Cozily situated and reminiscent of Frank Underwood’s favorite refuge, DCity Smokehouse is D.C.’s newest barbecue joint helmed by Hill Country’s former pitmaster Rob Sonderman.
I’m not going home for Thanksgiving. This really wasn’t a hard decision. Usually I have a near panic attack with the logistics, given it’s the only time of the year when I have to do math. My thinking goes something like this: If my flight is Wednesday afternoon, and I have to be at Reagan National Airport an hour in advance, and it takes 20-40 minutes to get to the airport by Metro and 15-20 minutes to get to the Rosslyn Metro by GUTS bus, then that means… yep, I have to skip all my Tuesday classes. Also, on a somewhat related note, how awesome is that airport? If I have a child I’m thinking of naming it Reagan National. I’m not a Republican, but I am a fan of efficient transportation hubs.
If you knew how many times since coming to Georgetown I’ve made it home for Thanksgiving, you might say I’m a bad kid. As a senior, I’ve managed to make the trek back to Minnesota only once.
Although they call their latest album Back to Land, Wooden Shjips seems to be lost at sea.
On their fourth LP, the band uses a mix of Doors-inspired organ and fuzz-out guitar riffs to create a collection of trance-like, five-minute trips. “Ghouls” features a repeating organ riff that sounds so classic, you might wonder if you’ve heard it somewhere else before.
On Saturday Nov. 23, The Ripples, a Georgetown student band, will drop a pebble in the vast lake of the music world, hoping to create waves that disrupt our collective conscience.
Rather than randomly hanging beautiful pictures of beautiful dancers, the National Portrait Gallery examines the history of dance as a visual art form in its exhibit Dancing the Dream, on display until July 14, 2014. The exhibit finds its strength in discussing the historical significance of dance on American cultural identity. At the same time, this focus on history becomes overly intellectual at the price of beauty, which is where the exhibit finds its weakness.
As you enter Rose’s Luxury, a gilded velvet curtain is drawn aside to create a partition closing off the outside world. The hostess station showcases both a laptop and a bright red 1950s-era dial phone, but somehow the two work together harmoniously. An old mirror reflects the people eating in the dining area.
Though Nazis burn thousands of novels in The Book Thief, Marcus Zusak’s tale itself is alive and well. An international bestseller for over two hundred weeks, the book sets a high bar for its cinematic interpretation. Director Brian Percival works through the plot of the novel well, but taming a 576-page tome about the power of the written word into a two-hour movie proves a difficult task at best.
In a conversation about celebrity crushes this week, I guiltily admitted my lifelong infatuation with James Bond (Sean Connery being the pinnacle of all 007s, of course). While I’m a big fan of spy and political thriller movies, I hadn’t attempted the written versions of Bond’s glamorous trysts and travels. So I sat down with From Russia With Love, Ian Fleming’s seminal Bond classic. I expected a fun, quick read, but wasn’t expecting to get as swept up as I did. Just like the Bond films, the novel was fun, shallow, shiny and alluring, full of expensive alcohol, watches and cars, 60s misogyny and blatant sexuality, and scant political correctness—and, guiltily, I lapped it up.
It’s all in the title. Masters of Sex, a new series from Showtime that premiered in late September, is practically an invitation in itself. The ‘s’ sounds blend perfectly, rolling off your tongue as you say such an attention-grabbing phrase aloud. If you’re in a public place, heads might turn. Conscious of its obvious allure, however, the show does not rely on superficial appeal alone.