Washington, D(runkeness) C(ertain) [Part I]

“Evil is good, and ass is good. And if you get you a piece of evil ass? Woooo!”

—Eddie Murphy, “Vampire in Brooklyn”

Road trips are good, and birthday parties are good. And if you take a road trip to a birthday party? Hello.

Two Fridays ago (February 6th), Girlfriend and I loaded up the trunk of my car with (mostly her) luggage and voyaged to Washington, D.C. for Chief’s weekend-long 30th birthday party. We survived, but more importantly, so did our relationship. And she wasted no time in reminding me why we’re so compatible. When checking in at the hotel [Embassy Suites Alexandria-Old Town—I highly recommend it, for reasons you will soon understand], the woman at the front desk informed us that guests were invited to a daily happy hour at 5:30 in the lobby. Girlfriend’s eyes lit up like the high beams on a Murcielago. So after dropping off our bags and cleaning up (among other things *less-than-subtle-wink*) in our room, we found ourselves at a table in the lobby, with a Bud Select draught in front of Girlfriend and a vodka tonic in front of me. The best part? They cost $1 and $2, respectively. A few drinks a piece, and we were sailing smoothly towards that night’s merriment in Old Town Alexandria.

Three other couples traveled from the Pittsburgh area to join up with us that night: TD and Baby Joey (with whom we were sharing the hotel suite), Genoa and Finn, and Esq and Shock B. Add to that group the eight people—including Chief and Kim—from around the D.C. area who met up with us at Theismann’s for the evening’s events, and you have a party. We were all introduced to the new faces in our crowd, and then got caught up on the lives of the established ones (congratulations go to Genoa and Finn, who are now expecting their first child). I tossed back Smithwick’s draughts with a quick dinner, while Girlfriend quickly fell in with the other wifeys, gabbing away about…whatever it is women gab about when left alone to their own devices. One of the couples in our group handed Chief a birthday gift—a handle (1.75 liter bottle) of Jim Beam, his nectar of choice. If even half of that bottle was left by Sunday morning, I’d be surprised.

Around midnight we moved our revelry to The Light Horse in Old Town Alexandria. Rounds of Jager Bombs were loaded and fired. I made a quick trip to the bathroom, and when I returned I noticed that Girlfriend and Shock had disappeared. A few minutes later they came back laughing and breathless. Shock had wanted to dance, and Girlfriend decided to join her; when they reached the dance floor, however, Shock grabbed girlfriend’s hand and dragged her up onto the stage instead. A guy in the crowd, seeing two beautiful women shaking it up on the stage, tried to climb up and join them. But bouncers quickly stopped him—only the two girls were allowed on stage. Sexism rears its ugly head once again.

Amazingly, despite the large collection of miscreants that we had assembled, only one of us was asked to leave the bar prematurely (he had begun the night earlier than any of us; someone told me that he had put away a fifth during pregame alone). The rest of us danced and drank until closing time. Girlfriend, wanting to keep the party going, was determined to buy some six packs from the bartenders. They told us that they weren’t allowed to sell them, but one of the barkeeps began to relent. She checked to see if the manager was looking—even taking the twenty dollar bill that Girlfriend offered. The manager walked by, though, and quickly shot us down. We caught a cab, and Girlfriend continued to fight in the name of booze. She asked the driver if he knew of anyplace we could go to buy beer, but he said that at that time of night, any store or bar that sold sixers was closed. My lady remained resolute, though.

Girlfriend: “So there’s nowhere you can take us to get beer?”
Cab Driver: “No, it’s all closed.”
Girlfriend: “There’s got to be some place. *eyes narrowed* I know you know where it is!”

I wasn’t sure whether he was going to pull over and kick us out, or finally give in, sigh, and say, “Okay, I’ll take you there.” Or if I was going to have to bail my girlfriend out of jail on our first road trip together, because she had attacked a cabby who refused to tell her where all of Alexandria’s beer was.

We returned to the hotel suite beerless; we were not, however, foodless. Baby Joey’s mother (Delightful) had cooked a cooler’s worth of food for him to bring to D.C. Joey, Girlfriend, and I feasted (TD is vegetarian, and all of the food had meat in it). Thank god they equipped the room with a microwave.

[To be continued...]