Coffeeshops, Genocide, Porn and Homeless People
DC Day 3 Feb. 23
. . . slept for most of the day today but I'm feeling a little better. Took a walk to Dupont Circle and spent some time in bookstores and coffeeshops, not really feeling like hitting any of the major tourist spots . . .
One place I have to recommend is Kramerbooks & Afterwards, a bookstore/bar/restaurant on Connecticut NW. It's not the largest bookstore, but it's got great selection and the place is just loaded with conversation and interesting people. Really great politics/current events section.
That night, feeling subdued but not like going home early, I caught a couple movies. First I saw the movie Laura and I wanted to see the other night, Hotel Rwanda, which you should go see right now if you haven't yet. The film is incredibly powerful without being excessively violent, saving it from an R rating and making it more available, but that's not to say some of scenes won't make your stomach turn. Don Cheadle gives an amazing performance, well deserving of that Oscar nomination.
1994 Rwandan Genocide
The next movie I saw was Inside Deepthroat, the early 70s $25 000 flick about a woman with her clitoris in her throat, that took America by storm, grossing $600 million, and single-handedly spearheaded the explosion of the porn industry before even VCRs were around (video cassette recorders became available to households in 1976). Was interesting, but not overly exciting.
Walking home from the theatre I met a homeless man named Mick. He mentioned my height and was talking about his days in high school when he used to run track. He didn't smell like booze and seemed well enough, just lonely, so I offered to buy him a cup of coffee and sit and talk a while. We walked around for a bit but nothing open since it was already passed midnight. We ended up sitting on a low windowsill and talked for over an hour. Mick had grown up in DC and, as a black guy in the 70s, only had a few options open to him, which included either dealing drugs or stealing, both of which he wasn't really into. So he joined the army, where he did quite well, but was never given the chance to advance since he was black. He hated the army since it more like a jailhouse than anything else, its ranks full of murderers, rapists and thieves. He dropped out at 22 and came back to DC. This is where he kinda lost me but somewhere in there he a had son, who now is at college in South Carolina and to whom Mick sends his veteran's check every month, began having nightmares about the military and hurt is foot. He showed the screw sticking out of his ankle where they had bolted it back together and for the rest of our talk I kept glancing at it. He talked about the shelter and how he didn't like it because of all of the drunks who tended to fall asleep on his bad ankle. Mick seemed to be smart guy, he spoke intelligently and he understood that people like him have a bad rep and admitted that there were some homeless people in the city with major drug and alcohol problems. He never asked for money but I gave him ten dollars when we parted and wished him a good evening. He thanked me several times and talked excitedly about going to buy a soda. Feeling guilty about it as I was doing it, I watched him from half a block away. He walked past a liquor store that was still open and into a convenience store, to buy his soda, I guess. Ten bucks was worth the chat, anyway. I walked back to the apartment.
It snowed that night. A lot.
Audio
Matthew Good Band
The Fine Art of Falling Apart
. . . slept for most of the day today but I'm feeling a little better. Took a walk to Dupont Circle and spent some time in bookstores and coffeeshops, not really feeling like hitting any of the major tourist spots . . .
One place I have to recommend is Kramerbooks & Afterwards, a bookstore/bar/restaurant on Connecticut NW. It's not the largest bookstore, but it's got great selection and the place is just loaded with conversation and interesting people. Really great politics/current events section.
That night, feeling subdued but not like going home early, I caught a couple movies. First I saw the movie Laura and I wanted to see the other night, Hotel Rwanda, which you should go see right now if you haven't yet. The film is incredibly powerful without being excessively violent, saving it from an R rating and making it more available, but that's not to say some of scenes won't make your stomach turn. Don Cheadle gives an amazing performance, well deserving of that Oscar nomination.
1994 Rwandan Genocide
The next movie I saw was Inside Deepthroat, the early 70s $25 000 flick about a woman with her clitoris in her throat, that took America by storm, grossing $600 million, and single-handedly spearheaded the explosion of the porn industry before even VCRs were around (video cassette recorders became available to households in 1976). Was interesting, but not overly exciting.
Walking home from the theatre I met a homeless man named Mick. He mentioned my height and was talking about his days in high school when he used to run track. He didn't smell like booze and seemed well enough, just lonely, so I offered to buy him a cup of coffee and sit and talk a while. We walked around for a bit but nothing open since it was already passed midnight. We ended up sitting on a low windowsill and talked for over an hour. Mick had grown up in DC and, as a black guy in the 70s, only had a few options open to him, which included either dealing drugs or stealing, both of which he wasn't really into. So he joined the army, where he did quite well, but was never given the chance to advance since he was black. He hated the army since it more like a jailhouse than anything else, its ranks full of murderers, rapists and thieves. He dropped out at 22 and came back to DC. This is where he kinda lost me but somewhere in there he a had son, who now is at college in South Carolina and to whom Mick sends his veteran's check every month, began having nightmares about the military and hurt is foot. He showed the screw sticking out of his ankle where they had bolted it back together and for the rest of our talk I kept glancing at it. He talked about the shelter and how he didn't like it because of all of the drunks who tended to fall asleep on his bad ankle. Mick seemed to be smart guy, he spoke intelligently and he understood that people like him have a bad rep and admitted that there were some homeless people in the city with major drug and alcohol problems. He never asked for money but I gave him ten dollars when we parted and wished him a good evening. He thanked me several times and talked excitedly about going to buy a soda. Feeling guilty about it as I was doing it, I watched him from half a block away. He walked past a liquor store that was still open and into a convenience store, to buy his soda, I guess. Ten bucks was worth the chat, anyway. I walked back to the apartment.
It snowed that night. A lot.
Audio
Matthew Good Band
The Fine Art of Falling Apart
posted by James at 11:44 AM
1 Books were burned:
You did a good thing.
Throw one on the pile
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