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Casey obrien • October 31, 2012

“Peace, Love & Blowouts” is emblazoned above the reception desk at Georgetown’s newest salon, Drybar. The upscale salon opened Oct. 19 at 1825 Wisconsin Ave., NW, and offers its unique service of a blow dry bar. Its slogan is “No Cuts. No Color. Just Blowouts: Only $40.”

The concept, created by founder Alli Webb, was begun in Los Angeles, when Webb’s at-home blow-out service called for expansion. The Georgetown salon is the 18th Drybar location in the United States with others in several states, including California, Texas and New York. This is the second location in the D.C. area; a Drybar also opened in Bethesda Oct. 19.

The chic space is the same in every Drybar: white with bright yellow accents all around. Its iconic upside-down, yellow blow dryer, Buttercup, can be seen throughout the salon as an artsy chandelier. (There was also a giant version of the blower, driven around town to promote the two new stores, announcing chances to win a free blowout.) The walls are adorned with black-and-white glamour shots of Hollywood movie stars, and customers are treated to chick flicks on television, while getting their hair done. Fruit-infused water is served, and small packs of assorted snacks are available for $4.

Each style of blow-out is $40 and listed on the large chalkboard in the entrance. Customers can pick from the “Straight Up: simple and straight,” the “Manhattan: sleek and smooth,” the “Southern Comfort: big hair with volume,” the “Cosmopolitan: lots of loose curls,” or the “Mai Tai: messy and beachy.” “Shirley Temple’s” are offered at $28 to children, aged ten and under.
For an appointment, call 202-609-8644, visit TheDryBar.com or get the Drybar app for iPhone.
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Gary Tischler •

George McGovern died Sunday at the age of 90 as the 2012 presidential race rapidly approached its climax. It has been a campaign that has been one of the most contentious campaigns since, well, 1972, when McGovern and his followers took the Democratic Party on a rambunctious, liberally liberal and ultimately disastrous crusade against incumbent President Richard Nixon and the incumbent Vietnam War.

McGovern was an unabashed liberal, and an unabashed patriot, a war hero who bled for the blood of young American men in an unpopular war, a man who led a sometimes stolid, stoic American life coming out of a small-time upbringing on the flat plains of South Dakota to rise to the U.S. Senate for three terms, the pure head of the liberal wing of the Democratic party and his party’s standard bearer in 1972.

The result—a campaign that featured an assassination attempt that knocked Alabama governor George Wallace out of another third-party run, a not-always-hidden dirty tricks campaign by the president’s forces, the demise of centrist Maine Senator Edmund Muskie’s campaign amidst tears in New Hampshire and McGovern, seen as the anti-war heir of the slain Robert F. Kennedy, taking the helm of the party.

That campaign and the man are worth remembering today: his was a life that was marked by decency, sacrifice, the triumphs inevitably accompanied by defeats and tragedies almost as much as the Kennedy clan’s. McGovern’s unrepentant, uncompromising challenge to the nation was to defeat Nixon and end the war. Coming from a man who had flown terrifying bomber missions over Nazi Germany during World War II and was decorated for his heroics. This message should have echoed with great effect throughout the land, but McGovern became the victim of being swept away with the spirit of the party at the time, which, if you listen to commentators of the time, or saw any part of the convention, was an outburst of left-wing, counter-culture ebullience, an in-your-face cultural challenge of rock and roll music, tie dyed t-shirts, afros, beards, mini-skirts, drugs and license which made Middle America shake in its boots.

McGovern’s quite idealistic, resounding, powerfully affecting “Come Home, America” acceptance speech might have made some dent in the final result had it been heard by most of the nation. But with battles and celebrations over all sorts of speeches and issues dragging things out, it wasn’t heard until 2 a.m. As McGovern said then, “Welcome to my sunrise service speech,” an hour when most Americans had indeed gone home.

More trouble followed from the get-go. It was discovered that Missouri Senator Tom Eagleton, his choice for running mate, had electric shock treatments, and was eventually forced from the ticket even after McGovern unwisely had said he backed Eagleton “one-thousand percent.” Few takers for the job could be found, until Sargent Shriver, Kennedy family icon and former head of the Peace Corps, accepted like the good and loyal soldier he had been all of his life.

The Watergate break-in occurred at the time, and while it was being reported, McGovern railed against it, suggesting deeper, darker doings from an unscrupulous Nixon administration. He turned out to be a prophet, a fact which gave him no solace “You know, when somebody says you’re ahead of your time, it just means you have a terrible sense of timing.”

His opposition to the war was honorable, and almost visceral, coming as it did from the experience of war. “I am fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in,” McGovern said.

His convictions, his campaign convinced few and ended up in a historic defeat, getting only 38 percent of the nation’s vote—and carrying only Massachusetts and the District of Columbia, losing his own state.

The defeat stung, and lingered, as it might have done with any person in a quest for the most powerful job in the world. In 2008, McGovern was in Washington at the National Press Club participating a panel on the media and elections. A 20-something woman asked him how long it takes getting over losing a presidential election. “I’ll let you know when it happens,” McGovern quipped, 36 years after the 1972 election.

McGovern was not done with suffering—he lost his U.S. Senate seat in the Reagan Republican sea change, and two of his five children died young after battling alcoholism.

Personal tragedy, even of the Shakespearean or Greek kind, does not add up to a legacy, of course; it is a part of the river of life’s stories. McGovern’s legacy remains his steadfast principles, his almost quixotic run against Nixon who himself was forced to resign the presidency, his honest opposition to the Vietnam War and his leadership on fighting world hunger, a passion and cause he shared with Republican Bob Dole, who shared with him a lost presidential campaign and World War II heroism.

President Bill Clinton, who worked on his 1972 campaign in Arkansas, honored him with a Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2000. Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., called him “always a gentleman and an outstanding member of the greatest generation.”

As a political figure, McGovern was transcendent, with the result that the party, after his devastating defeat started to move more to the center. He was principled—a rare quality today when many politicians, of both parties, seem to have few positions which they are not willing to discard for a sign of movement in the polls. As a man, he never lost touch with the many multitudes and factions that make up our country.

The late journalist Tom Wicker once described McGovern’s antagonist Richard Nixon as “One of Us,” meaning he was the sometimes dark, uncertain face we sometimes saw in the mirror. If that is indeed the case, then George McGovern was the best in us—that which flickers sometimes in our own mirrors.

Emily Lindstrand •

October has been a good month for homeless animals in and around D.C.

Earlier this month, Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage’s Georgetown office partnered with Operation Paws to sponsor a dog adoption event. An estimated 150 people came to Washington Harbour on the Oct. 13 event, and seven furry, barking friends were adopted.

Coldwell Banker Georgetown became involved with Operation Paws through several of its employees who volunteer and foster animals there. Oct. 13 was the third time that these two organizations joined forced for this cause. Previous adoption events took place during October 2011 and June 2012; these two efforts saw a total of 27 dogs adopted. The next adoption event is scheduled for May 2013.

Also, now through Oct. 30, the Washington Humane Society is charging no adoption fees on black or orange animals. More information can be found by calling the Humane Society at 202-723-5730.
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Georgetowner •

Napoleon Bistro Celebrates National Champagne Day

October 26th, 2012 at 09:00 PM | Event Website

A Champagne Flight will be offered from 9pm-11pm highlighting non-vintage, rose, and brut champagnes. Champagne cocktails will be offered at half-price throughout the evening. Napoleon’s Last Tango Crepe will be paired with a champagne for $20.

Address

1847 Columbia Road NW Washington DC 20009

Everard’s Clothing | All-American Trunk Show

October 26th, 2012 at 09:00 AM | Free Admission! | admin@otimwilliams.com | Tel: 202-298-7464 | Event Website

Enjoy cocktails while perusing through the latest Fall collections from featured American designers Hickey Freeman and Allen Edmonds.

Address

1802 Wisconsin Avenue NW Washington, DC 20007

Thanksgiving Voilà! Hallah Baking Demo & Tasting at Rodman’s

October 26th, 2012 at 12:00 PM | Free! | info@tribesadozen.com | Tel: (202) 684-8256 | Event Website

Join Leah Hadad, owner of Tribes-A-Dozen, as she demonstrates the art of baking Voilà! Hallah Egg Bread Mixes. As a special treat for Thanksgiving, you will have the opportunity to taste Leah’s sweet Cranberry-Almond Hallah and savory mushroom pastry roll.

A woman-owned DC based company, Tribes-A-Dozen offers a unique line of all-natural, kosher certified (OU) hallah bread mixes in three varieties: Traditional, Wholey Wheat, and Simply Spelt.

12pm – 4pm

“Break Bread, Not Tradition”
Address

Rodman’s Tenleytown; 5100 Wisconsin Avenue NW

The Smithsonian Craft2Wear Show

October 27th, 2012 at 10:00 AM | $5 | Sfawcett46@gmail.com | Tel: 888.832.9554 | Event Website

The Smithsonian Craft2Wear show will take place the weekend of Oct. 26-28 at the National Building Museum. Representing the finest of American wearable-craft artists, all 45 exhibitors have been juried into previous Smithsonian Craft Shows.

Address

National Building Museum; 401 F Street, NW

Middleburg Scavenger Hunt

October 27th, 2012 at 10:00 AM | registration for the Scavenger Hunt is free | Tel: 540-687-8888 | Event Website

Scavenger Hunt participants must be 21 years of age or older. Visit wine tastings, shops, art galleries, libraries, restaurants and local historians to help answer the Scavenger Hunt questions. The participant with a correctly completed card, will receive the grand prize of a Middleburg Gift Basket containing a certificate for an overnight stay at the Middleburg Country Inn, local goods and coupons worth over $1,000.

Address

Pink Box; 12 North Madison St; Middleburg, VA

Halloween in Georgetown

October 27th, 2012 at 08:00 PM | Free | Tel: 703-271-7700 | Event Website

Please join us as actors from The Georgetown Theatre Company communicate with the spirits and read a witches’ brew of poems and short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, including The Cask of Amontillado, The Raven, Annabel Lee and others.

We also guarantee a “supernatural” surprise!

A Horrors d’oeuvre Reception will follow the reading with goodies and coffee.

A $10 donation to The Georgetown Theatre Company is requested.

Address

Grace Church Georgetown; 1041 Wisconsin Avenue, NW (One block south of M Street)

Halloween Bike Party

October 27th, 2012 at 09:00 PM | dcbikeparty@gmail.com

Grab a costume and your bike to be a part of the DC Bike Party. Everyone will meet at the Dupont Circle Fountain and leave at 9pm. There will be a stop at Oak Hill Cemetery, heading down Pennsylvania Avenue to Chinatown. Then the group will head to Duffy’s Irish Pub.

Address

Dupont Circle Fountain

The Ripple Effect Artist Talk

October 27th, 2012 at 02:00 PM | Tel: 202-458-6016 | Event Website

Join Ripple Effect curator Raquel de Anda as well as a few of the artists from the exhibit for a discussion about the exhibit and possible social implications from art and art projects such as those seen in Ripple Effect.

Address

Art Museum of the Americas; 201 18th Street NW

Family Festival at the Marine Corps Marathon

October 28th, 2012 at 09:30 AM | Free | JStinnett@scottcircle.com | Event Website

Watch your runners while your kids have a ball at miles 22 and 23 of the Marine Corps Marathon Course in Crystal City. Kids will enjoy arts and crafts with the National Children’s Musuem, face painting, moon bounces, balloon animals, obstacle courses, circus activities and more!

Address

241 18th Street, Arlington, VA, 22202.

Music of Heaven and Earth

October 28th, 2012 at 05:00 PM | $20 | ChurchOffice@uccdc.org | Tel: 202-628-4317 | Event Website

The Thomas Circle Singers’ “Music of Heaven and Earth” explores scenes of heaven and earth through a diverse program of music in a variety of languages. Highlights include Blake Henson’s The Good Fence, Alice Parker’s An American Kedushah, and Lee Hoiby’s Last Letter Home.

Address

First Congregational United Church of Christ; 945 G St, NW (10th and G Street NW — Metro Center)

Gary Tischler •

Billy Collins. As you’re talking to the two-time U.S. Poet Laureate—and once New York’s as well—you kind of want to stick out your hand and say hello, even though he’s in Florida, and you’re here, where you are at home in Adams Morgan. The name has a rock-solid feeling to it, a reality you cannot deny, as real as someone standing next to you waiting for the light to change. You wonder, too, how his fortunes might have fared had he been born in a different place with a different name, say Thaddeus Slowisky, would people even approach him in such familiar ways.

Talking with Collins—I won’t presume the “Billy,” although he doesn’t mind being called that—is an oddly familiar experience, like meeting an Irishman in an Irish bar, where the spoken word will surely ensue. Collins, by heritage and background, is Irish—big and happy surprise, that—and he writes poetry that thousands, maybe millions, of people read and have read. They have also downloaded, heard in the flesh, so to speak, or spoken out loud themselves, or listened to on National Public Radio, or stumbled across like a grand field of verse and video on YouTube, where he is as omni-present as a Taylor Swift song, but not nearly so irritating.

I bring this up not because Collins’ poems are like a Taylor Swift song—although it’s likely he will one day suddenly write a poem about the comparison and it will be pointed, mysterious and funny all at the same time—but because in that rarefied, often academic, will-o’-the-wisp world of literature, of which poetry is its most literary branch, Collins is an odd duck. He is hugely popular, maybe, as the New York Time noted and more than one commentator noted, the “most popular poet in America.” By poetic standards, Collins has made quite a bit of money plying his art, once getting an astounding (for poetry) six-figure advance for three books not yet written.

Of course, that kind of success—popularity plus money—are the whipping sticks used by less fortunate and more obscure poets, not to mention lean and thinly high priests of literature, to try to dismiss the worth of the work. Collins, in turn, dismisses the success while not shunning it. “These things are nice, no question,” he said. “But they have little to do with the writing and creation or value of poetry.” As for those honors, he said, “I was dumbfounded being named laureate. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do besides give a talk.” These honors were bestowed in 2001 and 2002, but Collins did do things. He created a special program to teach poetry in high schools called “Poetry 180,” using 180 poems he selected, as well as coming up with a sequel for 180 more.

“I’m proud of that, sure,” he said. “I think young people today are very susceptible to poetry, not perhaps in its formal processes, but there you are. It’s an exciting time for poetry, I think.” Collins can make you laugh or smile. Each of his poems, you suspect, involves serious business, and Collins is serious about the craft, art and worth of poetry. It may have something to do with the Irish background—or the fact that his mother recited poems to him regularly. It is a truism that in the company of that tribe, which can be magical, joyous and musical, there always comes a moment spent in encountering and discussing God, the bitter end, matters of the universal universe. This happens all the time in poetry.

As a poet and a human being, Collins is not one for living in a cave. He splits his time between homes in New York and Florida, does readings, gives talks, and teaches and continues to write poems that ambush poetry readers.

We got to talking about the Irish a little, about dogs, about process, about the puzzle of his popularity. “I’m said to write about everyday life or the stuff of everyday life,” he said. “That’s true enough, I suppose, but it’s not that simple. There’s the surface, there’s what lies beneath, so to speak, and perhaps things I haven’t thought about. Ideas, images, they do come up sometimes without being sent for.”

He came to being a poet a little late in life—influenced by professors, by other poets like Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the beats, when he was, admittedly, young. But Collins and his poetry are like nothing and nobody, influences be damned. For one thing, we had this little chat about dogs, because I mentioned that I missed walking my dog who had passed away earlier this year. He sympathized—he had lost his dog the year before. And perhaps not surprisingly, some of his poems are about dogs. He believes, as many dog owners do, that we try to live up to what our dogs think of us. Then again, there’s “The Revenant,” a poem by Collins which suggests an altogether different, sly, counter-sentimental view that perhaps dogs know us too well and carry an honest grudge to the grave.

Collins’s poems—often funny, hence a literary prize for a Mark Twain Humor category—are rooted in classicism—in terms of referencing—in jazz—in terms of an often improvisational style—and, yes, in the commonplace, which he manages to make most uncommon and in a formalism that isn’t Victorian or iambic. They seem more like haiku, although not as short.

As for myself, I think Collins is constantly awake in the world, sometimes buffeted, sometimes embracing the wind and the trash it leaves behind. His imagery comes from music and dreams and the stuff of daily breathing, as fanciful as a baby, as real as a cold call. He inspires, and he puts solid words out there that make you think about real time, not virtual time. Recently, a minister at a Georgetown church invoked Collins in a sermon, read and used his wondrous poem, “When I Was Ten,” in a sermon on “Everyday Miracles.” That’s what Collins does, he makes for all time everyday miracles called poems.

Emily Lindstrand • October 25, 2012

The line wound around George Mason University’s athletic field, filled with people eager to see President Barack Obama speak. They sat with energy drinks and made trips to the nearby Starbucks as they waited for the Oct. 19 event to start. Many were there as early as 3 a.m., but most agreed that lack of sleep was well worth it in exchange to see the president firsthand.

The wait was certainly worth it for Nicole Berg, a student from Germany at American University for the fall semester, who said, “Especially for an international student, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It was either grasp it or never have it again.”

People were able to enter the field at 8:45 a.m. Tickets were available for free online but did not guarantee admission, which was why many arrived early.

The excitement was palpable. Chants of “four more years” could be heard throughout the event. Obama took the stage around noon. It took him little time to increase the already high levels of enthusiasm that were present.

A crowd favorite – and a phrase that has quickly found its way online – was “Romnesia.”

“I mean, [Mitt Romney]’s changing up so much and backtracking and sidestepping, we’ve got to name this condition that he’s going through. I think it’s called “Romnesia,’” Obama quipped.

Throughout the morning, volunteers with Obama for America were emphasizing the importance of the days remaining before the election and encouraging people to sign up to participate in neighborhood canvassing or the phone banks.

This event was an important one for Obama, as Virginia is considered a swing state. Fortunately for the president, if those in attendance on Friday are any indication, many are skeptical of Romney and the profound case of “Romnesia” with which Obama has diagnosed him.
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Emily Lindstrand • October 24, 2012

Vice presidential candidates — Vice President Joe Biden and Rep. Paul Ryan (R-Wisc.) debated for a lively 90 minutes last night. The exchange was moderated by Martha Raddatz of ABC News and focused on both domestic and foreign policy issues. Described by the New York Times as an aggressive quarrel, neither candidate hesitated to harshly criticize or scoff at the other.

Ryan and Biden’s clash of philosophies centered around multiple topics, including healthcare, Libya, tax cuts, the Middle East, defense cuts and Social Security. Throughout the night, there was little that the candidates agreed upon – Ryan made a strong case for conservative policies, whereas Biden sharply criticized Ryan’s proposals and advocated a liberal Democratic agenda.

Medicare in particular was a fiercely debated topic. Biden argued, “Their [Republican] ideas are old and their ideas are bad, and they eliminate the guarantee of Medicare.” Ryan countered that Democrats “got caught with their hands in the cookie jar, turning Medicare into a piggybank for Obamacare.”

The candidates also contrasted sharply when Raddatz asked what role their Catholic faith had played in shaping their views on abortion. Ryan, who identifies as pro-life, made it clear that his faith and politics are intertwined, saying that he was not able to see how persons could separate their public life from their faith. Biden stated that although he has considered himself a practicing Catholic for his entire life and accepts the Catholic Church’s position that life begins at conception, he refuses “to impose it on equally devout Christians and Muslims and Jews. . . [He does not] believe that we have a right to tell other people that – women they can’t control their body.”

Foreign policy further emphasized the divide between the candidates. Ryan was critical of the way the Obama administration handed the terrorist strike in Libya, saying he was unsatisfied that “It took the president two weeks to acknowledge that this was a terrorist attack.” He questioned why the United States lacked protection for the diplomatic compound. When Ryan went on to further criticize the Obama administration’s response to the Middle East, Biden retorted that his criticisms were “a bunch of malarkey,” causing the phrase to significantly trend online.

Throughout the debate, Biden had no shortage of quips for his opponent, and his smirk at Ryan was a constant presence. As the New York Times wrote, “Mr. Biden showed no hesitation in hectoring, heckling and interrupting his challenger.” Biden’s sharp responses included “These guys bet against America all the time” and “But I always say what I mean. And so does Romney.”

Biden’s demeanor was a popular topic on social media. “Malarkey” was trending on Twitter, and images of the smirks he gave Ryan were prominent on Tumblr. Sam Youngman, a campaign correspondent for Thomson Reuters, tweeted, “People who like Biden will think this is the greatest debate ever. Folks who don’t will find him at his most obnoxious.”

While Biden definitely made a strong impression, polls were divided as to who won the debate. A survey by CNN declared Ryan the winner; another survey by CBS News called it a clear victory for Biden. The CNN survey stated that 48 considered Ryan the winner of the debate, while 44 percent said that Biden was the winner. CBS News found that 50 percent thought the night was a win for Biden.

Gary Tischler •

Before RGIII blots out the sports sun in Washington and maybe the world, let’s remember when baseball revealed itself to us, kissed us smack on the lips, and then like a feckless bride-to-be, left us standing at the altar, jilted for this time, the words “I do” already forming on our mouths, then stunned into silence.

Let us — before we succumb to our sporting lot in life, the yearly bout of Redskin mania, win-or-lose, and the startling charms of an astonishing rookie — one last time celebrate the coming of Natitude and appreciate the joys and sorrows of young Werth and the rest of the Nationals and the sunshine and sadness saga of the last five games of the astonishing 2012 season of baseball of the Washington Nationals.

The whole season exceeded all expectations by fans and the Nationals themselves, including the team’s first appearance in the post-season of any sort since the 1930s. The five-game series with the seasoned defending world champions St. Louis Cardinals further showed the dramatic rollercoaster ride baseball can provide for fans and players alike. As one baseball sage, oft-quoted, said, “It ain’t over ’til it’s over.” He failed to mention that when it is over—perhaps when the fat lady sings on some other stage—the effect is stunning, like an unforgiving punch in the mouth from someone you love.

The billions and billions of dollars and high television ratings that professional football generates does not negate the fact that it is NOT America’s game, but it has successfully marketed itself as such. Sure, we all remember where we were and what we were doing when the Redskins won their first Super Bowl—drunk and disorderly outside of Nathan’s at Wisconsin and M, watching people spinning from lamp posts, jumping up and down the roofs of parked cars.

Except for Bertram Abramson and perhaps two or three more, none of us remember when the Washington Senators won the World Series in 1924, because most who saw it are–to put it impolitely–dead. But we do and can go to the records of the day, the Baseball Encyclopedias, the stories by the much beloved Shirley Povich. Baseball has its own literature—part poetry, part hard numbers—that are unmatched by any sport, except perhaps some still missing epic fragment describing the events of an Olympiad in ancient Greece. Baseball brings out the romantic in us, as well as the statistician and mathematician. We’re forever writing fall classic poetry and figuring out new combinations of numbers that will tell us with runners on third and first has started the most double plays by a short stop, or who has dropped the most throws to first base in the second inning of any game.

I think that both tendencies point to what we really think of baseball, that among all team sports, it can contain the closest thing to mystery—even now with staggering player salaries which tend to remove them further from us, and the steroid scandals, which make hash of the very numbers we find mystifying. Baseball is about winning and losing, to be sure, like any team sport, but it’s also about how we live life, daily breathing, rising and sleeping interrupted by spurts of drama.

Here is the essential differences between watching the Nationals and watching the Redskins. The action in a football game are a series of miniature explosions in which 22 men on the field, disguised in warrior-like outfits of helmets, bulky pads, gloves, shoes, sometimes painted against the sun, sometimes bristling with tattoos, rise up in unison, rush at each other with unnatural speed and power. The quarterback yells, the defenders yell at each other, the linemen take the stance, the gibberish of the count is hollered out, the ball is snapped, runners move or not, receivers run down the field, and defenders run after them, the linemen collide and a play unfolds—run up the middle, pitch to the outside, throw down the field, screen pass, or, as happened Sunday, the quarterback runs 76 yard down field in a matter of seconds and wins the game.

Baseball is a game of silence and stillness at its core. Each half inning begins the same way—players trot out to the field, the pitcher takes the mound, the catcher—the only one with major protective gear—squats. The outfielders and infielders wait, while the pitcher decides how to throw to the batter. Essentially, nobody is doing anything until the pitch. What ensues is a kind of dance in which most of the dancers don’t dance but react.

Baseball is the opposite of football—not in its lack of violence—but in its definition of teamwork and what a team is. On the field, every individual is naked in spite of their uniforms, every act of symmetry, speed, throwing, hitting and throwing and pitching is glaringly scrutinized, especially in the time of the jumbo tron, the big screen, not just on the field but on television. That’s why it all becomes at some point theater, drama and resolution, both modest and sudden.

The Nationals won two games in the series: one when a rookie managed a two-run single after all the star bats had gone silent; the other when the $100-million plus star Jayson Werth worked St. Louis pitcher Lance Lynn for 12 pitches—seven of them foul balls that were all potential outs—and hit a 96-miles-per-hour fast ball perfectly on the last pitch, winning the game, tying the series, saving the day. “Walk off, play on,” read the Washington Post headline. Jubilation, unreasonable but worthy, ensued, accompanied by its unnatural outcome, hope unquestioned.

The day for which the game was saved came the next day, and it illustrates an entirely different aspect of baseball. It will break your heart, make you breathless and sadden and sour your days and nights for a year. If Jayson Werth felt the joys of victory, Drew Storen, one of the Nationals’ most effective relief pitchers, felt the uncommon, crushing, tantalizing despair of defeat, along with thousands of Nats fans. He was, to put in terms of how it was described, a strike away from victory, from the last out, from moving on to the National League championship series.

“Closed for the season,” cried the headline. Storen had given up four runs, three hits, allowing the Cardinals to come back from what was once a 6-0 deficit to a 9-7 victory. There is no explaining such a thing. It’s like coming home from a wedding to find your house has burned down. Only minutes before all this happened, one local broadcaster had eagerly and confidently said “and when we win tonight.” Baseball invites things like that and never lets you forget them.

These things do pass: we in Washington have found a baseball team to cheer for not because we must but because they’re good, better than good. The loss doesn’t mean they’re suddenly a mediocre team, but a heartbroken team which failed at a critical moment, an inch ago, days before in the series. It will still be the same team next year, and so, we follow the most enduring cry of baseball: “Wait ‘Til Next Year.”

That’s part of baseball, too. It hinges equally on the most amount of success and the least amount of failure, because a .333 batting average is a success, which means you succeed in only a third of your at bats. It also matters when you succeed. The Nationals’ last game was a matter of when. Brutally, it wasn’t then.
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Gary Tischler •

That Woody Guthrie, he’s some big-time feller, even at a hundred.

Women loved him, and he stood up and spoke up and rambled across the country in the Dust Bowl and Depression days. He had the love of friends, whole generations of musicians, the good folks of this country, which has never abated, even though he passed away in 1967 at the age of 55 of Parkinson’s disease.

He sang about vigilantes and deportees, and people who got hit over the heads by riot police and scabs, and he sang the most innocent, playful songs written for his kids, and he rode the rails where the sun hit him all the time, and he sang about unions and he railed against fascists, homegrown or monstered overseas. He wrote the songs, and they spread into other hands and singers and musicians. This year, just about everybody who ever heard of him sang his songs, in his homegrown Oklahoma, in a place called Skid Row in Los Angeles, in New York and small towns, celebrating this year which was his 100th year, had he lived that long.

He’s alive as you or I. I can vouch for that because that was a mighty lively little hootenanny they threw Oct. 14 at the Kennedy Center’s Concert Hall called “This Land Is Your Land—The Woody Guthrie Centennial Celebration” for which a couple of thousand people showed up and in the end wound up jumping up and down on demand and singing their feelings. They looked pretty much like each other. I suppose you could call them baby boomers for want of a better cliché. They dressed down, lots of blue jeans, lots of less—less hair, less glitter, less polish, less ties, less tony jewelry, less socks, but lots of memories, it seemed.

There was lots of music and musicians—and most of them were of a certain age, too, and some of them had heard Woody sing, or collected his songs. One had lived with him for a time, and another was his daughter. (His son Arlo Guthrie did not attend because that morning his wife Jackie died of cancer.)

They all had something in common: they played his music, it seems, a ton of times during their time of singing others’ songs; his songs were the first music some of them heard or, in John Mellencamp’s case, the first two songs he played on a guitar.

So, they all came together, marched on stage between tunings. They sang their songs and sang his words. They were as different as they could be, but they shared some things: banjos, guitars, drums, ukuleles, strings and fiddles along with a dusty glamor. They marched on by and by, singing and strumming, fiddling and whistling, and picking and wailing and clapping and tapping their cowboy boots, and often, fiddling around as in “less guitar, less vocals,” or the other way around for the techies backstage, who would come out like ninjas between musicians.

And it was grand. At turns, the proceedings resembled a tent meeting, an oft-described hootenanny, those folky get-togethers of the 1950s and 1960s and big-time concerts led by the likes of Pete Seeger and Joan Baez, but those two weren’t here. Sometimes, it sounded like a union rally, which must have seemed heartening for the much beleaguered laborites of these times, the working stiffs, government and private. Every time “unions” were referenced in a Woody song, and that happened often, there were cheers from the audience, because unions rattled in Woody’s songs as much as ramblers and gamblers and trains and fascists and migrants and laborers. Politics, those of the Dust Bowl and Depression, the war(s) and big government and big business and such, simmered in the songs like hot pepper and a bitter taste, like the melancholy that made the love songs delirious.

Out they came, and there was the Old Crow Medicine Show, singing Woody’s greeting song “How Do You Do,” inviting, pickled with banjo and accordions and it went from there. Actor Jeff Daniels popped out periodically to read from Guthrie’s writings, songs and letters.

Folks like Jimmy LaVave and Joel Rafel, both acknowledged Guthrie experts and followers and singers, sang things like “Reckless Hobo” and “Hard Traveling,” the music of the folks Guthrie had eulogized, celebrated and bled for, being one of them to his holy shoes full of holes. More and more instruments came, the guys with the harmonica hooked to the guitar, the accordions and their endless rolling sounds and the wonder of the c-note, the ukulele.

D.C.’s Sweet Honey in the Rock appeared in Dashiki chic, singing “I’ve Got to Know,” and Donovan, the sunshine-through-my-window man, rock star, poet and artist by way of Scotland in the 1960s sang a children’s song that Guthrie had written and said that Ramblin’ Jack Elliott had introduced him to Guthrie’s music. People just sort of admired the hell out of each other, outdoing their love for Woody by way of music.

Judy Collins, one of the folk queens of the 1960s along with Baez and Joni Mitchell, came out like a startling, still beautiful witchy woman, dressed in shiny black jacket, black boots and slacks and hair as white as a page of paper, but wilder. Yet other sang Woody’s ode to Pretty Boy Floyd, where he was a kind of Robin Hood, and the main crooks were the bankers, as in “some people rob you with a gun, some people rob you with a fountain pen.” Ani DeFranco, folkie supreme, sang “Deportee,” which sounds as modern as gunfire on the Arizona border, saying, “This here is a shoutout to Mitt. This song’s for you, Mitt.”

Out came Coot Ryder, who long ago provided the evocative banjo-guitar ripping and running soundtrack to “The Long Riders,” the best of all Jesse James movies, and he sang the powerful “Vigilante” and played powerfully, too. There was the remarkable Lucinda Williams, one of the most wayward, in-your-honest-face female singers today. She sang an uncompleted song about “a woman who folks here at the Kennedy Center might not want to hear about a prostitute who wants to teach a man some things his wife never done,” and she sang it with verve and in a style and eye-and-ear popping fashion all hers.

John Mellencamp—our modern troubadour of the men who work in mills and farms and such—sang, and so did Jackson Browne, who sang for about 15 minutes or so with back ups a delirious love songs that came out of a letter Woody had written to his first wife, about falling in love and first meetings and impressions. It went on and on like the kind of dance you never want to finish.

Finally, Ramblin’ Jack himself came out—thin, all of 81, with a voice as wrenching as ever, cowboy hat, boots, bandana and red shirt. He sat down and said, “I heard of this guy named Ramblin’ Jack, and I think he died.” Not yet: Elliott sang a powerful rendition of “1913 Massacre,” marking him as the grand old man of musical story-telling.

We and they, all together—you could have too—sang together “Bound for Glory” and, of course, “This Land Is Your Land,” led by the powerful-voiced Bob Morello of Rage Against the Machine. He got people to jump up and down like kids who cared about it all.

Later in the dark of the night, you dreamed you heard the sound of a train whistle, the wheels chugging like a woman beating sheets on a wash line.