Racing for Happy Hour

We were racing back to the hotel for happy hour. We were on foot. We were lost. We were sweating through our clothes. We were red-faced. We were sunburned. We were tired. Nobody seemed able to provide good directions. Nobody could straighten us out. Nobody could help. Happy hour was now almost halfway over. I looked up into the sky, and determined which way was north by the position of the sun as it related to the time of day. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Don’t forget it. We re-oriented ourselves on the city map and took off. We made it. We crashed through the door, red-faced, sweaty, exhausted, irritable, and thirsty. Five minutes left for free drinks. The only free booze left was red wine, some shitty beers, and champagne. Nothing I’d really want, but I drank as much as I could as quickly as I could, because I’d earned it.

Ben’s Chili Bowl

Ben’s Chili Bowl is supposed to be one of the very best places to eat in DC. We took a train to “U” street, found the place very easily, and walked in. It was immediately apparent that we were the only white people in the whole place. There was a sign hanging on one of the heated chili pots that read, “Bill Cosby is the only man who eats here free.” I chuckled. The guy taking our order looked at me quizzically. I said, “I’m Bill Cosby.” He laughed. The chili was incredible. It was, without a doubt, the best chili I’d ever had on fries or a hot dog. Even better than the Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe back home. Seriously. The jukebox was also awesome. Sugar Hill Gang, Parliament, Kool Moe Dee, and James Brown all played during our meal. I was really in the mood to hear some John Lee Hooker. Certain as I was that there would be some on the jukebox, I refrained from going up and putting some on. If anybody in there had disapproved, I would have been devastated.

Dead Gnats

The hotel bar was poorly stocked. They didn’t have much, only the big obvious liquors and a few different beers. There was a daily champagne toast from 5pm to 6pm, with all-you-can-drink free champagne. I hate champagne, but I’m also a sucker for free things. We arrived late and each put down three glasses, fast. Then I bought an overpriced double of Maker’s Mark on the rocks. My wife got a mixed drink. We sat in the lounge. It was hot. Cooler in the lounge than it was outside, but still warm. The constant traffic into and out of the lounge made it difficult for the air conditioning to be effective. We periodically had to swat gnats. About 5/8 of the way through my glass, I noticed something at the bottom of it. I looked closer. Dead gnats. I guess they had been landing in my bourbon for a drink and had subsequently died. There were about five of them at the bottom of the glass. Initially I was half-heartedly angry. Then, lacking the energy to sustain any type of real anger, I just finished it anyway.

Captain Beefheart as a Homeless Woman

We were about to catch a bus. From about 30 feet out, we could see a cop stopped at the bus stop, prodding somebody. It was a homeless woman sleeping on the bench. She had two milk crates, which he confiscated. That was awfully nice of him. Way to serve and protect! He liberated the milk crates and woke somebody up! After she sat up, he drove off. We stood at the bus stop and waited for the bus, paying her no mind. As she slowly found her way to consciousness, she started spewing insane poetry, just like Captain Beefheart. She even kind of had his voice. This is what she said:

“My body controls this world! We’re all just looking for our pussies.”

“Hey big boy, wanna give me a try?” (This while apparently trying to solicit a boy who couldn’t have been more than 13 years old.)

“I don’t want you either, Michigan Secretary of State!”

And my two personal favorites, both aimed at my wife:

“Take it up with fucking Jennifer from 90210!”

“Fuck the tall whore with the long brown hair! Fuck that skinny bitch in the purple sunglasses! Look at her boyfriend! Isn’t he a physical specimen? He can put his dick right up her broad-backed ass.”

All of this came out over the course of about five, maybe ten minutes. Each sentence was spoken individually, with wild, angry gestures, and followed by a short pause. Then there would be another. Once the bus showed up, we got on, and a black woman got on with us. She was laughing, and said to my wife, “I wouldn’t have stood for that, honey! I would have told her to shut her damn mouth!

The Chophouse

The Chophouse is a brew pub. My wife and I love beer. We stopped in and sat at the bar. They had a stout beer brewed in old whiskey barrels, which are made from oak. There were other styles of beer on hand as well, but I wondered why. The Russian Imperial Stout is clearly the greatest style of beer there is. Period. Once it had occurred to people that a Russian Imperial Stout could be made more potent by brewing it in oak barrels, giving it a bourbon-like flavor, why did they waste their time and resources brewing anything less? If Slayer were a beer, they’d be a Russian Imperial Stout brewed in oak barrels. Anything weaker is kind of pointless. The Chophouse’s Bourbon Stout was good. Not the best I’d ever had, but good. It was a little thin, just not quite as dense as it should have been. No fatal flaws, though. It was cask-conditioned, so it was room temperature. My wife got a nut brown ale. It wasn’t bad either, but it wasn’t Slayer in a glass. There was nobody else at the bar, so we started talking to the bartender. People in DC must not talk to their bartenders, because he seemed a little unnerved by it. He warmed up though. We made idle chit-chat for about 20 minutes and left.