Almost A Car Owner + Bar Preview + Pictures

Yesterday lasted a long time. First, we test drove this, loved it, put down a deposit, will pick it up on Friday. Be prepared for pictures of driving it to Ocean City on whims in the coming months.

Next we went by to visit Teenerz, who is painting the soon-to-be-open H St. Country Club, where I took some unsolicited pictures.

This is the main floor bar:


Which includes the "locker room":


Upstairs is the putt-putt, with this gem of a loopty-loop which will likely result in multiple broken windows:


Get out of town with this rat tidal wave


and my personal favorite, the booted stretch limo horse


Lee Wheeler is responsible for all this, and he is slowly losing his mind but in the most entertaining manner.


Then we went to the Pug and hung out with two old dudes, drank whiskey and quality American beer.


Finally, Black Cat, where Tariq got all creepy-like.

Election Day Pic Dump

Sorry I've been away for a while. I've been busy doing nothing.

During that time, things have happened.

A) My theory about stretching (that it sucks and is stupid, despite my half-hearted attempts) was proven correct. I first came up with this theory when Terry Pendleton joined the Braves in the 90s, bringing with him a super-fangled stretching program. Fact: this program ensured that he pulled a muscle 3 out of ever 7 times he broke into a jog.



B) I provisionally voted. Provisionally because DC doesn't have record of me being registered, even though I was summoned for jury duty like four years ago. Whatevs. At worst, I don't get to be one of the 95% this year.


C) Chick-fil-A still rulz.


D) Tried new/old beer (re-brewing of old beer labels--like shoes--is only going to increase in frequency, I predict) at Red Derby. Verdict: meh. Too sweet. But great packaging, Reading!


E) When one cannot find amazing Banh Mi (which one cannot in DC), what does one do? Get somebody to make it for you, I say.



F) Finally, Frizzesh Fizzootball is on FIRE. Who knew that such little care or concern could help me score 103 points (100 points in anything is good)?! Record now stands at 5-4.

Baseball Amid the End of the World

DC's new baseball stadium, which cost $4.6 billion, has been open for a couple weeks now so we decided to take in a game this afternoon. The weather has been beautiful, but it's April so that couldn't last:

On the whole, the new stadium is fine. Only problems: it took longer to get a hot dog than to actually travel to the stadium (20 minutes vs. 15), and the stadium is basically a concrete-and-steel copy of Turner Field, only without the charm.


The fact that none of the awesome options for interesting design were taken advantage of (no miniature white house for the Presidents to emerge from for their race? No miniature Ford's Theater for Lincoln to retire to at the end of the game?) is kind of disappointing.

And look! Teddy cheats and still loses! What a maroon!

On the positive side, I can't wait to find out who the stadium sponsor is going to be.

Anyway, the apocalypse wasn't sitting well with Ana, who was being a total downer:


So she spilled her beer on this druid that was sitting in front of us who probably then cursed our progeny for generations to come:


Then I took a quick PR shot and we got the hell out.


Verdict: stadium sucks when it's cold, add more hot dog vendors.


I saw this credit card slip at the end of the night last night, and initially thought it said "UR FAT" and got really mad.


Teebz and a couple of his coworkers got tattoos of a deer with a beard wearing a plaid shirt. One of the best brotoos ever.

Update: Best Tattoo Ever, Plus Bizarro LA

Yesterday, while enjoying a special Valentine's Day edition of Big Buck Hunter Pro, a young man walked in, camped at the jukebox, and unveiled this particularly unbelievable piece of body art:

I asked him if I could take a picture; he said yes, and then played "Suspicious Minds."

BONUSBONUSBONUS In Los Angeles I saw this weird, non-blue ribbony "Pabst Genuine Draft." WTF, people.

I got to wear my cap to the ballgame

Last night was July 3rd, which in DC might as well be New Years' Eve if you're in the bar industry. So when Josh said he had tickets for the July 4th Cubs-Nats game, it seemed like a really good idea until I got home at 7 this morning. But whatever. I got a new hat, and I got to wear it.


Ana is jealous of my hat, obvs.


Interesting tidbit: in DC, every seat at the stadium is owned by some lobbying group or other. Josh got ours from Budweiser. They didn't ask for anything in return, either! Just enjoy the game, they said!


The Nationals don't have any real traditions, so they make them up. Remember? The dumbest one is called the "Waving of the Caps," wherein the PA announcer asks everybody to wave their caps. That's it.


The best part about riding your bike to the stadium, aside from feeling morally superior to everybody else, is getting to hop on and roll past thousands of people idling in their cars or waiting in line for the Metro. Not everybody understands that, though. As Ana put it, when you unlock your bike at the stadium, people look at you like you're unlocking a spaceship.

Photo Essay #10: Twenty-Four Hours in Ocean City

Our boss, who is the ruliest, offered to let us stay in his condo in Ocean City this weekend.


Because our weekend consisted of the hours between 10pm Sunday and 11am Tuesday, we decided to just make it a quick day trip. It's easy to have fun in Ocean City, even in the off-season. First, when you get there really late, crack open a couple cold brews, put them in your coozies, and watch some tube:


Next, it's imperative that you take advantage of your time--it's limited! So put those vacation guides to good use. Choose your restaurant by its name, and its name only. Of these, the contest is close; Tequila Mockingbird would be great on a hot day, but since it was a little chilly it seemed that Shenanigan's was the way to go. Nothing like some Shenanigans to keep a body warm, right? Right!!


Woo! The Boardwalk! They have a huge arch to let you know that this is indeed The Boardwalk:


DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT WE MISSED SENIOR WEEK


Maryland likes suicidal hot dog sculptures. This one is out of ketchup. It's not really a hot dog without ketchup, though, so this one is safe for now.


Ooh! Ocean City is educational! Thomas Kinkade has purpose!


Ocean City has dwellings for all species. This is the most expensive dog house in the world.


I CALL BULLSHIT, FUNCADE CASINO. How can you not be open? What are the Russian seasonal workers supposed to do before the high season starts? There's only so many whipits to go around, you know.



Remember when I said that you can have fun in Ocean City, even in the offseason? I was LYING. You hear that, Shenanigans? YOU RUINED OUR MINI-VACATION. I hope you never forget that.

Photo Essay #6: Luchy, Luchi, Luche!

SO YOU WANT TO BE A LUCHADOR. This is understandable. Where to begin? So many options, so many requirements! I'll tell you this right now--start from the beginning. And the beginning, as any true Luchador will tell you, is beading the rattail. This, my friends, is why you NEVER CUT YOUR RATTAIL. Make jokes about it, sure, just don't cut it. Otherwise, you won't be able do attain this:


What's next? We all know what's coming. Say it with me! Quality Domestic Beer.


Next! The Lucha mask is mandatory. The tougher-looking, the better.


Then come the capes and spandex, and photo-poses. Without a quality photo-pose, what are you going to be doing when someone takes a photo? Just standing there?


Here's another example of a good photo-pose.


And one more:


What is being a Luchador, I ask, without the wrestling? It is only posturing! Decide on a signature move, and name it. Preferably, the name of the move will be related to the sound your beaded-up rattail makes, and it will look good on your cape.


That's onomatopoeia, y'all.

Next, find a transient and practice your signature move on him.

Then do some more photo-posing.


And some more. Photo-posing, you may have noticed, is vital to the Luchador experience.


As is running around with one's cape flapping in the wind.


And at the end, all that is left is the piñata. True Luchadores forego the piñata stick and just rip the thing open with their bare, deadly hands.