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.

National Art Museum

We took a look around the National Art Museum in Washington, DC. It was wonderful to see my tax dollars doing something so awesome. It was great to see my tax dollars not invading and occupying another country or jacking them for oil. The museum is split into East and West wings. They look entirely separate above ground, but they’re connected by a tunnel underground. They share a bookstore, also underground. After we finished up the first wing, we hit the bookstore, and I spent some time rooting around, looking for awesome, overpriced art books. There was an incredible book featuring some of Anselm Kiefer’s work. He’s one of my very favorite artists. I flipped through the book a few times, thought about buying it, and put it back. I was sure I could order it online for less money. I started to walk off. Then a beautiful young girl, probably in her early 20s and fresh out of art school, walked over to the books and picked one up, right where I had been standing. I stayed in the store, fiddling with some inane souvenir coffee cups so that I could get a better look at her. She stood about 5’ 10,” lean. Her hair was straight and brown, and pulled up in a bun, peaking out from underneath her faux-military hat. She wore glasses and had perfect skin. I looked at her looking at a book, and wondered which one she had picked up. I wondered what the voice of a girl who looks like that’s would sound like. I thought she might be British. Christ, if she had been British, I would have clubbed her over the head with an oversized art book, slung her over my shoulder, and run for the door. I got a little closer to her and saw that it was an Edward Hopper book that she was thumbing through. I winced. It hurt. Fuck Edward Hopper. His work is corny, dreamy, idyllic, Americana bullshit. It’s art for calendars. You couldn’t make me care about Edward Hopper at gunpoint. I had really hoped that she’d been looking at the Anselm Kiefer book. I would have wept if she had a British accent and it had been the Kiefer book, but such was not the case. My attraction to her relented, and I felt a sort of pity. I felt like I should help her out, illuminate her folly, and explain why Anselm Kiefer is so far superior to Edward Hopper that it’s ridiculous that they should be featured on the same shelf. I didn’t, though. My wife found me and told me that we’d need to get moving if we were still going to make it to happy hour. We took off down the people mover.