So. . Monday.

Yet another fine afternoon with Holly. These are turning into regular occurrences, which is awesome, except that I have to worry about getting pushed into oncoming traffic more frequently than any mortal man should. She says that she just has slight homicidal tendencies, but I think I just set her off. Either way, she walks next to the curb. Also, either way, let me say — for the record — that if I should meet some sort of untimely automotive demise, I will most surely be pointing my undead finger in her general direction. That, and Mike West gets the record collection.

Anyway, we spent the afternoon not buying posters, despite our best efforts, which included walking through the more hip sections of DC and looking at an unfathomable number of “collegiate” posters. It’s not that they are so good, but that there are so many of them, and if I see another broad sheet describing how Vin Diesel is “a new breed of secret agent” or whatever, I will probably snap, tear the poster into little pieces and then jump up and down on the pieces.

But that’s not what I came to tell you about. . .

At 1831 14th St. NW in Washington, DC, there is a legendary rock club called the Black Cat, which has played host to all of the luminaries of rock music over the last decade, including hundreds of bands you’ve never heard of. Sunday night, the Black Cat played host to two more such bands, Rocking Horse Winner and The Weakerthans. It was an average show, as DC shows go, and overall I had a fine time.

Before I continue. . . people need to listen to me when I say that You Can’t Call It This One Thing if It Does This Other Thing. I saw this fashion punk at the club. He was sporting a serious mohawk, a nose-ring, a leather jacket, and one of those wallet-chain thingies. I also thought that a true punk rocker would chain his wallet to his nose-ring like Jane Child did between her nose and her ear. That would be real hardcore.

Anyway, this guy looked really. . you know. . . punk, and then I looked down, and saw that Johnny Rotten was sporting sandals and white socks.Birkenstocks. And white socks.

Now, before you get all “jump-down-my-throat” let me just say that I am no fashion plate myself, and only in the past few years understood the importance of the rule against wearing a brown belt with black shoes, or really understood how embarrassing it is when your blacks don’t match. Additionally, I do believe that punk is all about the music and the message. I’m just saying that if a guy is going to go through the effort to be a fashion punk, then he should embrace all of its forms, and that includes wearing black combat boots and not white socks and Birkenstocks. You Can’t Call It This One Thing if It Does This Other Thing.

Back to the show.

I’d heard alot about Rocking Horse Winner, but had never actually heard them, so I decided to venture forth and check it out. Imagine a fuzzed out Velocity Girl, or a slightly less punk Heavenly. Now imagine you’re taking a summer road trip, driving down the East Coast at 3am the windows rolled down, and your stereo is trying to play both bands at once. That is Rocking Horse Winner. Two thumbs way up.

The other band that I saw was The Weakerthans, and I should stop right there. They were the headliners, and were pretty popular, judging from the reaction of the crowd. What I mean to say is that the crowd, rather than standing in the back of the club with its arms folded across its collective chest, moved to the front of the stage and stood there with its arms folded across its chest. Like Superchunk Mac says, “That means they like you.”

The reviewer in the City Paper said that Matt Samson’s lyrics and music were emo-esque, but much more confessional and poetic, so much so that he was forced to make up a new word to describe it — poemo. It seemed to me that the reviewer’s vocabulary was obviously surprisingly limited, because I thought of quite a few words right there on the spot, but the last time I said any of them my mother sent me to my room without dinner.

These lyrics weren’t so much confessional as whiny, and although they were poetic, it was the sort of poetry that I wrote when I was fourteen and wore all black, mated with the pseudo-intellectual posturing that second-rate rappers spew when they want to preach or keep it real. If Chuck D from Public Enemy got together with Chris Carrabba from Dashboard Confessional, that would be The Weakerthans. Not to say that Chuck D is a pseudo-intellectual, he does drop the knowledge. It was mediocre and I after a few songs I went downstairs to play pool.

But that’s not what I came to tell you about.

I came to tell you that the college kids are back in town, and I will tell you how I know.

You know how when you are out playing pool and the table is taken? What do you do? You walk over and you put your quarter down on the thing and then you know when it’s your turn to play and you take your quarter back off of the thing and play. Well, I went over to the thing to put a quarter in line to play, and there were no quarters, just an assemblage of safety pins, a stick of gum, ticket stubs and whatever. Some guy even put down his student ID.

I got so confused I just started putting down every damn thing — I emptied my pockets and put like a button, a thimble, some TicTacs, my Safeway card and knows whatever else. I also put down a quarter, just to cover all my bets, but it looked so lonely and small next to that pile of stuff that I put the little guy back in my pocket.

And that is how I know that school is back in session. These kids are so worried about someone stealing their quarters in the big bad city that they. . . I don’t know. Or maybe they just didn’t grow up in arcades and never learned about putting your quarter on the thing. If that is the case, then let me take this moment to say. . . kids, you can’t put any old thing on the thing, you’ve got to put a quarter. That’s a little free advice from me to you.

That’s all, I’m winded.