Old Vegas

Surveys show that people love pictures. I was the only person surveyed, so the margin of error is pretty big. But as a Washingtonian, I am duty-bound to respond to any poll as though it were incontrivertible fact. Enjoy:

Above is what they call "Old Vegas," because "Cheap Vegas for White Trash With Drinking and Gambling Problems" doesn't look so good on a brochure.

Below is the view of the Capitol from the steps of the Supreme Court. You'll recall I went there back in December.

Of course, to GET to the steps, you have to wait in the cold on the plaza in front of the court. For about two hours. I bring to you the good times:

Tags: photos

Raleigh Darling

Through the miracle of George Eastman's devil box, I once again have magical images of my journeys far and wide ... BEHOLD!

This is the sculpture field from the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh. As I've mentioned before, outdoor sculpture is the lay-up of photography. But when you have the 2 points there, you PUT THEM ON THE BOARD.

The Andrew Johnson birthplace at Mordecai Park. Born on a countertop in North Caroliny ... killed himself a bear when he was only ... uh, never mind.

And outside the NC State Capitol, a tribute to NC's three U.S. presidents. And the skateboarders that they made possible.

Tags: photos

Sigh

The Groundhog Day report comes tomorrow. In the meantime, what's wrong with this Bud Light slogan?

"Endless refreshment from start to finish."

We're putting this up there with "The Neverending Story II."

Tags: groundhog day

Groundhog Day

On Saturday I went, for the first and probably last time, to Groundhog Day. Not in Ohio, or New York or Georgia, or any of the other places that worship false rodents. I went to the real deal: Punxsutawney, Pennsyvlania. The weather capital of the world. Mount Washington, eat your heart out.

If you're doubting it's the real deal, guess again. The helpful people at groundhog.org confirm that Phil is the true groundhog, that he's 122 years old, that he maintains his youth thanks to a magical potion given to him every summer which extends his life by seven years (so taking it every summer seems a bit much), and that he conveys his weather predictions by speaking groundhogese to the President of the (Unholy Dark Order of the) Inner Circle (which refuses to use its magical life-extending elixir for the good of humanity). The president is the only man alive who can understand this language, so god forbid he get hit by a sausage truck, or a cheez tanker, or any of the other large vehicles whipping around Western Pennsylvania on a daily basis.

The Prognosticator of Prognosticators makes his appearance at around sunrise -- 7:25. The plan for my friends and I (staying in cabins 20 miles away) was to leave around 5 a.m for Punxsutawney. But a very helpful waiter at Ruby Tuesday ("So Much More Than a Salad Bar") informed us, around 9:30 p.m. on Friday, that this was a horrible plan. The gates to Gobbler's Knob (Phil's Feb. 2 home, insert your obvious joke here) open at 3 a.m., and apparently more than a few people don't bother with sleeping the night before, because waiting for Phil is a lot like waiting for Santa Claus, only with fewer presents at the end and more pot-smoking fraternity burn-outs during. The anticipation is like black coffee, if that coffee was poured straight onto sensitive parts of your body in addition to serving as a beverage. What I am getting at is that YOU CANNOT SLEEP ON GROUNDHOG EVE.

So we formed a new plan.

1) Wake up at 1:45 a.m. and bundle up. This means different things to different people. The temperature was low 20s with an occasional breeze. Ice and snow on the ground, but no real precipitation. I wore jeans, hiking sneakers, a hat, gloves, and a scarf. I also had an Underarmor shirt, a relatively light sweater and my winter jacket. Several of my friends dressed up like they were preparing to land on Hoth, with multiple socks, fleeces, jackets and snow pants. Yes, snow pants. Who was vindicated? Chris White total extremities lost: zero. Number of snow angels made, ski slopes skiied and white-washings given by people in snow pants: zero. Relative difficulty of Chris White using a Port-a-John (scale of 10): 1.5. Relative difficulty for people in snow pants: 8.2. But hey, different strokes for different folks.

2) Drive to Punxsutawney. This was a 20-mile drive down two-lane roads; on the way we passed signs for towns named Desire and Panic. As you can see right here, from Rt. 119 you get to Panic by going through Desire. Ahem. The plan was for our two cars to stop at the County Market grocery store on 119. At around 3:30 a.m., we got two of the last parking spaces in a very big lot. This is because the County Market was a shuttle stop for the buses going to Gobbler's Knob, 2 miles away. There was, at around 3:30 a.m., a very big line. So ...

3) Walk to Gobbler's Knob. 2 miles! Uphill! In driving rain! With burning paper bags for shoes! And rickets! Or, more accurately, two miles uphill on a residential street with a bunch of houses featuring Christmas lights and Groundhog Day decorations. We also got to pass the Post Office, with this excellent statue outside:

The walk keeps you warm, and once you get close enough, the bright lights and music on the horizon give you the strength to carry on. I am not lying when I tell you that, as we rounded the final bend, "I'm Alright" from Caddyshack started playing. And I wept tears of joy.

4) Set up base camp. By 4:15ish, there were already a few thousand people there. The knob is basically an outdoor amphitheater without any stupid high-society frills, like seats or a noticable police presence. The stage has a stump in the middle, with a door in the stump, and Phil allegedly behind the door (though he is most likely in a subterranean green room with any number of groundhog prostitutes, snorting magic life elixir out of their bellybuttons). We were positioned to the right of center, far enough back to avoid any angry groundhog attacks.

5) Enjoy the show. There is non-stop activity on the stage; one lucky guy from the (Unholy Dark Order of the) Inner Circle gets to serve as the emcee. You may remember these guys from the movie "Groundhog Day," in that they are the only accurate depiction (along with maybe "The Pennsylvania Polka") of the event. They have top hats and wear black coats with tails. Quite a few of them seem to be overweight, and they have beards and moustaches, probably because facial hair comes with the outfit. The emcee was nothing short of phenomenal -- not as a master of ceremonies, where he basically just herded the show along, but as a dancer. Every time music would play, he, along with a group of girls in day-glo t-shirts, would start busting off dance moves. The girls had to do mildly choreographed stuff; the emcee had the option of freelancing. Think "drunk funny uncle at a wedding" times 50. He was busting out the waiter, the stewardess ... anything that involved pantomime. And he was great at it. Plus he changed hats depending on the song. He had a crown, the top hat, a fuzzy 1970s leopard-print pimp hat ... he kept it going for four hours. Amazing stuff.

As for the girls, they opted to nickname themselves after natural disasters. Because "Avalanche" is always flattering for a girl.

There were also a few cheer-alongs, a pneumatic t-shirt cannon, and the sad, sad case of Adam Mooningham. Adam, the "winner of an Internet contest," was called to the stage at 4. And 4:15. And 4:30. And 4:45. And 5. The host went into a "newlywed game" style event. Still no Adam. At the end of the game, one of the (unmarried) losing couples, from Punxsy, stayed on stage, and the guy made a fairly nice public proposal to his girl, who accepted. Cue Adam Mooningham, who finally shows up with his lady (they came from Florida for this), and right then and there must follow that proposal with the one he'd been planning. But the thunder, as they say, had already rolled. Sad.

Fortunately, the gods took pity on Adam Mooningham, for right after that, a third guy brought his lady to the stage, and gave this propsal in a mildly buzzed frat guy voice, looking mostly at the crowd the whole time. I'm paraphrasing, but the spirit is there: "Hey I just want to give a shout out to all my homies and my family. Yeah! Groundhog Day! Give it up! Anyhow, [girl's name], we've been coming to this thing for three years now and will you marry me? [girl, shockingly, accepts] Yeah! Give it up for Groundhog Day! San Demas football rules!" That stain pretty much covered up Adam's. ROMANCE!

6) Enjoy the crowd. There were quite a few families, and quite a few curious people there just for a good time. And there was more than quite a few drunk yokels, including one guy from Ohio State who kept yelling for the dancing girls to take their tops off, bummed a cigarette AND snuff in a 10-minute period, dropped about 45 F-bombs while standing five feet from a family with three little kids and then disappeared into the crowd to try and get closer to the stage. I can only hope he was sacrificed to Phil by the Inner Circle. And who could forget this guy:

7) Stay warm. Not the easiest thing in the world -- you couldn't go too far afield or walk laps, or you'd risk losing your spot. There was a snack bar, and I had a hot dog with some hot chocolate, because two things with hot in the name can't be bad together, right? Right? There was also a bonfire, which was mostly taken over by the hardcore drunks. It also had some terrible consequences. Allyson, who carries about 80 pounds less body fat than the average Chris White, had to thaw out a few times. On her return, we noticed several burn holes in her hat and jacket where embers had landed. The hat was burned clean through, but her hair was fortunately untouched. Because people with flaming hair tend to put a damper on most social situations. Not all social situations, mind you, but most.

In the end I was OK with the possible exception of my toes, which lost feeling for about two hours. But that's why the good lord gave you 10 toes! So that three or four of the smaller ones could turn black and break off in your shoe.

8) The MAIN EVENT! As the sky starts to brighten, they part the crowd. The rest of the Inner Circle comes to the stage in full dress. They are introduced, including weather-related nicknames that they probably insist on, even around the house. The ceremony is explained to the crowd ... people are congratulated for being true believers ... chants of "Phil!" fill the air ... and then, at 7:25, a gloved hand reaches into the stump and pulls out THE GROUNDHOG! Who appears to be whacked out of his mind on cough medicine or some other kind of downer. He's presented to the crowd, Lion King style. Then he's placed on the podium. The president puts his ear down to Phil's mouth. And then Phil LUNGES AT THE PRESIDENT'S NECK AND A FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD SQUIRTS EVERYW ...

OK, fine .. What actually happens is A SHOT RINGS OUT! Phil has been hit by sniper fire, blowing his heart all over the stage! Then one by one, bullets riddle the members of the Inner Circle! As the crowd stampedes wildly, towering grey storm clouds materialize and a bone-chilling wind sweeps the knob! For without Phil's prediction, we are now doomed to Eternal Winter ... unless a scrappy band of preteens can somehow discover the magical life-giving spring far beneath the earth and free the groundhog prince from the clutches of the CIA!

Or, the guy gets the prediction, then announces to the crowd that there's six more weeks of winter. People boo. Then they tell you, in the span of about 30 seconds, to go away. Sigh.

9) Get the hell out of there. You do this by either standing and waiting for a bus, which would probably involve losing a toe to the cold, or walking through a corn field back to the road leading to town.

Once you get back there (in daylight this time), there are pancake breakfasts in town (which looks nothing like the movie), and souvenir shops, and funnel cake stands, and arts and crafts displays. But most of those involve standing in a line outdoors, so we opted instead to drive back toward the cabins and have breakfast at a diner we saw the night before in Dubois.

At that point, they were putting up this sign:

Needless to say, it piqued our interest, so we came back to see the finished result:

10) For the record, the pancakes there were terrible. It was a great morning.

Bonus pictures

In case you're sick of the 70 degree weather (for Washington readers), here's a reminder of a colder time (i.e., four days ago). These are from the campsite where we were staying:

Tags: groundhog day

The Fourth Estate

The Newseum, the latest addition to Washington D.C.'s tiny, tiny museum community, is opening April 11. Total cost of the new building: $450 million. To put that in perspective, some estimates put the Phillies' home field, Citizens Bank Park, at $346 million.

The admission price at the Newseum for anyone over 13 is $20. For ages 7 to 12 it's $13. For a family of four, that's $66 to see your kids in a fake newscast, even though your kids probably don't watch or read the news. Or, you could throw a rock from the front of the Newseum and visit whichever totally free world-class museum you happen to hit, because the Newseum is one block from the National Mall.

You'd like to think that the uniqueness would draw people in, but this is a museum for an industry, journalism, that is plagued by customers who refuse to pay 50 cents for a newspaper, preferring to get it online for free.

On the positive side, it looks cool from the outside, and it has a Wolfgang Puck restaurant inside, although you could also just go buy Wolfgang Puck soups from any nearby Safeway at about $1.50 a pop.

Vaya con dios.

Somebody Get a Rope

I'm off to New York City tomorrow, for business, then something presidential, and hopefully more business. I'll keep you posted.

Tags: journalism

History Repeats Itself

Once again I am not the Last Comic Standing! Once again, I made it to the night showcase at Gotham Comedy Club, had a good performance and then did not advance to the next round. But it was (once again) a positive experience: the comedians I met were pleasant, I had another chance to put myself out there to millions of people and at the end of the night I feel like I left it all out there on the stage. In a non-disgusting sense. I put together a few minutes to represent what I'm all about, and people seemed to like it, but from a straight-up television perspective, I'm not rocking any underserved demographics and my style isn't exactly tailored to short TV clips (I try to meet them halfway, but I tell alot of long jokes. It's what I do.) If I was putting together a network TV show, I could make the case for not picking me, too.

Cruise the internet and you'll find grousing about the judging and conspiracy theories about all these LCS auditions. And yes, if I was a bi-racial, bi-gender Siamese twin that played the guitar, I'd probably be in the next round. But they aren't running a scientific experiment to find the world's most brilliant comedians, they're trying to make an entertaining hour of television. When a guy in a gorilla suit was the most memorable person from season 5, then you sort of have to cater to your audience a little bit. They got some super-solid stand-ups (including Louis Ramey, who is also a very nice guy), a few newer talents and some novelty acts who will flame out before the finals but should be good for a chuckle on the way. I'm sure it will work out great.

Of course, if I'm not edited into the episode, I take it all back and showbusiness sucks.

What You Won't See ...

Host Bill Bellamy, who generally seemed pleasant and engaging throughout a very long showcase, did screw up my intro.

1) The two comedians before me didn't do that well with the audience, relatively speaking. He threw them under the bus (which the crowd enjoyed) and then promised to buy the audience drinks if the next guy wasn't hilarious. Note that this gives the audience economic and alcoholic incentive NOT TO LAUGH.

2) He then said that the next comedian was absolutely amazing, truly awesome, etc. etc. and so forth. Please welcome ... [the black guy after me]. I was definitely next in line, and the production assistants were very adamant about keeping the order. I turned to the p.a. backstage and said, "he said the wrong name." I was told to go anyhow. As I walked to the stage, looking very much unlike the name that had just been announced, Bill Bellamy was also on his way back to the stage, having realized his mistake. I pointed to him and said, "WRONG NAME!" while smiling. He took the mic and admitted his mistake to the crowd, as "that guy is not black."

3) I went back stage, they reset the microphone, and had Bill introduce me correctly. As I walked out this time I blew kisses to the crowd, who had already seen me come through the curtain once. I figured I had to sex it up a little. When I got to the microphone, the first thing I said was, "Don't worry, they'll make me black in post-production." Then I did my set.

This will not be on TV. I think it's a sign of personal growth that I still find it to be hilarious.

What I Hope You'll See

They did film an interview package with me, in the event that I might be featured on the show (or advance, or whatever). Besides answering questions, they got a shot of me walking down the sidewalk, and a shot of me doing the usual leg-shaking and bouncing that I do before going on stage when I am a little wound-up. They wanted me to do "something funny" while walking, so I did the Bushwhacker walk. And during the pre-show warm-up, I threw in a Ken Shamrock "entering the zone" head punch. If there is any justice, these will appear on TV, and it will make exactly three people laugh.

Tags: Last Comic Standing

New Audio: Jazz Stories

It's been ages since we've looked in on America's greatest artform, so here's a double dose.

First off, "Six Lips" Walker discusses the story behind his distinctive nickname.

And then Sammy Stanwick runs down his musical education.

Whether you like listening to these or not, I enjoy making them. And that's what pays the bills. Enjoy!

Tags: jazz stories

Downtown, February 8

For 400 years New York has been devouring itself; a necessity brought on by the laws of real estate that has, over centuries, become a philosophy for living. The new springs forth on top of, underneath, next to and inside the old.

There are pockets of the past that survive. In 1789, New York was the bustling heart of a new and confused nation, though hardly the concrete island we imagine today -- what mattered of Manhattan ended before the numbered streets. (20th St. was a rural suburb at Teddy Roosevelt's birth in 1858; when his father moved the family far from the madding crowd in 1878, it was to the pastoral quiet of 57th St.) After a decade of post-Revolutionary muddling, the Constitution was finally in order, the Congress assembled. Just one piece of the puzzle remained, and so on April 30, General George Washington (retired), who had declined the titles of king and emperor, left his New York residence and proceeded with much fanfare to Wall Street.

At Federal Hall, a venerable meeting place where colonials had debated the Stamp Act and the seeds of the First Amendment had been planted in the years before the war, Washington ascended to the balcony of the first capitol. There, in front of his countrymen, he placed his hand on a stout leather-bound Bible and took the oath which officially made him the first president of the United States of America.

That building is gone. But the slab on which Washington stood that day remains, as does the Bible -- and both are on display in the Greek temple which stands on the spot, a building that has served as an office, and a Treasury vault, and now a museum. It's a shrine to the birth of American democracy, just across the way from a shrine to capitalism (the New York Stock Exchange), and on the steps outside you can still see Washington -- but twice the size, cast in metal, forever with his hand outstretched as though reaching for the Bible once again.

It's still Manhattan, though. From the inside, depending on the window, you can see into the building next door, where professional-looking people in expensive-looking spandex work out on treadmills in a room with too much wood paneling to have so many treadmills. And if you head west, within minutes you reach the site of the World Trade Center. It's mostly a hole in the ground. A cleaner, tidier hole with glimmers of progress, but still a hole. Standing and staring for a few minutes, you notice not just the destruction, but the people around it -- for every person contemplating the gaping void where two of the greatest feats of modern engineering stood, where thousands died, there are ten people strolling past seemingly without a second thought. Talking on cell phones in five different languages, lost in their own lives. Maybe they stopped and stared at one point, but now, not even seven years later, it's back to being a city block for many. The history isn't gone, but in New York, where everything is demolished and rebuilt eventually, maybe it's easier to let go.

Strange, then, that just a block from there stands St. Paul's chapel, a colonial-era parish. It is the oldest continuous-use public building in the city. The church has survived fires, and age, and on Sept. 11, the flying rubble of the the towers; it became a shrine to fallen rescue workers in the weeks that followed the attack, as well as an operations center for those still combing through the rubble. It functions today not just as a church, but as a museum -- and not just to the rescue workers, but to America's past. George Washington worshipped at that church. He had a private pew (it served as a station for rescue workers to have their feet rubbed in 2001); and on April 30, 1789, he attended services there on his first day as president.

He might have gone to services that day at Trinity, the "home office" for St. Paul's, just blocks away on Broadway. But that building had been destroyed by fire, and was in the process of rebuilding (in New York, a given). It was finished after New York had stopped serving as our capital (the government moved to Philadelphia in 1790, then the newly built city of Washington). Today the church and its graveyard still have their honored space in the heart of the financial district, and businessmen who give it no second thought walk every day within feet of the grave of Alexander Hamilton -- the Treasurer who may have made their careers possible; the father of the political party in America; a man who would probably have mixed feelings on the availability of jumbo soft pretzels within 200 feet of his final (courtesy of Aaron Burr) resting place. Engineers building on the World Trade Center site are within blocks of the crypt of Robert Fulton, the inventor and engineer whose work with steam engines helped make New York into the port that could one day sustain those towers.

We live beside history, and underneath it, and on top of it as well. On an island of millions, moving forward sometimes means ignoring that history -- or at the very least, not being held in its thrall. The resilience that makes Manahattan possible comes with the price of sometimes forgetting the things that made Manhattan great. But pockets do survive, if you want to take an afternoon to remember.

Tags: presidents

Ranch Dressing

There was a president from Texas once who spent a staggering amount of time on his ranch, cared deeply about education and presided over a transformative and often unpopular war. And he was a Democrat. Who says America isn't bipartisan?

A lot of president's homes are just houses with artifacts, and while it's deeply moving to see the dinner set Rutherford B. Hayes ate off of, what does it really tell you about the man, aside from his exquisite taste in flatware? The LBJ ranch, just west of Austin, is more like the LBJ Experience -- you cruise around Hill Country for a little while and you supposedly get a feel for the guy, or at least the image of the guy that he wanted to project: badass cattleman. Which may sound corny, but since the guy made a living out of herding politicians, it's not that far off the mark. Don't mess with Texas.

In 1908 the Texas hill country was basically "No Country for Old Men" without all the annoying civilization. No running water, no electricity, no Ford F150s with peeing Calvin stickers on the back. LBJ was born into that life in a one-story house not far off the Pedernales (Spanish for "Kill All Communists") River, by his family's cotton farm. That house is gone, but there's a recreation there today which LBJ himself ordered -- it's the first stop on the bus tour you have to take if you want to see the ranch at all. Not that I'm complaining. There's nothing like riding around on a shuttle where the average age is 64. It's how you learn about America. There's not much to the house, but aces for going all the way with the reconstruction:

Yes, visiting dignitaries could experience bowel movements the same way a 4-year-old LBJ did. And from that, detente.

From that house he could walk up the river to his grandfather's house and get peppermint sticks; he could walk down the river to the one-room schoolhouse where he was enrolled at a very young age (his mom supposedly greased the skids, because as a teacher she highly valued education, and she also wanted day care so that LBJ wouldn't drown in the river. And thus the seeds of Head Start were planted). LBJ signed one of the biggest education programs in U.S. history into law in a ceremony in front of that schoolhouse.

Unfortunately for his cotton-farming family, the land is really only good for ranching and drinking, so at the age of five dad moved the good times 15 miles east to Johnson City. Which, if you have to move, it's probably best to go to a town founded by your relatives. It makes things simpler when you're trying to move up the ranks in the PTA. You can visit the boyhood home, which was on a 1 1/2 acre plot and featured a decent-sized building, a dirt yard and a few outbuildings. LBJ's dad did odd jobs, read the law, and made the trip back to the family farm on occasions; he was also a regular in the Texas state legislature. That was only a part time job, because Texans chose long ago to settle most legal disputes by shooting wildly into the air and punching nancies in the mouth. But it did make politics a family affair, and when rough men show up at your house to drink and curse and cut shady deals with your dad on your front porch, that's going to leave an impression.

Also leaving an impression: the print of All is Vanity over the fireplace in the parlor. Yikes.

LBJ finished high school at the age of 15 and was president of his graduating class (of six, he was the most popular). He bummed around doing odd jobs in California for a few years, then came home to Texas to get some more schooling. He ended up with a teaching certificate, just like his three sisters and his mother, who obviously did a good job hammering home the importance of edumacation. In 1931 he went to Washington to be a legislative aide to a Congressman; he gladhanded his way to a New Deal job in Texas in 1935; and at the age of 28 in 1937 he ran for Congress. He announced his campaign from the porch of his boyhood home. He ran on a platform of modernization -- bringing power and water and modern amenities to the land he had grown up in, after years of having to share a bathroom with his three sisters without those benefits. He won, and he delivered on his promises. And so he made possible the electrified fence, and there was much rejoicing.

The ranch comes back into play in the 1950s, when LBJ bought his uncle's home; as the story goes, it was a place he had to visit to "recharge his batteries" after long weeks of 20-hour days railroading people into doing his bidding; they have recordings of friends and aides describing how a drained man on Friday night would slowly fill up with piss and vinegar by Monday morning. It's a functioning cattle ranch -- LBJ raised Herefords, in part for the money and in part because it makes for a great photo op when you're on horseback roping a huge bull. The park service keeps it running today, per the terms of LBJ's will, and the tour bus does give you the chance to visit some of the stables and pastures:

The weights are to make sure the horns grow down. And also because this particular cow was totally goth.

If hanging out with smelly animals wasn't enough to persuade visitors to completely rewrite civil rights laws or reformulate America into an entitlement culture, then he could always take them for a swim:

That's the pool of the "Texas White House," as the ranch home came to be known, and sadly that's all you can see if it for now. The Johnson family still owns it, and though the death of Lady Bird last year triggered the transition to government hands, it won't be complete until this summer. So the most you can do is stand at the wall and take pictures of the pool. It's a great way to feel dirty and historically curious at the same time.

So much of the tour is through a bus window -- the air strip, the pastures, the trailers for the network news people, the garage with LBJ's famous Cadillacs, which he would drive guests around in. It would be nice to have a closer look. But in part it kind of reinforces the vastness of the whole thing -- that this was a lot more than just a house, it was a ranch that took in a whole countryside and way of life. In that sense it's kind of cool, even if you have to share a shuttle bus with 20 people who take 4 minutes to navigate the bus' three steps.

One sort-of up close thing is the family cemetery, a simple enclosed plot by the river dominated by two beautiful oak trees. For a man who was larger than life, LBJ has an understated marker.

His is the tallest headstone in the shot, but it's stunningly simple, isn't it? The flowers next to it mark Lady Bird's grave; the tombstone isn't ready yet. The large face-like thing in the front is me.

The big question in all this is what to believe. Johnson was by any standard a world-changing president, through his efforts on Vietnam, civil rights and the Great Society programs that have in many ways totally reshaped American political culture. He had powers of persuasion that were legendary and an unwavering faith in the ability of government to improve people's lives. When you see his home, you can understand why.

But he was also a man very aware of his image. Before you board the bus, you watch a 1966 NBC News special in which Johnson (whose popularity was beginning to tank) takes a reporter on basically the tour you are about to experience. It's filled with beautiful shots of the countryside, and stories about humble beginnings, and LBJ talking about the clarity and serenity he drew from being home. EVen if it's 100 percent sincere, it's an effort at spinning his image, and so a shadow of doubt creeps in. He knew the power of television and public relations, and when you take the bus tour, the message is basically the same as in 1966.

So you know there's more to the story -- for instance, the ranch was a functional business, but a lot of LBJ's money came from owning TV and radio stations. He knew about ranching, but he also knew the value of projecting the cowboy image. And the more brutish side of the man -- the strong-arming, the threatening, the rough edges that made him so astonishingly good at his job -- doesn't really fit in to the picture they're painting. Vietnam doesn't get too much mention, nor the change in spirit that led him to walk away from D.C. in 1969. There's just a ton to know about the guy, who might be up there with Woodrow Wilson as far as "most s*** to deal with during a presidency" -- the first assassination of the TV era, the Civil Rights era, the Cold War, Vietnam, Beatlemania, counterculture ... he wasn't captaining the ship through smooth seas.

But I guess that's why they write books. Sigh. Still, if you're in Austin or San Antonio, go check it out. Totally worth it.

Bonus photo: an arty shot of one of the buildings at the "Johnson settlement" in Johnson city. Basically it's the spread that LBJ's grandfather had close to town. It has old buildings. And no visitors but me. It's great.

FUN LBJ FACTS!

• In his five-year presidency, LBJ spent approximately 25 percent of those days on his Texas ranch. 74 percent was spent in Washington, and 1 percent was spent in disguise working the counter at an International House of Pancakes in San Bernadino.
• LBJ's favorite song (and the #1 selection on the Texas White House jukebox) was "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," though orders to blare it from the speakers of low-flying helicopters in Vietnam had little effect.
• He was the least experienced senator ever promoted to minority leader, and is considered by many to be the greatest Senate leader in U.S. history. I know -- better than Harry Reid? Hard to believe, but I guess so.
• Johnson never intended Great Society programs to be handouts, but as it turns out, people aren't so great.
• While serving in Congress he enrolled in the Naval reserves during World War II and requested front-line assignments. Which is probably why he found draft dodgers slightly annoying.
• His famed "Johnson Treatment" of persuasion involved standing VERY close to a person, clasping their hand, and then spouting a relentless stream of factoids and arguments, until they could no longer take his horrible jerky breath and would do whatever he asked.
• Kept three televisions in the Oval Office, each tuned to a major network. Except when all three TVs were simultaneously on "The Carol Burnett Show."
• As an aide and later a representative, made a point of befriending powerful Congressmen. And then learning their horrible secrets, and blackmailing them down the road.
• Called "The Education President." Because he took the Smothers Brothers to SCHOOL, son! And maybe because he signed like 30 education bills or something. Maybe.

Tags: presidents

Presidents Day

In honor of Presidents Day, here are fun fact about our first 20 chief executives.

1. George Washington's rotten teeth were a constant source of pain and embarrassment, which is why almost no likenesses show our first president smiling. Or eating beef jerky.

2. David MacCullough's biography of John Adams is widely acclaimed as the one presidential biography that people are not exactly sure why they bought it.

3. One of Thomas Jefferson's proudest achievements was a document establishing freedom of religion in Virginia, because he was secretly a Scientologist.

4. James Madison was an unsuccessful farmer, and borrowed heavily against his wife's fortune as a snack-cake heiress.

5. James Monroe helped negotiate the Louisiana Purchase, most notably getting France to throw in rustproofing and extra cupholders at no extra cost.

6. John Quincy Adams chose his desk in the House of Representatives because the acoustic properties of the chamber allowed him to hear whispers anywhere in the room when sitting in that spot. His intimate knowledge of who was banging who came in handy during legislative negotiations.

7. Andrew Jackson attempted to name his horse vice president. When that was deemed unconstitutional, he inisisted on saddling John Calhoun and riding him down Pennsylvania Avenue.

8. Martin Van Buren spoke English as a second language. His first language was love.

9. William Henry Harrison was at the time of his election the oldest president ever. He quickly assuaged any concerns about his age by dying.

10. John Tyler's home is called Sherwood Forest. Which sounds cute until you realize it was all part of his disturbing obsession with sexual role-playing.

11. James K. Polk filled all of his campaign promises, and then died within weeks of leaving office. And that is why no president has followed his lead every since.

12. Zachary Taylor is the only president without an official historic site. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

13. Millard Fillmore never completed his apprenticeship to a clothmaker, which is why the cloth industry called the shots during his entire presidency.

14. Franklin Pierce became president thanks to a paperwork error.

15. James Buchanan named his home Wheatland, in the hopes of making it the world's first wheat-themed amusement park.

16. Abraham Lincoln was the first president born outside the original 13 states, and also the first one shot to death outside the original 13 states.

17. Andrew Johnson spent much of his free time solving murders in Washington, D.C. with the help of Lincoln's wisecracking ghost.

18. Ulysses S. Grant is widely agreed to be less attractive than Amy Grant.

19. Rutherford B. Hayes had the first ever presidential library. They are still waiting for someone hoping to learn about Rutherford B. Hayes.

20. James A. Garfield did a lot of things well, except for surviving gun-shot wounds.

Tags: presidents

San Antonio's Market Square

On my last day in San Antonio, the weather was about 75 and sunny. With mid-Atlantic February in my near future, I decided to get out and walk. I headed to Market Square, not far from downtown -- it's a combination of food stands and souvenir shops for tourists, with a smattering of authentic Mexican stuff imported from China.

Here are some of the images from that day:

Tags: photos

Movie Review: There Will Be Blood

AKA "Any Given Sunday."

This was a fascinating film, rich in detail and emotion, that finally, FINALLY, realizes the full potential of Klitz from "The Girl Next Door." It's about time, Hollywood.

I was entertained by this movie, and I'm pretty sure it has some interesting things to say about ambition, greed and religion. But after sitting through it I also didn't have the energy to think about these things at all. In that sense it was basically like "No Country For Old Men." There were people who were more or less evil doing horrible things in godforsaken ranch land for two and a half hours, but at the end of the day I'd rather watch "Frasier" on Lifetime than sit around and figure out the point. Both movies are going to win some Oscars, because they seem like the kinds of films that should win Oscars, and that's how this crap works.

Anyhow, I still choose to highly recommend this movie, because Daniel Day-Lewis' voice alone is worth the cost of admission. Plus some of the oil drilling effects are phenomenal. I give it to Paul Thomas Anderson: he knows what he wants to do, and he does it. You can always sell confidence.

Tags: movie reviews

Movie Review: Step Up 2: The Streets

In an Oscar season filled with depressing, nihilistic and stunningly glib films, it is refreshing to actually watch a movie with a positive message: that poor black people need to get off their high horses and accept the fact that rich people can dance, too.

Yes, just because a dance crew comes from a magnet school for the arts and is basically a Benetton ad of racially mixed outsiders, just beacuse they all have extensive ballet training and don't wear track suits other than ironically, does not mean that they can't dance. Well. On the Streets.

I won't go so far as to call it phenomenal. There are some problems:

1) The lead actress doesn't dance all that much, and when she does her signature move seems to be the booty clap.

2) The leader of the evil "410" crew (that's the Baltimore area code! I'm street!) is not evil enough. Sure, he has no obvious job, spends all of his time on something that doesn't seem to earn money and somehow keeps a house with lots of electronics and leather couches. But he just looks angry and menacing. Now, Wayne from "You Got Served" is EVIL. He walks on screen and you want to punch him in the throat.

3) They have an embittered ex-girlfriend character, AND a "loyal friend" who quits the 410 to help the heroes. And neither one double-crosses anyone. Again, they really needed to watch "You Got Served" before they sat down to write this thing.

4) If you've ever been to Baltimore, you would not want to dance on the Streets there. In general, you would not want any part of you skin to touch the ground or any buildings in any way. It's a very, very, very dirty city.

One thing I do not understand about street dancing is the economics. In "You Got Served," they were going to be in a Lil' Kim video. And sure, that's the best thing ever. But mostly, if you're a street dancer, isn't your only real hope that someday, with luck, you'll get to have a bit part in a movie about street dancing? Whatever money they're making can't possibly cover the medical bills for all the backflips they're shorting on concrete.

If you understand this, please let me in on the secret.

Roll With It Baby

Saturday I went to my first ever roller derby, as the DC Rollergirls set up shop in their new home at the DC Armory.

For some reason I was under the impression that roller derby was entirely fake, like professional wrestling or soccer. Maybe it was the fact that many competitors wear fishnet stockings, mascara and have names like "Demonica Lewinsky."

But it turns out it's real! No, really! Here are the rules, as near as I could figure:

Five on a side, all skating the same direction. One girl from each team is designated the "jammer," and they start behind the pack. The jammers have to lap the skaters on the opposing team to score points. The opposing team tries to stop this by creating multi-person collisions, which in turn makes many of the sexually depraved middle-aged men on the sidelines cheer loudly.

The best team by far was Scare Force One. Their stewardess costumes were sharp, their derbying skills were unmatched, they had a chick who appared to by 6'5", and MOST IMPORTANTLY, they threw out complementary snacks to the crowd after the snack bar had run out of food. That is the mark of a true champion.

I give the consolation prize to the Secretaries of Hate. They lost their match, and badly at that, but their suporters include little girls, I believe called the "Hater Tots," who ran around the sidelines holidng up signs reading "Hate! Hate! Hate!"

It's good to see kids taking a passionate interest in something.

Zebras

Even the referees at roller derby have zany names, and it got some friends to talking: how do you become a referee, exactly? I'm guessing that if you hang out at a roller rink long enough you'll get your break.

The Kinks

This was the first ever Rollergirls event at the Armory, and to put it politely there were a few kinks. Showing up at 4:30 for a 5:00 match, we found that the line was out the door and down the block -- just to get physically in the building. There was only one security team working the door, and they weren't really in a rush. But why would they be? They were indoors. It's not like everyone waiting outside is freezing or anything.

Inside, there were two ticket windows. Neither one was designated Will Call, so everyone had to stand in the same line, regardless of whether they paid in advance (including the TicketBastard "convenience" fee, $8 on a $12 ticket).

They had to hold the start time to 5:45 to get everyone in. Also, during the match, the sound system broke, and the concession stand ran out of both food and beer.

I blame unions. I'm not sure why, but it seems to work.

Tags: movie reviews