A so-so day at work was followed by several very exciting hours in both wings of the National Gallery. I entertained fantasies of buying the place and using it as my private residence. Not, mind you, that I could afford any such thing. Still, it’d make for great indoor paintball games. I can’t quite figure out if the labyrinthinial galleries of the West Wing would be more challenging than the modern openness of the East, but, hey, paintball is fun regardless.
Following the Gallery, D.B., myself, and D.B.’s — and now my — friend, Lavender Black, made our way up 7th Street to Matchbox, half a block or so down H Street on the right-hand side. Hostess? Snobby. Waitress? Snobby. Dinner? Wow! Medium Bistro burger (minus the mushrooms) with gorgonzolo cheese. Delish. We skipped on beers — bar too crowded, no want to pay ridiculous price for booze — and made our way a bit north on 7th to the first bar we came to that sold Guinness. Two Harps later, I was listening to Lavender Black’s iPod making an ass out of myself playing Haddaway’s “What is Love“.
If you happened to be unfortunate enough to be on the upper end of the bar, I was the fat dumbass in blue jeans, sneakers, and a wrinkled yellow-button-up shirt dancing madly around in a way that should’ve provoked everyone to remark, “White boy can’t dance.” True that, but drunk white boy thinks he can*. (I was like the husband in Twisted Sister’s “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” in the bit where he’s dancing around rubbing his nipples and Dee Snyder’s got this “Dude, what da fuck” expression on his face).
So, y’know, chug a couple of beers and join along, because I think I’m going to hit “replay” a few times:
*Super especially when at any level of intoxication greater than “stone. cold. sober.”
