger as each year has gone by."

Or this one written when they had been married over 65 years:

"As we sit night after night watching T.V. I often think what a beautiful woman you are not only in body, but also your mind."

Most of these he signed "George", but I liked the one that ends "Love, Your What's His Face- GPC"

My father died shipboard one year ago today, but he had thought ahead and bought my mother a valentine before they went on what would be their last cruise. We found it unsigned. It was one of many such trips that my father worked hard for all his life. On one of their first cruises, my mother spotted a clause in the contract that stated a child could stay in their room for free. I was the baby of the family, but in my early 20s I wasn't up for bunking in with the parental units. My older sister, however, had raised a family and divorced by then and was happy to go. (She was here after known as "the child.") On their last cruise, my father tripped on the stairs and that was pretty much it. My mother blames the sneakers he was wearing. We still find it easier to pretend he isn't really gone, but he is.

My dad loved many things- his family first. He loved dogs, and cars and Home Depot. He loved to travel especially to Greece. He loved the beach. He loved chocolate, Tootsie Rolls, half smokes and Greek chicken with macaroni. He loved to tell stories. He sang and sneezed loudly and could make a great egg sandwich. He loved practical jokes, and getting a bargain. He loved to make people laugh.
And now I know he loved my mother with a fierce and steadfast heart that continues to inspire me even after he is gone. That unsigned valentine speaks volumes now.

Report From The Front by Lynn Thorp

2009-01-22T22:53:00.006-05:00

(the scene over @ Hugh and Sylvia's)

1-20-09

I am in my living room in my pajamas at 11:17 a.m. on Inauguration Day crying my eyes out. There are many reasons to be moved today, but I am overwhelmed by an email I just read from my Dad, Mat Thorp, DC native, World War II veteran and long-time Republican voter. He was commenting on an email I sent him last night about all the things I had been doing this weekend and my plans for today. He wrote: “Our new President would be proud of your diligence.”

“Our new President” did me in because those three words tell you so much about my Dad. My Mom and Dad believed in voting and in contributing however you could. They were not activists the way we think of them in my world, but I have learned to see how their influence shaped my life. They saw government and military careers as a noble calling. They raised us to watch NASA launches because they were enormous human achievements by some of our brightest minds. They always voted, even when they had to vote absentee because Mom was not able to get around. As a DC resident most of his life, Dad couldn’t vote until 1964 so he takes the privilege seriously. In 1976, the first year I was eligible to vote, he said “I don’t care what Communist you vote for, just vote.”

Despite being a McCain supporter, Dad spent this election season – all 2 years of it – proud of the enthusiasm and effort on the part of my friends and his, too. Right now he is at the home of my college buddies and our dear friends-like-family Sylvia and Hugh partying with friends who live in that part of town – Democrats all. He’s the one who taught me the beauty of the peaceful transition of power. In his Parade magazine letter to his daughters this weekend, Our New President said “ ...it is only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you will realize your true potential.” Now I know where I heard that idea before.

The foundation of the democratic system is that today, Barack Obama is indeed “Our President,” no matter who you are. My Mom, Lynnette Wilson Thorp, born and raised in Yell County, Arkansas would be beside herself. Thanks Dad for being a role model for all of us. You are a class act.

Out With The Old

2009-01-15T13:21:00.000-05:00

One after one they fall, those old dusty places that no one will ever be able to replace because they belong to another time. The Market Inn is the latest casualty in the name of progress. I know I'm a little weird attached as I am to the rock holes and relic type restaurants, but I also recognize that history is being obliterated, and that the value of these lost places has no price tag. (Well, maybe pieces of it have a price tag which is why I was able to liberate the upright piano when the Roma auctioned its contents. It's a great old work horse that needs to be put out to pasture according to Bobby Birdsong, but I can't bring myself to do it and so it sits, moldering in my living room- still reeking of cigarettes on hot summer days.) The Market Inn auction is later this month.

The new trend towards reviving the town center is a good idea, but how did we stray so far from the originals? Silver Spring and Hyattsville were towns in their own rite, but now their new "down towns" have an interchangeable feel. And I just can't imagine people working their whole lives in a Baja Fresh as they did in the old family run places. Hyattsville now boasts an arts district which is a great idea, but part of this includes the most sterile "urban row homes" to house bohemia that I've ever seen in the new town center behind PG Plaza. Somebody needs to go in there with a case of spray paint. And I doubt any of the new restaurants will be collecting nudes, or full suits of armour or hunting trophies like they did in the Market Inn, the Orleans House and The Roma. Ulysses Auger, of Blackie's House of Beef once built an annex called Lulu's which was dedicated to his wife's one time experience as a Queen of Mardi Gras. Now that's what I call a theme restaurant!

Sprinkled here and there the old and odd places are still clinging to life- like Tastee Diner, Crisfield's, Vincino's and god bless Roger Miller's African Restaurant. Franklin's is a great blend of new and old- housed in an old hardware store and serving some of the best beer in the area. And one of my all time favorites is The Hitching Post where you can get a fried chicken sandwich which boasts at least 5 pieces of bird and almost as an afterthought two pieces of Wonder bread on the side. Here's a picture of my mom on her ninetieth plus birthday ( you heard me) and her chicken sandwich. It just doesn't get much better than this.

A 9:30 CHRISTMAS by Mark Opsasnick

2008-12-02T11:24:00.003-05:00

It was Christmas morning 1999. After a Silent Night I awoke in a Silent House, greeted only by weak strains of sunlight that filtered through the tattered curtains of my bedroom window. I lumbered down the stairs and found no fancy presents under the plastic tree, but my self-induced holiday cheer remained intact. This time around I had made special plans to gift-wrap my own little treat – with the on-coming Washington, DC holiday season filled with waves of joyful tourists energetically visiting the various monuments, gaping at the magnificent Capitol and deftly dodging daredevil cabbies, I would get a jump on the multitudes and intrepidly embark on a special pre-noon pilgrimage to the remains of an inner-city rock and roll den that still harbored ghosts from DC’s musical past. It would be a Cool Yule indeed.

I hopped in my big black Buick and departed for the city, keenly aware that not many people realized that the nation’s capital stands still on Christmas Day. The kids stay in their homes and break their newly-acquired toys, most adults hide indoors and either prep for church services or ponder visits to nearby relatives, and miscellaneous others remain holed up in their bedrooms until the visions of sugar plums have had their final dance. As a result, the inner core of the city is left to slumber underneath covers of glass-and-concrete structures that tower over empty streets. On this one day of the year, Washington rests in peace, if only for a short while.

I wheeled the Buick down 10th Street NW past the MLK Library and instinctively swung right at the next intersection. At the middle of the block I cut the engine, noted the exact time – 9 a.m. – and stepped out of the vehicle to take a long look at my strangely serene surroundings. Never in my life had I experienced a more eerie sense of calm then on this particular morning. The sun was shining brightly and the sky directly above was a piercing bright blue. I could feel the light winds gently swirl about in the freezing city air. Office buildings, some old, some new, all speckled with green and red decorations, lined both sides of the fairway. I looked around and the 900 block of F Street was desolate and motionless – no traffic, no Metro buses, no people, no noise – a forgotten world completely devoid of life. It was Christmas morning and not a creature was stirring, not even a rat.

The quiet calm around me was broken only by the sound of my heavy boot steps as I scuffled my way to the middle of the street. Suddenly, my vision focused on the object of my quest: the ancient, now-boarded-up Atlantis building and its grimy, ground-floor doorway that once welcomed the masses to the original 9:30 Club. Gallantly it stood, its most famous tenant having relocated to other quarters, now a fading temple to a segment of Washington, DC’s 1980-1995 rock and roll scene that will hopefully live on in the memories of those who had reveled within. I took a seat in the middle of F Street, legs crossed hippie-style on the pavement, oblivious to the frigid surroundings. Before me a procession of musical ghosts who had worked the 9:30 Club came and went: local favorites like Tiny Desk Unit and the Slickee Boys, legendary punk bands like Minor Threat and the Bad Brains, future superstars like REM and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, dinosaurs like Iron Butterfly and Blue Cheer, and on and on and infinitum.

An eternity passed and it dawned on me that in the nation’s capital, every decade seemed to have had its own distinct musical trends, hot spots and highlights. Guitarist Tommy Keene appropriated the term “Places that are Gone” for one of his album titles and I could think of no better way to describe the ties that bind the music-oriented hangouts of one era to another. The Casino Royal, the Blue Mirror, the Hayloft, Kavakos Grill, the Lotus, the Merry-Land Club, Rand’s – all names from DC’s distant nightclub past, all removed from the landscape, all leaving entertainment legacies that evolved, expired, and experienced cultural reincarnation in modern-day places like the 9:30 Club, the Black Cat, and the Velvet Lounge.

Contributing to the cycle, the 9:30 Club had moved on. It was Christmas morning, 1999 and here I was, frozen in time, staring at an empty building in the heart of the nation’s capital. For someone who loves the city’s rock and roll history, I could not think of a more appropriate gift.

Thanks

2008-11-27T15:13:00.002-05:00

This is the first Thanksgiving without my Dad. I don't know when the whole family party thing started as my grandparents weren't born here, but as long as we can remember we have gathered together. Our family was always large, but lately it grew into a force to be reckoned with- 20 kids plus 22 or so adults for dinner- and that's not including all of those who couldn't make it. Still Dad insisted on having the party including all our cousins, and dragged my mother along kicking and screaming. (My grandparents gave up the task some forty years ago)

So here we go. This will be the first year that it will be immediate family only, and the head count will be a mere 20. (My son is bitterly disappointed this means only 5 children.) The leaves which my father diligently blew, raked and scraped away even as the first guests were coming up the driveway will be in place where the trees dumped them. Sorry, Dad, but the rest of us think it looks kind of nice that way, and it's a whole lot less effort. I am reminded though that you worked hard your whole life- all ninety plus years- and we are thankful for that. And I'm thankful for all the memories you left us. Here are a few of mine from our forays around DC

Thanks for:

Taking me to the zoo. You'd put the homemade Modern Linen-making delivery sign in the windshield of our station wagon so we could park there.

Teaching me how to drive in Washington with impunity.

Introducing me to Lola and her daughters at Sherrill's Bakery on Capitol Hill. Those women were such characters that a local guy made a film about them and almost won an Oscar. They were supposedly a handful, but they always made a fuss over you and gave me a cookie.

Taking me to the circus at the DC armory. I was impressed when you stared down a bunch of kids who threw rocks at us for being in the wrong neighborhood.

Teaching me to appreciate the half smoke.

Taking us to see a concert when they had music on that floating barge. It was the same place the kids went in the movie "Houseboat." with Cary Grant.

Telling me the story of how all those Italian statues got into AV's yard on New York Avenue-how the owner would take his station wagon to Italy every summer.

Showing me how the linen service works. We got to go in the back doors of restaurants and meet all the people in the kitchen. And I got to meet Blackie of Blackie's House of Beef. He was one of your best friends and a complete character.

Taking me to Florida Avenue market to get a Christmas tree on Christmas eve. I liked all the oil can fires, and how you 'd haggle with the vendors because it was the last shopping day.

And, of course, thanks for all of those crazy Thanksgivings. It sure won't be the same without you.

At Least DC'S Got Key

2008-11-25T11:14:00.005-05:00

Of all the schools-both public and private in the entire U.S. of A. chosen to receive Blue Ribbon status this year only one was chosen within the confines of the District of Columbia-Francis Scott Key Elementary. It's both an honor and a disgrace that one public school here in the district has achieved so much in a city wide system that has achieved so little. On one hand, we have a great little school like Key where over half of the students are advanced in math- according to test scores. In fact, when the Obamas were school shopping, Michelle Rhee told us that her office crunched the numbers, and Key came up on top. On the other hand, our system still supports social promotion and retention, meaning, for example, you might be held back a year or two, but eventually- you will still be moved up to high school-reading or not.

I am really proud of Key school's award. It was well earned by teachers, students, parents and staff alike- all working together, but during the furor of the Obama's school search, I heard more than one voice question why the Obama family should "sacrifice" their children to the cause of DC public schools. The Blue Ribbon award program is part of the No Child Left Behind act, and I can't help but roll my eyes at the irony. Maybe one day-though maybe not in my lifetime- DC will be the Blue Ribbon town it could and should be.

Why The Briefcase Fell Out of Favor by Marshall Keith

2008-11-19T11:36:00.005-05:00

My family moved up from Louisville, Kentucky to Rockville, MD after Kennedy was elected. We were barely settled here when he got assassinated. I went down to the mall with my family to see his casket go by. We waited all day, and into the night, and I remember it was cold.

My father got a job with the Atomic Energy Commission. He wrote PR stuff for them. I was all about space travel, moving sidewalks, and hovercrafts. My favorite show was "The Man From U.N.C.L.E." It had a great theme song ("Mission Impossible" TOTALLY plagiarized it). I imagined myself growing up and carrying a briefcase. But not just ANY briefcase, Oh No! It would have all kinds of hidden compartments, surveillance equipment, and secret weapons. The Jackie Kennedy-esque women I would encounter would find me irresistible. I ask you: What woman can resist a cool briefcase and a crew cut?
I was a scared little skinny kid in Rockville. I couldn't get with the program. A teacher lectured me for hanging out with kids from the "wrong side of the tracks". I think I was more comfortable with the "wrong side of the track" accent. They were trouble, though. I smoked cigarettes with them, and this one kid had already had sex. (We were ten!)

To me, coming from the South, it seemed like people were rude up here. When they addressed you, it was like they were always saying "you're an idiot" with their tone of voice and body language, and don't you dare try to contradict them! I didn't get the whole "the South is prejudiced" thing either. There was a KKK march right down Montgomery Avenue in front of our house. My sister had an African-American friend, and some kid at school saw her playing in our yard and asked if we were N-lovers (but he used the N-word). Welcome to Rockville! I'm glad I lived long enough to see Obama elected. Progress seems so excruciatingly slow. It's nice when there's a quantum leap like this.

Somehow, even though my family was in the middle of a huge never ending financial crisis, I managed to talk them into getting me a bass for $80. My father was furious when he figured out that I would need an amp, too, which of course was not forthcoming. I got an adaptor so I could plug it into the hi-fi. I did that for a couple of weeks and discovered distortion. WHEEEE!

Then I blew the speaker.

This started my whole D.I.Y. approach to music. Well, actually, for awhile it was more of a "use/destroy" approach. I stopped practicing my clarinet. I just left it at school. I had fallen in love with this girl, and I figured she would want me to be cool like the Beatles. She had beautiful skin and eyes and hair, and she was all dressed nice and everything. I was wearing ill-fitting hand me downs, but I was hoping the combing down of my bangs would be my new defining characteristic.

OK, after you see "A Hard Day's Night", and you realize how cool the world can be, a field trip to the Smithsonian is- well...underwhelming. They had one kinda cool thing with these cave-people in a glass display case. But apparently cavemen didn't necessarily beat cave women over the head with a club and drag them off by their hair and have their way with them- so yeah, it was boring. (I was hoping for: "yes, not only is it THAT true, we've also learned that cave women were very crafty, and would often stab the cave men, and it is believed that while mating, they liked it 'rough'.")

On the bus ride back to Rockville, I was in the back of the bus with this other kid. We saw a cop at a light near Wheaton Plaza, and the kid says,"I dare you to give that cop the finger." So, for the first act of my new career as a ne'er-do-well, I gave the cop the finger. Big mistake! He had no sense of humor about it at all. Stops the bus. Points at me. "You! Stand up!" Takes me off the bus and makes a big scene. So then I'm supposed to write all these apology letters, and wear a shirt with a scarlet 'F' on it.

After that, the whole "briefcase" thing didn't appeal to me anymore.

By 1970 we were living in DC- just over the line from Silver Spring, in Shepherd Park. My Ma was the secretary at the Takoma Park Presbyterian church. My siblings lived in communes in Takoma Park, and my sister worked at a head shop there called Maggie's Farm. I was transitioning from irritating little brother to fellow party-er. I gave up on school. I just stopped going. Eventually, to appease my elders, I transferred from Coolidge to Wilson. I got sick of the bus ride which included a transfer and a long wait, so I started hitch hiking. After school, sometimes I would just walk from Military Rd, up 16th St, 40 blocks to home.

My parent's place in DC was a nice stopping off point for my friends coming down from Rockville to do stuff in DC like anti-war demonstrations and free concerts. None of us ever had any $$$. A couple of friends and I climbed the fence at Carter Baron to see BB King play. He was great. I went to shows at Fort Reno that summer. I remember seeing some really good bands there like Claude Jones. It was nice just being free with a bunch of people having a great time. But home life, and school were bad. The summer of '70 was the second time I ran away from home. I was 16.

I was desperate for something else besides going to school at Wilson. I heard about a school called The New Educational Project. Some hippies managed to put together an alternative to public school and get it accredited. It was for kids who would otherwise be truants, like me. That fall, I started going there, but actually there was no "there." Sometimes, we would meet at the Friends Meeting House on Florida Ave, or sometimes we'd meet at student's houses, or sometimes at the teacher's pads in Adams Morgan, Dupont Circle or Georgetown. We didn't call them "teachers"- they were resource persons. We did stuff like building models of geodesic domes or reading books on altered states of consciousness-or chanting perfect 5ths (musically a perfect 5th, supposedly has mystical healing properties when chanted). It was somewhat interesting, but the hitch-hiking/arranging for rides was bumming me out, man. All I wanted to do was play music.

Since I was unschooling myself, my Ma weaseled a job for me - being the janitor's helper at church. After janitoring, I was free to play an electric organ in the little wedding chapel, or a big ole pipe organ in the sanctuary. That pipe organ was totally cool! You could step on the bass pedals, and make a huge sound come up from the basement. The upper keyboards could be all fluty, or huge - like a big band horn section..and the sound was everywhere. It rocked! I started f-ing around with the chimes up in the bell tower, so they eventually banished me. In those days, I loved all the atmospheric stuff that groups like the Doors and other psychedelic groups did. I tried to get organ lessons, but the teacher at the church told me I would have to learn piano first. The teacher had a briefcase. So I told him to forget it.

(Marshall may have ditched the briefcase, but he is still a working musician. Check out his myspace page.)

NOVEMBER 18

2008-11-18T09:24:00.005-05:00

I can't let this day go by without wishing my mother, the Rock of Gibraltar, a very happy birthday. I think it's meaningful that this spot has its place in Greek mythology as my mother deserves her place in storied Greek history as well. But my mother is not Greek; she has Southern roots, and she was born right here in Washington. I hope to contribute to this day by hauling her to my favorite DC Soul place for fried chicken- The Hitching Post. We might go to the Avalon for a movie afterwards-if we survive the heaping portions enough to stagger to the car. My mom used to take the streetcar to the Avalon, and I'm glad it's still there. I'm also glad she is still here!

Happy Birthday to The Rock.

2008-11-13T09:51:00.005-05:00

I hate to agree with George Bush on ANYTHING, but I have to say even though I live on a shoe string myself- now is the time to go out and shop! Not at the mall-not for a car, but at all the little places that make this town unique. I'm not too worried about our beloved Ben's Chili Bowl (1958) as they can afford to feed the Obamas, and I'm glad they're getting the publicity, but I am thinking about Sullivan's Toy and Art Supply (1954) on Wisconsin Ave. in Cleveland Park and the Magruder's chain (1875). By the by the Magruder's near Chevy Chase circle has the BEST liquor prices around and incredible weekend wine and booze tastings/sales. Then there's "Hoppy Dave" over at Rodman's (1955) trying to keep the free world (and DC is almost free now isn't it?) stocked in the best beers available on this side of the pond. And Paul's Liquor is still right across the street- both conveniently located near Gawler's Funeral Home (1850)- another DC institution.

I often write about places that we've lost, but we still have chances to keep places like this going.

Look for postings on local favorites soon.

DC's A Music Town by Mark Noone

2008-10-25T09:18:00.000-04:00

In 1964 I went to Lafayette Elementary. This was a different time; DC public schools were places where learning actually happened. I still remember much world geography from Mrs. Jenkins’ fourth grade class, and English grammar from Miss Fernsner. When I started Lafayette, a couple of years earlier, the school still sported the ‘civil defense’ posters left over from the Cuban missile crisis. There was a bomb shelter in the basement of the school, which I illicitly explored, undetected. At some time in the year of sixty four, I also explored the attic of the school. I was 10 and incorrigible. Most DC public schools have a functionless, albeit appealing, steeple atop the building. I went up the tiny ladder to the very pinnacle. My name should still be up there. Upon returning to school in that Fall of ‘64, the black top conversation was mostly of the Beatles and the Beach Boys, but during the summer, a British TV show had replaced some forgotten usual show. It was also a hot topic of conversation. But it was not the show that had everybody’s consideration; it was the show’s theme song. I remember talking to Maury Abraham (who by the way sported a Beatle Cut) about the opening guitar lick. Maury and I were “in a band”. At the time I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maury did. Since I was clueless, he later banded together with a singer named Andy Williams, (not of Moon River fame) and a focused individual who played guitar, named Josh Bolton. They were called The Ocelots. Mr. Bolton is now the Whitehouse Chief of Staff. That kind of stuff happens in DC.

A DC greaser who lived on Legation St near Lafayette played guitar and taught me that opening lick. I wish I knew who that greaser was, he probably became someone famous. Maybe he was Link Wray. The opening riff, of Johnny Rivers’ hit of Secret Agent Man, should be in every rock and roll guitarists’ arsenal. That opening lick is still a staple lick for every guitar player. All this went through my mind yesterday as I taught the lick to Charlotte, who is one of my many high school aged guitar students. She actually practices. She writes songs.

Every town in America had kiddy bands back in those days, mostly inspired by the Beatles, DC was no different. I like knowing that playing the three chords on my acoustic Sears guitar in Maury’s basement was the beginning of something I might call my music career. Maury is just as much a part of that as Charlotte is. DC is not just the government or the political machine, or the law, or the murder capitol, or whatever anyone else knows it for. Most importantly, especially for me, it is the home of Link Wray, Trouble Funk, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Peaches and Herb, Duke Ellington, Minor Threat, Good Charlotte, Danny Gatton, The Flying Shards, Grin, Scream, Rummy and the Upsetters… This list can go on and on for days, and it will go on and on for years to come, because first and foremost DC is a music town. But don’t tell anybody, that’s our little secret.