Ethan decided that "happy hour," while better than "$8 a beer hour," still kind of sucks, and I'm inclined to agree. At least when it's this beautiful outside. So, being at Georgetown, we decided to have a very "college" moment. It was also very Georgetown.
First, he got soda cups from Booeymongers, then we went to Wisemiller's and debated our options: $1.85 for a bottle, or $6.75 for the whole six pack? Not sure why they sell it by the bottle, considering you can't eat there and it's not technically legal to drink a beer outside. But the point is, we were economical and went for the six pack.
The next challenge was getting it into our "discreet" cups. We had to go down the Exorcist stairs anyway, so we made use of the relatively secluded area for our pouring. My bartender buddies over at Fado would have been quite disappointed with our performance though. It was all head and we couldn't get enough of it into the cups fast enough, so we ended up just chugging what was left in the bottles.....and of course right then some people started coming down the stairs. They were students though, so I'm sure they've seen worse than people chugging beers on the world's most precarious stairs in broad daylight.
We disposed of the evidence in a nearby dumpster and headed on to the canal, sipping our straws. Walking along the edge of it, we saw this turtle and were totally amazed that we were within a few feet of actual wildlife...especially because that canal did not look like ideal habitat. But then we started seeing tons of stuff. There were at least four adult turtles and one teeny baby (cutest thing ever), there were schools of sunfish, and then there were a bunch of gigantic fish that may have been carp. People had thrown lots of breadcrumbs in the water and the animals were feasting. At one point, Ethan was like, look at that turtle!! He must be lovin this! He's got a bread feast! to which I asked if turtles even eat bread, and his response was, "...unless he's on South Beach."
We also ran into these people carrying their fly fishing rods who apparently fish in the canal all the time because "it's so easy." It does seem kind of like cheating, but... the guy had a totally awesome mustache.
We also discussed how much trouble we would be in if we peed in the canal and other inappropriate peeing stories.
The End
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
In The Headlines
Every once in a while, those liberal biased, ratings-driven scoundrels calling themselves journalists at CNN come up with some really great stuff. For a story about the difficult position Democrats found themselves in when asked to vote on the war funding bill last week, the headline read: Democrats Caught Between Iraq and a Hard Place.
I swear I saw this, even though google refuses to acknowledge it now. It also has not confirmed a headline that Pete told me he saw today on America's number one source for news, but I was able to find other links to at least corroborate the story (note the awesome graphic). Apparently, a drive-through customer became disgruntled after a Wendy's employee refused to give him the inordinate amount of chili sauce he demanded, and he ended up shooting the manager in rage before absconding with the 10 packets of sauce he'd managed to get out of them. As if this story wasn't enough on it its own, CNN allegedly titled it: Some Like it Hot.
Fantastic. I would also have accepted "Falling Down" into Chili Sauce
I swear I saw this, even though google refuses to acknowledge it now. It also has not confirmed a headline that Pete told me he saw today on America's number one source for news, but I was able to find other links to at least corroborate the story (note the awesome graphic). Apparently, a drive-through customer became disgruntled after a Wendy's employee refused to give him the inordinate amount of chili sauce he demanded, and he ended up shooting the manager in rage before absconding with the 10 packets of sauce he'd managed to get out of them. As if this story wasn't enough on it its own, CNN allegedly titled it: Some Like it Hot.
Fantastic. I would also have accepted "Falling Down" into Chili Sauce
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Graduation Weekend
Well my sister graduated, and it was a cold, rainy, miserable day for all. Thank god grandma didn't come or she might no longer be with us. I saw many a grandparent looking like they were about to shed this mortal coil due to the freezingly damp conditions we were all being exposed to. The graduates had it worst with their mortarboards wilting and their icy hands struggling to grasp their diplomas. And there were a lot of photo ops parents are going to regret forever. Ellen's boyfriend apparently walked home spewing obscenities at their president, who royally slammed down her mighty scepter and decreed that it shall be outside despite the obvious issues.
The Skidmore graduation was this Saturday too, which luckily I did not have to sit through—one rainy, cold Skidmore graduation was plenty for me, thank you—but it meant that there were a bunch of people up.
I met with the Paul, Jesse, Molly, Simon, Rich crew well into their evening of mayhem, so there was no easing into their ridiculousness. It was in full swing when I arrived at the end of their dinner at Hattie's, just as Simon decided that Paul needed to eat one of the pickled peppers out of a condiment jar that was clearly meant to be used sparingly as a kind of sauce. He had to pop the whole top off to even get the thing out, and the smell was almost unbearable, so we knew the taste had to be awesome. Wincing, Paul said at first that it wasn't even hot, just gross, but then it kicked in and he had to pick up the water carafe to cool off his steaming forehead.
It pretty much went from there, as usual. It was decided that the DA's challenge would be a sexual act performed in the guy's bathroom under...unusual conditions (let's just say it involved "fakie"). Simon decreed that it would be an all whiskey drinks night. He and I started with mint juleps which we were later instructed to chug... I don't think that's even possible. Jesse later tried to convince a girl Paul was gay, but that was all for nihl when Paul decided to kiss said girl in front of everyone.
We didn't really hang out with any actual new graduates (and no one attempted the DA's challenge, thankfully). Downtown's not really the same any more though. There's no Pickle Barrel, for one. And I didn't go to Gaffney's, but it was apparently "ridiculous" over there.
I heard that the night before, someone had thrown a doughboy at Paul and he'd almost fought him. Wish I'd been there to see that. And on Sunday we tried on hats at the Army Navy store, tried to get Molly a shirt that said "I Tame Lions" (apparently she's going to Namibia to work on a lion farm? no joke), and swung on the Ben and Jerry's swing for like an hour and probably ruined a few families' Sunday outings. Oh, and Paul came dangerously close to accidentally exposing himself to one of Lilli's housemates and Simon almost made Rich lose an eye.
I think that pretty much puts you up to speed. Good times.
I'll add pictures if Simon ever sends me any, and hopefully one day I'll get a new camera.
The Skidmore graduation was this Saturday too, which luckily I did not have to sit through—one rainy, cold Skidmore graduation was plenty for me, thank you—but it meant that there were a bunch of people up.
I met with the Paul, Jesse, Molly, Simon, Rich crew well into their evening of mayhem, so there was no easing into their ridiculousness. It was in full swing when I arrived at the end of their dinner at Hattie's, just as Simon decided that Paul needed to eat one of the pickled peppers out of a condiment jar that was clearly meant to be used sparingly as a kind of sauce. He had to pop the whole top off to even get the thing out, and the smell was almost unbearable, so we knew the taste had to be awesome. Wincing, Paul said at first that it wasn't even hot, just gross, but then it kicked in and he had to pick up the water carafe to cool off his steaming forehead.
It pretty much went from there, as usual. It was decided that the DA's challenge would be a sexual act performed in the guy's bathroom under...unusual conditions (let's just say it involved "fakie"). Simon decreed that it would be an all whiskey drinks night. He and I started with mint juleps which we were later instructed to chug... I don't think that's even possible. Jesse later tried to convince a girl Paul was gay, but that was all for nihl when Paul decided to kiss said girl in front of everyone.
We didn't really hang out with any actual new graduates (and no one attempted the DA's challenge, thankfully). Downtown's not really the same any more though. There's no Pickle Barrel, for one. And I didn't go to Gaffney's, but it was apparently "ridiculous" over there.
I heard that the night before, someone had thrown a doughboy at Paul and he'd almost fought him. Wish I'd been there to see that. And on Sunday we tried on hats at the Army Navy store, tried to get Molly a shirt that said "I Tame Lions" (apparently she's going to Namibia to work on a lion farm? no joke), and swung on the Ben and Jerry's swing for like an hour and probably ruined a few families' Sunday outings. Oh, and Paul came dangerously close to accidentally exposing himself to one of Lilli's housemates and Simon almost made Rich lose an eye.
I think that pretty much puts you up to speed. Good times.
I'll add pictures if Simon ever sends me any, and hopefully one day I'll get a new camera.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Oh Upstate...
So you may remember me saying that people seem to have forgotten about acid rain. If not, click the link. And that it was not so in Upstate NY, which I thought was weird. But then I was in Albany this weekend, and the sign at the car wash that usually says "SALT wash it off" had been seasonally changed to "ACID RAIN wash it off."
I think Colonial Car Wash just needs to be alarmist about something. And needs to find an excuse to get people to wash their cars.
I think Colonial Car Wash just needs to be alarmist about something. And needs to find an excuse to get people to wash their cars.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
In Cars
Along my street, I'll see a BMW, a Hummer, a Jaguar, a Mercedes, all shiny, waxed, and new. There's even a 70s Camaro. And then there's a 1989 Toyota Corrolla with chipped, rusting paint, plastered with bumper stickers, towels lying over the upholstery, and a car seat in back. With a club on the wheel.....cause that's the car Joe Grandlarceny is really gonna be after.
I've seen a few clubs on cars in my neighborhood, and every single one has been on an auto made before 1995 which never went for more than $20,000 brand new, and is usually Japanese make. I even saw a 90s Toyota with a handwritten sign in the window: "Nothing in Car" ...they had it in Spanish too cause they were smart, but I can't remember how to say that in Spanish "Nada en el carro"...something like that
I've seen a few clubs on cars in my neighborhood, and every single one has been on an auto made before 1995 which never went for more than $20,000 brand new, and is usually Japanese make. I even saw a 90s Toyota with a handwritten sign in the window: "Nothing in Car" ...they had it in Spanish too cause they were smart, but I can't remember how to say that in Spanish "Nada en el carro"...something like that
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Any Way You Want It
You could chalk it up to maturing, becoming more responsible, learning to take consequences into account....but I have a feeling that's not why I haven't gotten horribly, unfortunately, embarrassingly drunk in a long time. Because if that were why, you would think I wouldn't have done just that on Friday night, mere hours before I had to wake up at 8 or 9 am, drive an hour and a half to Leesburg, VA, and watch some nine hours of polo, airshows, and (could it be the greatest band on Earth?) Journey. But that I did. For whatever reason, as I come further and further from my college days, my nights of insanity have not only become less frequent, as would be expected, but they seem to arrive unanticipated and unbidden—it was just supposed to be a barbecue with some beers.
The blood was barely dry from the scrape I received falling in the street as I stumbled to the metro, but I dragged myself out of bed (a good hour late), threw on a dress (coincidentally, the very same one I wore to the Gold Cup last Saturday), and started on my journey...pun intended...to the event. I made Ethan wait so long for me he went to the mall and bought new sunglasses. He couldn't have been surprised though, since he knew first-hand what state I'd been in the night before.
Finally, we arrived. At the gate, we were met and escorted through the grounds by two press people who insisted that we see each of the sponsors' tents. This wouldn't have been so bad—had Casa Nobles tequila not been one of the main sponsors. They handed us a press release about the "Polorita," the "official drink of America's Cup of Polo," and then had the bartender pour us both tall glasses. Keep in mind, not only are we both already barely avoiding puking on someone's seersucker suit, but it's somewhere around 11:30 in the morning. Just the time for a nice frosty glass of tequila! Mm mm.
The rest of the day was interesting, to say the least. We spent most of it in the Ritz-Carlton tent cause it seemed to have the most food, be the least crowded, and contain the most bubbly and smiley press lady. It also had a girl who looked like the new James Bond girl and was with her covered-from-head-to-toe-in-diamonds mother and her I-hate-my-family-but-love-my-Bentley father. Naturally, Ethan decided his best move would be to try to hit on her the entire day. He remained undeterred by her constant attention to her Blackberry and avoidance of him and chatted up her mom for about 3 hours, until it came out that she was a sophomore in college (no word on whether those were virgin glasses of champagne).
There were a lot of strange non-polo related events (not including Journey), ranging from parachuters flying down holding American and British flags, a Coast Guard rescue helicopter landing on the field for the audience to come up and gawk at, and, probably the strangest, a demonstration of how the Park Police K-9 unit takes down a suspect in a car chase, in which the only minority person we had seen for the entire day jumped out of a car and a dog promptly ran up and viciously attacked his arm until he fell on the ground unable to move and was "arrested." Sadly, my inability to get out of bed cost us the opportunity to see the "demonstration of hunt & hounds, carriages, and side-saddle," the "Virginia Native American Tribe dance," and the performance by the "Urban Nation H.I.P H.O.P. Choir," (I guess we missed our chance to see black people that weren't playing the part of dangerous criminal...).
The polo was pretty cool to watch, but pretty much what I expected. What I did not expect was for one of the commentators to be named "Cowboy Bob," have a Dubya-esque accent, and make comments like, when it became clear that the British team was cleaning house, "well we whooped 'em once, but that was 400 years ago." I guess knowledge of history does not necessarily come with knowledge of the game of polo.
Of course, it was all just lead up to the concert.
The reaction to Journey can only be described as mixed—and by mixed I mean totally split down the middle between shrugs and looks of confusion from under feathered hats in the VIP tents and raucous cheering, boozing, and dancing on the ground by the stage. A teeming mass of fans pumped their arms and screamed along to all their Journey favorites in the first 100 or so feet from the stage, the soft glow from their cellphones replacing swaying lighters during the ballads (I guess the anti-smoking campaigns have started to sink in even in the heart of tobacco country). But there was a pretty clear line past which the enthusiasm level hit a swift drop-off. Somewhere slightly behind this line, I saw an older woman, still in her Queen-like matronly summer dress and boxy hat, sitting in a folding chair she'd brought from the sidelines and kicking her crossed leg impatiently with a look on her face that you could generously call inquisitive...if you didn't want to go so far as to call it disdain.
I can't say if her look was meant more for the classic arena rock blasting through the speakers or for the young people falling over drunk a few yards in front of her. At one point, four Alcoholic Beverage Control special agents had to get on the case of one such individual, a pink-shirted and khakied recent frat boy who had definitely had a little too much of something. They let him off the hook though when a man—who looked suspiciously like his boss—arrived to escort him away.
Whether or not the whole crowd was willing or able to appreciate it, Journey was in fine form. The lead singer, a non-Steve Perry, looked "like he hasn't cut his hair since his heyday," his perfectly coiffed, probably permed mane looking like it hadn't changed a hair since the '70s. He also had at least three costume changes, from an almost demure blue button down shirt and jeans to a white vest (with nothing underneath) to a black top and what looked from afar to be the quintessential rocker uniform: leather pants.
They played the classics, demanding audience participation on "Any Way You Want It" and dedicating "Don't Stop Believin'" to the students of Virginia Tech. They also played some new material, including one song that they debuted that night called "Winds of Freedom." The lyrics? All about the settlers of Jamestown. It went something like this: "400 years agooo, they got on their ships to escape tyrannnnny"...you get the idea. Awesome.
Despite the fact that the event had gotten a little behind schedule—by the time Journey was starting their set the weather had become quite chilly for a sundress—the promise of fireworks seemed to entice most audience members to stay through the bitter end. And though the first few seemed more like bottle rockets and roman candles shot off by some kid backstage, they soon became pretty impressive, adding a glittering backdrop to Journey's double encore.
And by the time we were driving back to DC, it was totally time for a beer run.
The blood was barely dry from the scrape I received falling in the street as I stumbled to the metro, but I dragged myself out of bed (a good hour late), threw on a dress (coincidentally, the very same one I wore to the Gold Cup last Saturday), and started on my journey...pun intended...to the event. I made Ethan wait so long for me he went to the mall and bought new sunglasses. He couldn't have been surprised though, since he knew first-hand what state I'd been in the night before.
Finally, we arrived. At the gate, we were met and escorted through the grounds by two press people who insisted that we see each of the sponsors' tents. This wouldn't have been so bad—had Casa Nobles tequila not been one of the main sponsors. They handed us a press release about the "Polorita," the "official drink of America's Cup of Polo," and then had the bartender pour us both tall glasses. Keep in mind, not only are we both already barely avoiding puking on someone's seersucker suit, but it's somewhere around 11:30 in the morning. Just the time for a nice frosty glass of tequila! Mm mm.
The rest of the day was interesting, to say the least. We spent most of it in the Ritz-Carlton tent cause it seemed to have the most food, be the least crowded, and contain the most bubbly and smiley press lady. It also had a girl who looked like the new James Bond girl and was with her covered-from-head-to-toe-in-diamonds mother and her I-hate-my-family-but-love-my-Bentley father. Naturally, Ethan decided his best move would be to try to hit on her the entire day. He remained undeterred by her constant attention to her Blackberry and avoidance of him and chatted up her mom for about 3 hours, until it came out that she was a sophomore in college (no word on whether those were virgin glasses of champagne).
There were a lot of strange non-polo related events (not including Journey), ranging from parachuters flying down holding American and British flags, a Coast Guard rescue helicopter landing on the field for the audience to come up and gawk at, and, probably the strangest, a demonstration of how the Park Police K-9 unit takes down a suspect in a car chase, in which the only minority person we had seen for the entire day jumped out of a car and a dog promptly ran up and viciously attacked his arm until he fell on the ground unable to move and was "arrested." Sadly, my inability to get out of bed cost us the opportunity to see the "demonstration of hunt & hounds, carriages, and side-saddle," the "Virginia Native American Tribe dance," and the performance by the "Urban Nation H.I.P H.O.P. Choir," (I guess we missed our chance to see black people that weren't playing the part of dangerous criminal...).
The polo was pretty cool to watch, but pretty much what I expected. What I did not expect was for one of the commentators to be named "Cowboy Bob," have a Dubya-esque accent, and make comments like, when it became clear that the British team was cleaning house, "well we whooped 'em once, but that was 400 years ago." I guess knowledge of history does not necessarily come with knowledge of the game of polo.
Of course, it was all just lead up to the concert.
The reaction to Journey can only be described as mixed—and by mixed I mean totally split down the middle between shrugs and looks of confusion from under feathered hats in the VIP tents and raucous cheering, boozing, and dancing on the ground by the stage. A teeming mass of fans pumped their arms and screamed along to all their Journey favorites in the first 100 or so feet from the stage, the soft glow from their cellphones replacing swaying lighters during the ballads (I guess the anti-smoking campaigns have started to sink in even in the heart of tobacco country). But there was a pretty clear line past which the enthusiasm level hit a swift drop-off. Somewhere slightly behind this line, I saw an older woman, still in her Queen-like matronly summer dress and boxy hat, sitting in a folding chair she'd brought from the sidelines and kicking her crossed leg impatiently with a look on her face that you could generously call inquisitive...if you didn't want to go so far as to call it disdain.
I can't say if her look was meant more for the classic arena rock blasting through the speakers or for the young people falling over drunk a few yards in front of her. At one point, four Alcoholic Beverage Control special agents had to get on the case of one such individual, a pink-shirted and khakied recent frat boy who had definitely had a little too much of something. They let him off the hook though when a man—who looked suspiciously like his boss—arrived to escort him away.
Whether or not the whole crowd was willing or able to appreciate it, Journey was in fine form. The lead singer, a non-Steve Perry, looked "like he hasn't cut his hair since his heyday," his perfectly coiffed, probably permed mane looking like it hadn't changed a hair since the '70s. He also had at least three costume changes, from an almost demure blue button down shirt and jeans to a white vest (with nothing underneath) to a black top and what looked from afar to be the quintessential rocker uniform: leather pants.
They played the classics, demanding audience participation on "Any Way You Want It" and dedicating "Don't Stop Believin'" to the students of Virginia Tech. They also played some new material, including one song that they debuted that night called "Winds of Freedom." The lyrics? All about the settlers of Jamestown. It went something like this: "400 years agooo, they got on their ships to escape tyrannnnny"...you get the idea. Awesome.
Despite the fact that the event had gotten a little behind schedule—by the time Journey was starting their set the weather had become quite chilly for a sundress—the promise of fireworks seemed to entice most audience members to stay through the bitter end. And though the first few seemed more like bottle rockets and roman candles shot off by some kid backstage, they soon became pretty impressive, adding a glittering backdrop to Journey's double encore.
And by the time we were driving back to DC, it was totally time for a beer run.
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