Federal Jazz Commission

There isn't a hell of a lot that can inspire me to stand around in one place for 2 hours, packed like a sardine into a small bar area, starved, parched (no alcohol for those of us currently on antibiotics for lyme disease, goddamn it), waiting for a table that never comes, watching plate after plate of mouthwatering bar cuisine being delivered to the gluttonous, table-hogging cretins smart enough to get there early enough to snag a seat. There are even fewer things that can inspire me to do so happily, the last-ever concert of the Federal Jazz Commission being one of them.

[An aside: what exactly are the rules for keeping a table throughout an entire 3-hour concert, when it's exceedingly obvious that many, many people are waiting for said table? I'd argue that if it's strictly a bar, you can sit there as long as you like, but when we veer into restaurant territory, the practice becomes questionable. Is it OK to eat dinner, pay your bill, then just sit there at your table for another 2 hours? I say no. My companion disagrees.]

Anyway, the Federal Jazz Commission is exactly what DC needs more of: an authentic cultural experience which succeeds entirely on its own merits, and which is inextricably linked to its own place and time. Yes, the FJC specializes in New Orleans jazz, but it doesn't come off as a watered down version of something that exists better someplace else (as most things in DC tend to). I'm no jazz aficionado by any stretch of the imagination (in fact, I don't think I even like jazz), but to my mind the FJC lacks any semblance of a tribute to something else from someplace else. These guys are the real deal. Their audience is the real deal. They have, over 26 years of regular Tuesday night gigs, forged a cultural entity as legitimate as that of the music they play. They are real. And they are real good.

So of course the whole thing stopped last night, leaving a gaping hole in what might generously be referred to as the DC social calendar. A coworker of my girlfriend's, also in attendance last night, remarked that "nothing lasts forever," a comment which was indeed the theme of the evening. The FJC is old, no two ways around it. Two members, including their leader, are about to leave this earthly plane for that fabled elderly panacea known as Florida. And with them goes the group. Think about it. 26 years. Every Tuesday. The same bar. The same small stage. The same devoted following. Even their fans are old, most teetering on the verge of their 9th decade. I was fortunate enough to discover the FJC about a year ago, and to see them 4 or 5 times. I admit last night I felt like something of a voyeur, as if perhaps I hadn't quite earned the right to be there, that this was hallowed ground, a ceremony and a celebration for the truly faithful. It was sad. There was an actual sense of witnessing the passing of an era, a turning of the page. I couldn't help but imagine, as the band wound down their final song, to a standing ovation and prolonged applause, that this was probably the last hurrah for many in the audience, one last escape from reality, one final moment basking in the old-time tunes, one last visitation from their youth. Is this how I'll feel, 50 years from now, listening to Nirvana one last time?

But I'm being melodramatic. What really mattered last night was the music. As I say, I don't know much about jazz, don't know the history, the culture, much less the complicated minutia of what's actually taking place on stage. All I know is that it sounded fucking great. These guys are so on, so in command of their talents, so connected to each other and to the room, that even if you hate New Orleans jazz you can't escape the sheer thrill of watching artistry unfold. There should be an aging exemption for people this good at something that brings such joy. I recently visited the new Newseum down here in DC, and had a chance to take in the stellar Pulitzer photography exhibit. Of all the shots of carnage, despair, heartbreak, the heights and depths of humanity, the photo that stuck out for me was a simple image of an aged Babe Ruth, outfitted in the Yankees uniform of his prime, stooped over, leaning on a bat for support, the throngs of Yankee stadium encircling the solitary old man, paying their last respects. The great Babe is shot from behind. All we see is the number 3 on his back, his shock of black hair, his enfeebled posture. An old man standing alone at home plate, tipping his cap. It's a portrait of our most devastating self-realization: that all of us (even me!), if we're lucky, get to grow old and wither away. And this is the best we can hope for.

Even the Babe gets old. And last night, even the FJC. Nothing lasts forever. Not last night's concert. Not the band. Not the music. Eventually the bar will shut down. The crowds will gather someplace else. We'll all be gone. Last night was both a chance to forget all this, to bask in a momentary, celebratory respite from what's real, and a nagging reminder of what truly awaits us all. The Federal Jazz Commission should get to stay young, keep playing. But they don't. And neither do we.

Lullabye of Suburbia

It's Day 9 of the great Lyme Disease Marathon, and as with days 1 - 8, I'm spending day 9 at the ancestral home in Barnegat, NJ. I would have assumed, had someone told me I was about to embark on an 9 day visit to mom and dad's house after only packing for 3 days, that I'd be clawing my eyes out with boredom and frustration right about now. But the fact is I feel rather soothed into submission. Unlike DC, where most of the time my brain is going, "You know, there really should be a good restaurant around here," in Barnegat, well, there really shouldn't be a good restaurant around here. The old hometown is what it is. And while I don't think I could live here full-time, this removal of expectations makes for a quite a relaxing visit. Especially being sick, it's real easy to just sit back, read my book, wait for 6pm, turn the computer off, watch some TV, read some more, take my horse pills, and hit the sack. Sometimes there's a bit of excitement, like when my mom brings home the leftover Salt and Vinegar chips from a classroom party, or when my dad decides he's going out to the garage for a root beer and wonders whether I'd like one (yes, please). But otherwise I'm just going with the flow, chillin' in my recliner, padding over to the dinner table for barbecue. I can kinda see why people hit the burbs. I haven't had to walk five feet in a week. There's no sense that you're missing something if you stay inside (you're totally not). The hardest decision you ever face is whether to shop at BJs or Costco. I like it!

And Then There Was Blogging

Yes, I quit my blog for 3 or 4 months there. Just wasn't feeling it anymore. Wasn't doing it for me. Spring time was here again and it was time to go outdoors and rejoin humanity. Blogging started counterproductive and antisocial and even (if this is possible) kind of retro. Like, are people still doing that? Am I one of those people? Come to think of it, my sideburns might be a little too long, too. Uh oh. I'm stuck in the late 90s/early 00s, aren't I? (I've never been a blog reader. I'm still not. So having a blog has always felt a little off to me anyway.)

Then lately I've found myself wishing I had some forum in which to sound off on ridiculous, meaningless things. Hmmm, if only someone would invent some form of thoroughly self-centered communications so that a person might a) sound of on issues he knows practically nothing about, b) trumpet his own mediocre comings and goings, c) pretend he did some "writing" today, and d) save friends and family from having to actually listen to this garbage over drinks or dinner. Aha! My blog! Oh how I missed you.

But here's what really brought me back. Me, an avid indoorsman of the highest degree, managed to acquire Lyme Disease. Perhaps I passed a tree on my walk to happy hour, I don't know. But somehow I got the classic bulls eye red mark on my leg (a real whopper, by the way, about the size of the top of a soup can) and the atrocious flu-like symptoms to match. Plus, to make it even more fun, I happened to be visiting my parents when I took ill, so I'm currently in day number 7 of lying sick in my old high school bedroom, at home with my parents, away from all my stuff (oh, sweet Netflix, why hast thou forsaken me?), feeling slightly better now, but not better enough to actually do anything, much less drive all the way back to DC, oh, and taking medication with one major side effect: I can't go in the sun while on it. That's right: I'm literally stuck in my parents' house. Until nightfall, at least. There are many creature comforts, to be sure, and it's kinda nice being doted on...but, again, this is day 7. How much Law and Order can a person watch?

On the other hand, I'm probably losing some weight from lack of appetite. And I haven't reached for my wallet in over a week. And I'm reading a lot. And...uh, I showered today. But, yeah, it's really come to this. I'm blogging again. Hallelujah.

The New Religion

I've sat through 33 Yom Kipper services and counting. I spent a year studying my haftorah. I even brought a pink Tupperware container of tuna fish to lunch during Passover of my 3rd Grade year (is it any wonder I didn't kiss a girl till high school?). But I never really got this whole Judaism thing. Sure, it's good for a joke. And the girls at college, who must have been from the Midwest or something, seemed to have a little thing for East Coast neurotics like me, at least to a point. But it never really registered for me, this whole religion thing I mean, in any meaningful sense. I was emotionally detached, to say the least.

And then last night my sister and I dined at the thankfully re-opened Second Avenue Deli (now on 3rd Avenue). I felt like Moses on the mount as I communed with my hot corned beef sandwich and matzo ball soup. I'm not sure whether the stuffed cabbage actually spoke to me ala the burning bush...but I swear I think it did. Oh, burning stuffed cabbage, how I doused your flames with my Dr. Brown's cream soda! Did we want gribenes for the table? Did we ever! What are we, a couple of goyim? I think not. (And make that chocolate babka a double.)

It amazes me that you don't have to wear a yarmulke in this place. Or a tallis. If I was ever in the mood to do a little davening, here was the time and the place. This was the first time in my life I actually wished my nose was slightly larger.

Let me explain. I live in a land without Jews. Now, I'm not saying Washington, DC, is Berlin circa 1940 or anything...but, seriously, I have never felt so disconnected to my people. I haven't seen a bagel in 5 months. Deli? What's that? Humor? Never heard of it. New York feels like a comfy blanket. It's bad enough i'm white in DC, I can only imagine what the peeps in my hood would yell at me if they knew I was a Jew (I'm pretty sure they still think Jews have horns and tails down there.)

[DC aside: I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this before, but one of my favorite DC anecdotes is the time I was in the local supermarket and some random black guy told me he thought I was Daniel Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins. In other words: "Hey, you look like that other Jew." Next time I'm grocery shopping in Harlem, I'll be sure and tell someone they look like Magic Johnson.]

But...back to the Second Avenue Deli, and New York City, and life, and diversity, and the warm glow of experiencing something truly, legitimately good. I think that's what I miss most. I love my new house and the trees are nice...but you just don't find many moments like last night at Second Ave. Forty bucks for an unbelievable spread, the hustle and bustle of real city life swirling overhead, case upon case of delicacies....authenticity. My people. The whole 9 yards. That's what I miss the most, the sense that, you know, with very few exceptions, I probably couldn't be experiencing this anywhere else. Ben's Chili Bowl aside, you really don't encounter that in DC. Everything feels nondescript.

Chinese Food

I actually had a decent meal in DC last night. Not only that, but it arrived via delivery! I don't think I've seen food delivered in the 5 months I've been here. Wow, delivery. I forgot about that. Anyway, I was introduced to some authentic Chinese by a friend who lived in China for two years. Now, I'm something of a Chinese food fiend, but this was a pretty new experience. I mean, there were actually like greens on the table, and they weren't deep fried or slathered in General Tso's sauce. They actually looked like vegetables. Who knew? We also had a cold cucumber dish swimming in a fiery red pepper sauce. The cold and hot combo was pretty awesome. As a fellow eater put it, the cucumber starts off all nice and cool in your mouth, then is like, "ok, I'm outta here," leaving you with a little back of the throat pepper burn. Fortunately, beer washed this away quite nicely. There was an equally hot and spicy tofu dish that I mostly avoided, an incredible sweet, sour, and hot shrimp dish, and a comforting platter of chicken and cashews for the newbies like me. Delish!

Let The Ramblings Begin

I was on the phone last night talking about blogging, which, yes, is preposterous in the extreme. But anyway, I was speaking with someone who claims to blog once a week. As a once in a season kind of guy, I couldn't help but exclaim, "What?! But how???" The answer, as it turns out: rambling. Well, in so many words.

I've been laboring under the delusion that in order to blog I needed to have some point to make, or funny story to relate, or some review to dash off. But as it turns out, I can just write whatever the hell I want! Glory be.

OK, here goes: after years of lusting, I finally pulled the trigger on a flat screen TV. It arrived yesterday and it's glorious, it's beautiful, it's like staring into the face of God. I'm sitting next to it right now, and it's not even turned on, and I can't stop gazing at it. I'm in love. I want to take it on vacation. I want to buy it flowers. I want to take it home to meet my mom.

Wow, that was easy.

Finally, or On The Wire and There Will Be Blood

Man, now that's how you end a TV show!

Like, most thinking people, I am totally and passionately on board with The Wire. Best show on TV? I don't watch a ton of TV, but...yes, yes, an unqualified yes. Season 3 of The Wire is, to my mind, the greatest achievement the medium has ever produced. I found the much-heralded Season 4 to be excellent but a bit overrated...still great, but not on par with Season 3. Which brings us to Season 5, the end of The Wire...

Having taken a week to process my thoughts, I'm realizing this last season is a bit tough to get my mind around. I mean, I'm finding my reaction requires all sorts of qualifications. It's not enough to say "I loved it" or "it was great" or "I was really disappointed." All of those things are true, and sifting through them, it's easy to get lost.

Confusing as my reaction to the Wire finale is, one thing that's clear is that it's the exact opposite reaction that I had to There Will Be Blood...another beloved work I find frustratingly unable to summarize in terms of my like or dislike for it. I mean, I like it, I like it a lot, BUT...

Okay, let's take one at a time:

1. Blood: 95% of this movie is probably one of the 5 best things I've ever seen in a movie theater. A stunning, mesmerizing, pitch-perfect, visionary work...that's utterly, completely, and savagely destroyed by its inane final act, which I like to subtitle: The Comedy Stylings of Daniel Plainview. This last act is so off for me, so dreadfully unlike all that precedes it, that I can't help but wonder if the movie actually isn't very good...or, how can I say the movie is so good when it turns so very bad at the end? I've never encountered anything like this in twenty years of serious film watching. It's sort of like if, in the last ten minutes of Manhattan, aliens descend, forcing Woody and Mariel to fight them off with laser guns and save the city. I mean, would Manhattan still be great if this happened, even if the rest of the film remained unchanged? I don't know.

2. The Wire Season 5: until the last 2 episodes, I couldn't believe how far the Wire had fallen. I didn't buy McNultey's serial killer plot for a second. For me, it stank of standard TV show hackdom. Not bad for a couple episodes of CSI: Miami. But for The Wire? Hell, no. The Wire feels so awesomely grounded in reality (or at least in plausibility). That's what's great about the show, and that's the very thing that elevates it so high above other works in the genre. I hated to see it go out like this. It was painful and unconvincing (and most of the stuff at The Sun I just found boring). But then...the last 2 episodes were so outlandishly over-the-top brilliant, that....well, I don't know. Did they make the season great? Do I just forget about the preceding 10 episodes? The final two episodes do rescue the season for me, I suppose. They make me feel great about how the show ends. But I'm not sure I could recommend the season as a whole. It felt like amateur hour, coming from the Wire. And I'm not sure it's any coincidence that the final season only gets good once the serial killer plot peters out. It was hackneyed, awkward and forced.

So how to regard creative works that take a serious U-Tun in the final moments, either for good or for bad? A stroll through the criticism canon might shed some light. I mean, I can't imagine a few minds way more distinguished than my own haven't already tackled this dilemma. Of course, I'm way too lazy to do any such actual reading myself. And so I remain confused.