On Thursday night, a DC resident placed an ad on craigslist for 1500 free Magic cards, which he said he placed in the alley behind his apartment in a milk crate for the first comer to simply up and take. John Moorman alerted me to the ad on Friday morning, thinking I might be interested, and indeed I was. The soonest I could react, unfortunately, was that afternoon after getting off of work. Gibbs had told me earlier in the week that he wanted to do something, and Kurt had said an adventure would be welcome for his birthday weekend, so I told them about it and they said they were interested and so we went.
The plan was to get to the metro, take the orange line to l'Enfant to the green line to U street. There we would walk south to R and west to 13th where the residence sat, and peer through the trash in the dark alley to find cards.
Let's hear a hand for craigslist, everyone. In fact we got there and looked around and there was nothing like the milk crates described, so someone had gotten to them first (no I had not mistaken the address). So there would be no pile of free Magic cards for Kaz this time around. No matter, we went back to U street by way of 13th and started looking around for something to eat or do. I suggested coffee, Kurt had been about to suggest it as well, and Gibbs thought it would be an okay thing, so we set about one of my pasttimes in trying to find a decent coffee shop in a metropolitan locale (which is a funny construction of language if you take to heart what a metropolis is).
Up U, up 14th, down 14th, back up 14th to U, our journey could be an exercise for a Sesame street bit. We passed a place called Crēme Cafe, with the hard sound over the e like that. It looked way upscale for what we wanted, as in, anything with menus at the table was probably more than we needed at the time. We then passed what I thought was a tobacconist, called Tobaq of all things, which on closer inspection was a bistro beneath street level that had valet parking. Hrm. Further along we discovered a place that had a neon sign that said coffee, so this was probably an acceptable thing. It was called 14U, and had fake blood all over the windows and piles of pillows and comfy looking chairs. In fact it looked like a dive, and there was no indication on the outside that I would be able to buy things there, so I suggested this wasn't the place we were looking for.
Back down U on the other side from the metro there was a bookstore like thing that advertised both coffee and poetry in the store name, but it was large and crowded. We kept passing it. It was upscale and full of people. We continued to pass it. We finally stopped passing it and started passing other things. I wonder how it got to be so large and popular? Finally there was a Maggie Moos. I was tired of walking at this point and could have gone for an ice cream (expenisve though it looked). I mean, seriously, I can drop three dollars at a Giant and come home with half a gallon of my favorite flavour and be content for days, what is it about seven dollars of your cream in a cone that's supposed to be so much the better? Bah, the coffee decanter they had was empty, so they ultimately had nothing for us, and we left and kept walking.
In fact there was a place called Mocha Hut not two doors down. Maggie Moos indeed.

We entered Mocha Hut, I ordered a large and filled it with Crème Bruleé. Kurt got a large and filled it with U street House. Gibbs ordered a sandwich on ciabatta. We drank and ate. There was a mic stand and an electric-acoustic guitar at the far end of the room. A man called Kuku would occasionally play it a little and converse with his friends, a thin, bearded young Russian in a white outfit and white knit beret, and a stout cream young woman with dreadlocks and her right eyebrow oft raised. The woman walked around to people with a sign-up sheet for the open mic, and I decided to sign up (I happened to have some Keats on me, so why not?). The woman started us off with one of her own, a generic poem you would expect to hear at an open mic night at a coffee shop in DC. Entirely fitting and boring. Then the featured artist got up and read something a little less generic, but still about abstract Love. She had a pile of books she was selling, a title she had just finished called "Love's Troubadours."
Then there was a comedian who was a college professor at Howard University who taught German and French. He sounded somewhere between Guinean François and Nigerian in accent, and said he was from somewhere in Africa whose name escapes me at the moment. He told us:
"Whenever you see a woman holding a car door open for a man, it is either a sick father, or a sick husband. And whenever you see a man holding a car door open for a woman, it is either a new car,
or a new woman."
Then there was an angry young woman who had just been dumped. A fine venue, I suppose, in which to read two angry poems.
Then there was a stout young man who read a short ironic poem with a tagline. After that, he moved the mic aside and started pacing back and forth prostheletizing about how much he appreciated a full-figured woman. It was honest and loud spoken word recitation, and if you've heard Sir Mix-a-Lot (and you have), this guy took it and did it was better without all the cheezy backup music.
Then there was me. I read from my book of Keats Ode on Melancholy. It was just spooky enough to make everyone give an "ooo," and just hopeful enough to make everyone "hmm." I like that poem. Perhaps some Giesel is in order for next time.
Then one of the organizers also read something from a book (although she had been published in it).
Then there was a young man who had a poem written on his laptop that he got up and read. After he finished, he asked Kuku to comp some guitar in the background while he free-versed some hiphop lines on us for a solid three minutes. He was good.
Let me tell you how good he was.
He was really good. I mean, clearly he had been practicing for this, maybe as a hobby or whatever, but the dude could actually string it all together and tell a story. Hot damn there was some talent in the room.
Then Kuku came back and sung one of his own "Troublina," a folky song about how he's actually happy at home, and doesn't really want to cheat on his girl with you, Troublina, although you are incredibly attractive. "If you want to take Kuku home, you're gonna have to get the album or the single."
Then the featured artist came back and read a few passages from her book, which she was also signing and selling. "Love's Troubadours." Hrm.

They said that they did this every first Friday of the month, so...
Friday, December 7th will be more than the anniversary of D day. It shall also be Poetry Pirates going to DC. Next time I'll bring something of my own there, and we'll have coffee and it will be excellent. Did I mention there its next door to a sushi place and that we could go get sushi or maybe get some Chinatown Express and then go do coffee? Hell yeah.

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