More Stuff that Ruled in D.C. This Week

Pizza at Comet -- My friends and I have a number of theories as to how this pizza place in the furthest reaches of upper northwest became a hipster hangout for the fine-artist-musician crowd, but it doesn't make it any less weird to me. I guess I got myself so surrounded by the worthless glam-and-coke-fuckers in the Red Room and at the Hotel that I forgot that some cool people do, in fact, go north of Adams Morgan.

"Wisconsin Death Trip" at the National Gallery of Art -- Can something dark and tragic also be hysterical? It appears so!

Meeting Nikki Sixx last night -- Listen, you don't have to tell me that waiting in line for two hours for a washed up rock star to sign his crappy book for me was kind of uncool. I know it's kind of uncool. But this was Nikki Sixx, and as washed up rock stars go, he's really fucking high on the list. Way higher than Elton John, higher than Rod Stewart, higher than Gene Simmons, higher than Lars Ulrich (nice mullet, dude). Maybe about tied with David Lee Roth and Ronnie James Dio. Not quite at the level of Ozzy or Ronnie Wood.

But you know what IS totally fucking cool? Giving your little brother a book signed by his favorite rock star from 1990. And even cooler? When the rock star in question says to you...."It's for his birthday? Jeez, man, give it back so I can sign it 'Happy Birthday, Kevin.'"

And THAT was the moment that stuff ruled in D.C. this week.