The long-promised DC weekend summary

Thursday: Mostly conventioneering, but I was able to get out to meet some friends after work. Waiting at Kramer's, expecting to nurse a beer, my plans changed when the bartender announced that he was trying to formulate his signature shot. After some experimentation, he came up with the "blueberry pie" - blueberry-infused Stoli and Frangelico. Needless to say, when my friends got back from work, I was already slurring my words. From there, we picked up some beer and retreated to the roof of my old apartment building for some cold ones and catching up.

Fairly hammered, the four of us decamped for La Pigalle, formerly Peppers, on 17th Street, for a little sidewalk cafe action. The service was slow, the steak was tough and the waiter was faking a French accent (he was a Serb). Note to self: if you're going to eat on 17th Street, there's no place where you will be happy to spend $18 on an entree.

Then, off to the Brickskeller to meet Mr. Articulatory Loop, who will soon leave for a tour of duty in Atlanta (the Baghdad of the South) and Mr. Png'd, who is taking some much-needed R&R from a stint in Baghdad (the Atlanta of the Middle East) [eds note - which city did I insult more?] Much drinking ensued. Off to bed.

Friday: Nothing wakes you up in the morning like a strong dose of Hillary Clinton speechifying. Wait, I got that wrong. Nothing makes you want to crawl back into bed and dream of President Warner than a strong dose of Hillary Clinton speechifying. It's no wonder why conservatives are treating her nomination like a fait accompli - she's more boring than Dukakis, more all-things-to-all-people than Kerry and more grating than Gore at his most over-consultanted. If she's the nominee, the Dems are going down.

Following a day of conventioneering, I met up with the DC holdouts at Creme on U Street, which was the exact opposite of my experience the day before. Everything was wonderful, from the crabcakes (like buttah) to the pork (melts in your mouth) to the cake (drool...)

Then we found that we couldn't get into the convention's official party for lack of nametags (I had one, but the rest of my entourage did not), so we settled into Cap Lounge for a night of boozing and other assorted trouble. Some things about DC don't change, no matter how many people come and go. The Metro will always be cleaner than the El, Borf will never be fully eradicated from the streets and Capitol Lounge will be full of women and men in the mood for cheap beer and one another. Friday was no different. I'll skip the gory details about Soco and Lime shooters, war stories and the rest, up to the point where a group split off to Remington's to find Jeff. For those of you who don't know, Remington's is a Hill anomoly - a gay country and western bar surrounded by straight dives, far from the rainbow flags of Dupont Circle. We hung out there for a few minutes, watched a little line dancing (no confusing questions about who leads) and then went back Cap Lounge just in time for one last round.

How can you end at 3 a.m. when you haven't visited in six months? You can't. Therefore, the heartiest among us went from SE to NW for some Jumbo Slice action. The pizza: still greasy, still bigger than your head. The neighborhood: still filthy, still full of drunk people, still crawling with bored-looking cops just trying to avoid getting puked on. When I finally get back to the hotel, breakfast is being served.

Saturday: This is America dammit, and if you're not going to root for the home team, then you can just move back to Russia. U.S. v. Italy - shots of bourbon if we win, shots of bourbon if we lose or draw. Basically, it's 4:30 p.m and we're drinking bourbon. This isn't standard operating procedure by a long shot [ed's note - it's usually beer].

Meet up with two more partygoers, then head up to Glover Park, land of the D2, for some BBQing with law students. We catch up, talk about how the people we know are busy doing what they're always doing, eat some taquitos, drink all the good beer, then leave.

At Saint-Ex, the crowd really expanded, taking over several tables. P had her possee, SNH brought a crew, C.S. came out of the woodwork, C-130 gave out free hickeys and even the neighbor-lady had a grand old time downing Delerium Tremens in the noisy basement. Obviously, the evening was flickr'd to death, but I'm not providing any links so as to protect our anonymity.

Next stop: Black Cat, Black Cat! No change for the homeless, sadly. It would have been more of the same, except that the jukebox had one of the most incredible jukebox runs of all time. I'm glad the 'Cat still has an old-fashioned CD model instead of one of those fancy internet numbers, since the careful selection of bar management says a lot about a place that would otherwise be lost. Plus, there's no chance some jokester can clear out the place by playing "Beer For My Horses." So anyway, the lineup, in order, as I remember it:

Modern Lovers, "Roadrunner" (a reasonable argument can be made that is one of the top 5 rock songs of all time)
Bad Brains, "Banned in D.C." (I would have been had I caused any real trouble)
Gang of Four, "Man in Uniform"
Os Mutantes "Panis Et Circenis" (Random, not even in English, for chrissakes)

There were two or three other classics in there, but I can't remember them for the life of me since it was 2 a.m. and I had been out for nearly 10 hours by that point.

Last stop: Ben's Chili Bowl. But of course.