Photo by PoPville flickr user annejuliet

The following was written by PoP contributor Eric Nuzum. You can read Eric’s previous contributions here.

Perhaps I’ve just been too busy with diaper-changing duties for the amazing tiny human being that my wife and I welcomed on Christmas Day, but this news somehow got passed me for awhile. In January, concert megaenormopus Live Nation quietly changed the name of their amphitheater in Bristow, Virginia, the venue formerly known as Nissan Pavilion.

I was driving down the road last week when I heard a radio announcement for an upcoming show there and said out loud to myself, “Did they just say what I think they just said?”

They did.

When I got home, looked it up and learned that Nissan Pavilion is now known as (if this is news to you, please brace yourself):

Jiffy Lube Live.

Yes, you read that correctly. Greater Washington’s largest rock concert venue is now known as Jiffy Lube Live.

It’s such a jawdroppingly ridiculous idea that it almost zaps all the joy out of making fun of the name. I mean, there are probably no two words in the English language with less rock-n-roll cred than “jiffy” and “lube.”

And if that weren’t enough, they somehow decided to “jazz things up” a bit by adding “Live” at the end, as if simply naming the place “Jiffy Lube” wouldn’t do (though that might confuse people who want to go to an actual Jiffy Lube). Some consultant wearing a $200 tie thought the addition of “Live” at the end of “Jiffy Lube” would somehow make it more exciting. I mean, you wouldn’t want to end up with some unexciting name like, say, Nissan Pavilion or Verizon Center or anything.

But most shocking of all is that Live Nation made this change just a few weeks before the Justice Department ruled on anti-trust concerns over their merger with Ticketmaster. If word of this had spread before Justice gave the okay, I’m sure this would have scuttled the deal. Even the most ardent free market zealot has to admit there are some cases where The Man can have too much unchecked power–like the power to call a rock venue Jiffy Lube Live.  Continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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Photo by PoPville flickr user *tinadelarosa

The following was written by PoP contributor Eric Nuzum. Also of note: Eric will be at Past Tense Yoga, 3253 Mt. Pleasant St. NW, after Happy Hour on Fri, Oct. 23 for an entertaining reading from both The Dead Travel Fast, his pop culture look at vampires, and his forthcoming book Bring Me To Heaven, where he visits to some of the most haunted locations in the country to find ghosts. You can read Eric’s previous contributions here.

The other day I was watching CNN and five-word headline scrolled across the bottom of the page, “Pet bear kills Pennsylvania woman.”

Of course, since I rarely have anything better to do, I immediately Googled “pet bear kills pennsylvania woman” (the 15th most-popular search term at the time) and found this story, detailing the demise of 37-year-old Kelly Ann Walz of Ross Township, PA. It seemed Mrs. Walz kept a variety of exotic animals as pets–a cougar, a lion, a Begal tiger, and a 350-pound black bear. The Walz family had kept the bear in a fifteen by fifteen foot concrete and steel cage for nine years. A few days ago, Kelly threw in some dog food to distract the bear while she cleaned its cage. Once inside, she learned the bear wasn’t all that distracted, was probably more than a little pissed off about the 225-square-feet-of-space-for-almost-a-decade thing, and mauled her to death.

At several stages of this story, it kind of leaves you asking yourself: what was she thinking?

And few months ago, I read a similar story in Esquire, about a guy who was attacked by a pet chimp, who severed the guy’s foot, nose, testicles, and a few fingers in the process. And while especially gruesome, overgrown chimp attacks aren’t all that rare.

It kind of leaves you asking yourself: what were they thinking?

You may be curious where I’m going with this. It’s just that when I saw that headline crawl across the TV earlier, the first thought that entered my mind wasn’t about the woman, her family, or even the bear. I thought about my son–or more specifically, that I am about to become a father.

If your first thought upon reading that last sentence was “What is he thinking?” you can probably understand my state of mind. Much like our deceased and disfigured former exotic pet owners, my wife and I, despite the experience of others, the laws of nature, and common sense, have decided to have a child. Continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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One of these showed up around a tree in front of my house yesterday, with no context or explanation. I’ve noticed quite a few of these popping up throughout the neighborhood around the young trees and I’m curious if others have noticed them or had any experience with them. The side identifies them as “BioPlex Tree Rings.”

At first I thought these were something that you would plant in the ground around the tree to keep the roots at the right depth or use as a planter of some kind. Then I went to their Web site and it seems these are some kind of water collection/slow-drip system from keeping the baby trees properly moisturized.

My biggest concern is that these are going to end up making the mosquito situation even worse than it already is this time of year. Having large buckets of water sitting around is kinda asking for trouble.

Is this worth it?

Ed. Note: And speaking of trees there will be a community watering – from an email:

“There will be community tree watering this Saturday (8/8) @ 7am for the trees that have been planted by DDOT/UFA in the Medians at the Georgia Ave/Petworth Metro Station. We will be meeting at the the Petworth Station Metro Statue at 7am for a safety meeting. Please come out and join us as your schedules permit. Hope to see you there…..

Again, THANK YOU to Donatelli Development, who is providing access to water from the Park Place building by Donatelli Development.”

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Photo by PoPville Flickr member Rukasu1

The following was written by PoP contributor Eric Nuzum.

This one is for the interlopers and sojourners in the house. Native sons and daughters can sit this one out, opting instead to monitor the comment thread and shake your heads in mild disgust.

So I’ve been wrestling with something lately and could use some advice: How does one go about explaining our neighborhood life to folks back home?

My wife and I have become increasingly perplexed by the fact that, despite moving into our Petworth home 18 months ago, neither set of parents (mine from rural Ohio; hers from rural Indiana) has come to visit us yet. Seeing that we are the first kids on either side of our families to buy homes, we expected a little more interest.

The answer came during a visit home a few weeks ago. When we pointed out the lack of parental visitation to my folks, they were pretty silent.

“You aren’t frightened of where we live or anything…are you?” I asked.

Long pause.

“Well,” my mother said. “Maybe a little.”

In hindsight, this didn’t surprise my wife at all.

“Think about the stories you tell them,” she said. “It’s all crack addicts and crime and problems and sketchy this and that. If that was all I heard about any place, I’d be frightened too.”

Okay, she’s right. But in fairness, when I’m telling stories, I go for the colorful and entertaining, I’m not shooting for high journalistic objectivity and fairness. However, I admit that the end product does come off a bit askew.

Going solely off my solely-for-entertainment-value stories, the unfamiliar might be left with the impression that Petworth is a place where bullets fly daily, bugs and rodents conduct their own ANC meetings, the Sunday paper contains coupons for local heroin and crack dealers, and residents mope down the street openly weeping (when we all know that only the residents of Chevy Chase walk down the street weeping, come on). You can even see from my own previous guest posts on PoP (spottily chronicled here), I admittedly tend to focus on the less-than-positive, less-than-normal, and less-than-flattering.

My wife issued a decree, right there in the car driving across the Pennsylvania turnpike: No more negative yarns and jokes about DC to family and friends.

To me, that seems to harsh, almost like suppressing elements of life here. She clarified that she wasn’t asking me to censor anything, just realize that by sharing stories and making jokes about one side of life here, I was casting the entirety in false light. I see her point. Continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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PoP contributor Eric Nuzum doesn’t want to be “that guy”. Ed. Note: I will happily accept someone mowing my yard…

I think one of my goals in life is to never be “That Guy”: the person who does things so stomach-turningly earnest that you are unsure whether to nominate him for a mayoral citation or kick him in the nuts.

Good deeds are great things, and should be encouraged. However, there is a category of good deeds that really aren’t that good at all: things like mowing a neighbor’s yard or trimming their bushes when they didn’t ask you to, arranging everyone’s trash cans in the alley, taking down someone’s holiday decorations, or offering unsolicited advice on how to fix a sagging gutter. They are usually activities that seem well-intentioned, but you quickly realize “That Guy” isn’t doing these things to be nice. “That Guy” is doing these things because he passive/aggressively wants them done his way and on his timetable. In other words, it’s all about him.

Why do I fear becoming one of these people? Because every Sunday morning I sneak off to secretly do my own borderline version of this: pick up trash.

Chances are that if you happen to be hanging around on the corner of 3rd and Emerson NW, you are probably there to do something terrible. And, of course, by “something terrible” I mean you are there to litter.

Even though many of my neighbors suspect that the loiterers who congregate on that corner are attempting to buy or sell drugs, newborn puppies, or sex, I know the truth. People travel to the corner of 3rd and Emerson to eat food and drink beverages, then drop the empty containers and wrappers on the ground. Given the amount of trash on the corner, I’m left to assume that a McNugget combo somehow must taste better when consumed on my corner, leaving the eater so deliriously content that they drop the packaging where they stand and then skip blissfully to their day’s next adventure. Continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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IMG_1833, originally uploaded by Prince of Petworth.

PoP contributor Eric Nuzum envisions his breaking point.

Everyone has a breaking point. Everything is normal, then something so absolutely annoying happens that you lose your shit. For Bjork, it was being photographed after a long flight to Taiwan. For Johnny Depp, it’s slow hotel room service. Postal workers, that dude in the movie Network–we all have that point. Hell, Lou Dobbs has made a career out of being outraged every weeknight at exactly 7pm.

Though it has yet to happen, I know the precise thing that will someday drive me into a batshit crazy rage: watching people fumble through using the “Pay Here” machine in the DCUSA parking garage.

I think my intolerance comes from my own abilities to execute this simple task. In all humility, I’m like a kendo master of the “Pay Here” machine. Even with a bag in each hand, I can insert the ticket, insert my dollar, grab my ticket, and step aside–all in less than 18 seconds. If both hands are free and I have a dollar coin, I can get it done in less than 12.

Spend three minutes hanging around the P1 elevator lobby at DCUSA and I think you’ll agree that I am the exception.

Now, for those who plan to give me grief for driving from Petworth to DCUSA, let me remind you that we live in a city where driving a car (an occasionally necessary evil, admit it) is an exercise in misery. Journeying to the “come on in, there is plenty of space”-ness of DCUSA’s garage is cathartic. It’s worth a melted iceberg or two just to have the experience.

Admittedly, part of me understands why the “Pay Here” machine might blow a few minds, as the DCUSA garage sends out screwy signals from the minute you drive in. How can someone spend tens of millions of dollars on a garage, yet fail to consider that entering and exiting on the left might confuse people? DCUSA usually pays a security person to stand there all day, just to keep folks from entering through the exit ramp. At least that guy doesn’t need to worry about the waxing and waning of the economy.

When it comes time to settle up and head out, most people look at the “Pay Here” machine like it is quantum physics equation, like it’s an elaborate puzzle or riddle or something. Overwhelmed looks of confusion abound. However, in a world of complexity, the “Pay Here” machine is really one of the simplest, most straight ahead exchanges one could have all day.  Continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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PoP contributor Eric Nuzum wonders what it will take to rent his home for the inauguration.

Several of my friends are aflutter over the inauguration. It has nothing to do with “change,” lack of “change,” or the likelihood that “change” will amount to anything actually changing. They are obsessed with a different kind of “change”: the type that will be jingling in their pockets once they rent their home or apartment to those who find no room at the inn for the Obama coronation on January 20th.

Even though hotels are not completely sold out yet (and that is true, they aren’t), urban tales are spreading through the city of people renting out their homes for tens of thousands of dollars. And my friends and co-workers have dollar signs in their eyes.

Perhaps I’ll eventually eat my words, but I generally operate under the principal that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.

“What could go wrong?” my people ask. Well, let’s not go there. However I’m willing to bet real actual cash (you know, the kind I already have) that people willing to shell out thousands a night aren’t going to be a bunch of old lady spinsters from Iowa who go to bed at 7:30. Call me crazy, but even $20k won’t wash away the vision of some Fortune 500 executive screwing a coked-up hooker in my bed. Continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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Congrats to Eric for being selected as a Washingtonian Favorite. My favorite part was:

“Must-have item at all times:
Um, my feet and hands? They’re kinda essential. Of course, now I’ll get an e-mail from an advocacy group informing me that hands and feet are not, in fact, essential. So instead I’ll say pants. I think everyone can agree that having pants at all times is a good thing. I fear I’ve permanently damaged my karma with this answer, like I’ll end up in a terrible accident in a few months where I’ll lose my hands, feet, and pants.”

Read the full interview here.

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Keys I found, originally uploaded by ericandkatherine.

PoP contributor Eric Nuzum  has an ethical dilemma and needs your help in figuring out what to do.
“Good morning,” I called out to my neighbor Angela, who, despite living a few doors down from me for almost a year, still looks at me every time she sees me with a grimace that implies that she isn’t entirely unconvinced that I plan to kill, rape, rob, burn, mutilate, or bother her. ”You didn’t…by chance…lose anything in the street…did you?”

“Like what?” she flatly replied, almost sounding interested.

“Like, I don’t know, a key or something?”

“You found a key…but you don’t know it’s a key?” she asked.

“I know it’s a key.”

“Then why’d you say you didn’t know? If you found a key, just say ‘I found a key.’”

“I found a key,” I said.

“Well, it ain’t mine.”

“Thank you, Angela.”

This was the second conversation I’d had about the keys I’d found right where the curb meets the street in front of my house. You know, that crevasse-like collecting point for potato chip bags, bottles, chicken bones, leaves, and syringes. However, one recent morning I looked down and saw something shiny: a set of keys. They were two identical keys, fairly new (but didn’t appear brand new) held together on a cheap metal ring. They looked like standard size keys–like for a door lock. Outside of a five-digit code on the side of the keys, there was no distinguishing marks, tags, or brand names. 

My first key-related conversation hadn’t gone much better.

“Hey there,” I called out to my neighbor, an old retired military guy (as evidenced by the multiple bumper stickers on his fleet of vehicles announcing this fact) who occasionally parks his pick-up in front of my house (instead of across the street in front of his house).  [Ed. Note: In Petworth parking is copious and there is an unwritten rule that the resident of the home parks in front of it.]

“I found something of value in the street yesterday and I’m not sure who it belongs to,” I said.

“Well, if it’s money–it’s mine.”

“It isn’t money,” I replied.

“Well, what is it?” he asked.

This was my real problem: how do you ask people on your street if they’ve lost something when you don’t want to reveal much about what it is? I thought about giving him hints like “They’re shiny,” or “They’re made of metal.” But eventually decided on the direct approach.

“Keys.”

“Keys?” he asked rhetorically. “What are they to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, how are you supposed to find out who they belong to if you don’t know what they open?”  Story continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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You can read Eric’s near-daily musings on his Web site. His latest book about vampires, chickens, germs, and death–entitled The Dead Travel Fast–has recently come out in paperback. You can get more info on picking it up here.

If Everything Fell Apart…What Would You Do With Your Life?

by Eric Nuzum

 

So let’s say that the current economic crisis gets bad…really bad. So bad in fact that your job is gone, you can’t live in your house/apartment/commune/whatever, and you have to declare bankruptcy. Let’s imagine it gets so bad that you pretty much lose everything and have to start over again with nothing…what would you do with your life?

 

I posed this question to my friends Matt and Katy at dinner Monday night.

 

Just like so many other people out together for dinner…or around coffee tables in homes because they don’t want to go out and spend any money…we were talking about the economy. We were talking about how scary it is. And we were all saying that the worst part is not knowing how bad it will eventually get before it gets better again.

 

(I’m sure you’re making a note to yourself right now to never go out for dinner with me, lest you come home totally bummed out.)

 

Anyhow…

 

While listening to my friends talk, I wondered out loud if the “worst case scenario” is really all that bad. “To be frank, the ‘worst case’ doesn’t scare me at all,” I said. “It’s all the cases between best and worst that keep me awake at night.”

 

As is the norm when I philosophize, my friends looked at me with a degree of puzzlement. “I mean, the ‘worst case scenario’ is scary, but it could also be looked at as total freedom. No expectations. No responsibility. Just a clean slate.”

 

“So if you had that–even if you got it via a terrible, frightening situation,” I continued. “What would you do with your life?”

 

Katy and Matt fumbled around a bit. Both work in media, and both their initial answers were a desire to “tell stories” without worrying about ratings, sales, or income. These answers felt too easy to me (basically because mine wasn’t terribly different).

 

After a bit more probing (there is another reason to avoid dinner with me–any dinner that involves “probing” of any sort isn’t going to be very pleasant)–anyway, after some probing, the real answers started to emerge.

 

“I think I’d become a park ranger,” Matt announced.  Story continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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My copy of The Dead Travel Fast, BLAH, originally uploaded by revjim5000.

Petworth resident and PoP contributor Eric Nuzum’s latest book is out in paperback this month. It’s called The Dead Travel Fast: Stalking Vampires From Nosferatu to Count Chocula. As the title would indicate, it’s about vampires–as well as death, chickens, fear, things that smell bad, the love of a good woman, and germs…but mostly it is about Eric’s attempts to understand why the undead are such a perennial favorite for people around the world. The book is available in bookstores or from Amazon. Eric will be doing one reading in DC this fall, October 30th (the night before Halloween) at the Barnes and Noble in Georgetown. I know it sounds trite but there multiple times I laughed out loud when reading this book. It is a quick read and hilariously captures this wild world of vampires and those who are obsessed with them.  I thought it’d be interesting to hear what it’s like promoting a book.  

Kiss Me, I’m (Really Not That) Famous

by Eric Nuzum

Let me describe a scene:

I’m riding the Metro to work last fall when some guy looks up from his copy of Express and stares at me.

Then he looks back at their paper. Then back at me. Then back at the paper. Then…well, you get the point.

The guy on the metro was having his mind blown–realizing that the dude he was reading about in the paper was the same dude squeezed into a Red Line train in front of him. Usually the non-celebrities featured in newspaper photos are those cutting ribbons at construction sites, kids who’ve won spelling bees, and people who have done things they will regret for a very long time.

However, I am not one of those people. I write books.

What does this mean? It means for a week or two every year or so, I am the flaky crust about to fall off the outermost layer of fame. I’m on radio, TV, and print, like the Express feature. You’d think this would be glamorous and exciting. I’m not going to lie to you, it is really a bonafide thrill to see something you’ve slaved over published. You are a “Published Author.” Most people assume this comes with a degree of dignity and respect.

It does not. 

Since I’ve become a Published Author, quite a few people have asked me what it’s like to be famous. I reply that I haven’t a clue, but I think I’ve grasped what it must be like to be the first contestant tossed off Project Runaway or the week’s third inbred meth-fueled car thief featured on Cops: a temporary minor celebrity – fame with all the satisfaction and staying power of a cup of Ramen noodles.  Story continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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Eric’s latest brilliant idea for someone else to do

You can read Eric’s near-daily musings on his Web site. His latest book about vampires, chickens, germs, and death–entitled The Dead Travel Fast–is coming out in paperback at the end of this month from St. Martin’s Press. You can get more info on picking it up here.

The concept is simple: home remodeling consultant.

Let’s face it–times are tough. Many people have an inherent inclination to do their own home remodeling projects. Lately though, the slow, stinky death of home values and the suck-ass economy in general (sorry to be so technical) have forced more people to start economizing on how they fix and improve their homes. That need to “economize” becomes a painful euphemism to our friends in the construction and home improvement business for “the phone not ringing.”

As in other tough times, some people find a way to profit from the situation. Some become foreclosure specialists or repo agents, but I suggest a higher calling: the home improvement consultant. Post continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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“Dear PoPville friends and neighbors:

Before I get into all the hoohums and fancy talkin’, let me give the bottom line:

Wednesday night is my birthday party at Looking Glass Lounge. I’ve hired an Elvis impersonator to entertain. You are invited.

Okay, now for the back story…

I don’t know how your summer has been, but mine has SUCKED ASS.

You name just about any awful thing that could happen to someone and I know a person that’s experienced it this summer. I mean, in addition to the fucked up state of our economy and world. And in addition to the death, cancer, lay-offs, surgery, and other assorted terribleness that’s happened to the people I care about–I have not escaped myself. My beloved asshole cat died two weeks ago.

One evening I was sitting around sipping a few drops of liquid comfort (i.e. Yukon Jack), saying to myself, “Woe is me,” when I had a moment of clarity and enlightenment. Invite continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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DSC02100, originally uploaded by Prince of Petworth.

Check out Eric’s personal blog here.

If you aren’t a dog person, you simply aren’t going to get it.

It’s one of those things that when you mention it to non-believers, you find yourself offering all kinds of explanations and caveats.

Doggie day care.

Now, when I was a kid, our dogs were pretty low maintenance–or at least that’s the way I remember it. Unless something was hanging out of an orifice or the animal was bleeding (profusely, at that), the family dog seemed to get along just fine without fussing over it too much. Then again, I also have memories of being a young child sitting in the front seat of my parents’ car with them smoking, with the windows rolled up, and none of us wearing seat belts–so we probably aren’t the best model to use.

Before we got our French bulldog, Lolly, I openly scoffed at doggie day care, thinking it was for all the crazy dog people who anthropomorphize their pets into “fuzzy children.” Then one day–I think it was shortly after the puppy decided to chew on a wall for entertainment–we decided to give it a try.

Once you see a dog coming home from a day at doggie day care, you become a convert (we take Lolly about once a week for a full-day). It’s like they’ve been to a spa. They are relaxed and calm. It’s obvious they’ve spent the day working stuff out that a walk around the block or a quick butt-sniffing with the neighbor dog can’t accomplish.

We moved to Petworth from Rockville about two months after we discovered doggie day care and were really worried about where we’d take Lolly. Then I saw a brief mention in a PoP posting by Intangible Arts about Little Rascals, a new dog day care and indoor dog park at 5917 Georgia Avenue. Story continues after the jump. Read Full Post

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Cocktail Essentials, originally uploaded by DOS82.

Check out Eric’s personal blog here. When Eric first mentioned this idea for a post to me I was overjoyed. It is brilliant. Mr. Nuzum does not disappoint in his take on neighborhood cocktails. Make sure to add your suggestions in the comments. Best three suggestions win a free PoP t-shirt.

If there was a cocktail named after Petworth, what would it be?

There are lots of drinks named after places. There’s the Manhattan, Cape Cod, Long Island Ice Tea, Singapore Sling, Alabama Slamma, and Blue Hawaii just to name a few (my friend Chantal can name at least a dozen others off the top of her head–tells you the kind of friends I have). Heck, you could argue that Sex On The Beach is named after a place, though it probably has more to do with what you do there than the actual beach itself.

So if there was a cocktail or shot named after Petworth (or any other nearby neighborhood), what would it be?

I remember reading an article once about people who have a wire crossed in their brains that causes their senses to interact. When they see, smell, taste, or hear something, it invokes a trigger in a different sense. Thus, these people say that things “sound like salty,” “look very minty,” or “smell like purple.” To me, cocktails should invoke the same kind of sensory crossover. When I sip a Cape Cod, I should be reminded of Cape Cod. When I taste an Alabama Slamma, I want to taste Ala…oh, never mind. That is a terrible thought.

Anyone who has ever worked as a bartender–or as a waitress/waiter in a place that serves alcohol–has played this game. You invent a drink/shot and then you force a customer or co-worker to drink the creation. When they shudder and proclaim, “What the fuck was that?!?”–you make up a title on the spot. You do this over and over again, hundreds of times, waiting impatiently for the time that someone walks up to you and says, “You know, I hear you make a drink called ‘Grandma’s Wrinkles’–can you make me one of those?”

Every drink you’ve ever tasted started off this way.

While lacking a specific recipe, my wife nailed the requisites for “The Petworth.” Post continues after the jump including recipes for Eric’s neighborhood cocktails. Read Full Post

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