The only time I had ever visited Washington, DC previously, it was for work, in the middle of the abject purgatory that was the previous regime. About the only thing I recall from then was how unsettling the Washington Monument was up close, how we had to walk past a crackhouse to get to our fancy boutique hotel, how a five-minute drive from the capital unveiled women in crusty Daisy Dukes, shriveled and toothless from too much Tina.
Not that Chocolate City has changed too much, but the entire place feels suffused with O-motion (def. that wondrous sensation of well-being that floods one's self when Obama's name gets mentioned in conversation or in a newspaper article) upon my return. This go-around, DC feels like a dream come true, to the point of it almost being ludicrous:
*Randomly run into Fugazi's Brendan Canty on a street corner, buzzed and about to go sing karaoke? Check.
*See Christo and Jeanne-Claude give documentary legend Albert Maysles a lifetime achievement award and hear Maysles talk about how in seeking to understand a person, you grow to love them? Check.
*Gardens in full bloom (and in full utilization) in every single front yard I stroll past? Check.
*Delirious amounts of Ethiopian food? Yep.
*Ridiculously great 12"s sitting in the dollar bin at Som Records? Untold amounts.
*Seeing R.J. Cutler's brilliant new documentary The September Issue that seemingly is about Anna Wintour and Vogue, yet trenchantly reveals instead the genius artistry of creative director Grace Coddington? Yes.
*Attend a block party with Trouble Funk dropping the bomb on my ass? You betcha.
