come to dc, you'll be in bed by midnight!

i guess it’s true what they say, as long as what they say is “miller high life tastes like old paint.”  on saturday, cecilia’s brother was in town to visit and we did all the usual touristy things: walk around, go to urban outfitters, grab a cheap haircut at the hair cuttery in dupont, and last but not least, head to asylum for quarter beer night!

every week, at 5pm sharp, asylum, the vegan biker bar, fills up with the poor and the very poor and the alcoholic for a night of bargain basement debauchery.  12-oz plastic cups of high life start at just $.25 and go up $.50 every hour afterwards until they reach their market price or everybody drinks themselves blind, whichever comes first.

in my case, absolute disgust with the corn-syrupy-sweet, utterly bland taste of high life led me to instigate a revolt (ok, cecilia’s comic inability to down the stuff didn’t hurt either) and order a round of delirium tremens for the table.  and it was a damn good thing too, because after finding a chip of glass in one of them, we got all four for free!  huzzah for potential injury!

needless to say, the good beer revived our spirits immensely and when waitress andrea (wasn’t she on a reality show? we wondered.  although not me, because the only reality tv i watch is project runway, 30 days (it’s back!), and the food network.  i don’t think andrea was heidi klum in disguise…) asked out of the blue if we wanted to do some carbombs.  yes, andrea.  we do.

i barely remember stumbling down 18th st. to dupont, though i do recall landing heavily in a booth in the big hunt.  this is all around 9-ish, so the place is pretty dead.  we order a greased-out pizza and proceed to watch cecilia’s brother get more and more out-of-it.  and he’s the only one still in college!  why, back in my day, collegians could hold their liquor, damn it.  he rebounds enough to sing along with the cabby on the ride back to the hill, but when we get there we find that every fucking bar has gone and closed up by ten on a saturday!  what the fuck, dc?  isn’t getting bombed at cap lounge worth a little rain?  honestly, i’m a little ashamed for you guys.

and that’s not all we have to be ashamed about, because a few minutes later we forced the closing crew at some mexican place down on pennsylvania to let us in for one last drink.  i don’t know about you, but to me, 5 sodden, boozy twenty-somethings miserably cutching coronas in an empty, over-air-conditioned taqueria spells p-a-r-t-y!  hells yeah.  let’s just say we were happy to get home and forget it ever happened.