The chap with wings there. Five rounds rapid.
Back to DC. It was bourbon at the Hotel Washington for Eisenhower. I don’t know the connection, but I’m sure it seemed logical at the time. I also couldn’t tell you where we ended up for Truman, but a deep slice on my arm was bleeding steadily. I had several napkins stuck to it, fouled with blood and dirt.
Continue reading ’44, part seven’
“Thirty.” James said.
“Coolidge.”
“Notable points?”
“None.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Continue reading ’44, part six’
Twenty-eight. Wilson. The First World War. We ended up in Silver Spring, Maryland, at the Quarry House. None of us could remember how that happened, but it did, and so we made the best of it. Energy was flagging all around, and David and James had opted for Vodka and Red Bull while I played around with the wildly exciting beer menu. There was no link to Wilson’s era at the Quarry House, but the subterranean bar may have represented a warm place of safety for our tortured, withered souls. We were also moving into the Prohibition, and the Quarry House did have a vague speakeasy feel.
Continue reading ’44, part five’
At Jaleo, the next president was easy for James. Twenty-six was Teddy Roosevelt, and as soon as I said the name James was on his feet. “Parks! Woodley Park! The Zoo Bar!”
Continue reading ’44, part four’
We were in Chadwick’s, Georgetown, and still on Heineken. Like every bar in Georgetown, there was a pervasive atmosphere of evil and inhumanity.
“Twenty.” James said into his bottle.
“Um…”
“Uh-oh!”
“Oh, Garfield.”
Continue reading ’44, part three’
James leaned close to my ear: “Fifteen?”
“Buchanan.”
“Penn State. Single.”
“Yep.”
“Singles club?”
“No. Please.”
“Pennsylvania Avenue?”
“701. Mo’s Bar.”
James leaned back. “Expensive.”
“Yep. You’re paying.”
Continue reading ’44, part two’
“This is life in Washington, DC: Moo! I am a cow!”
“What?”
“Moo! Cows live in DC!”
My old college buddy James was on the floor, under the table, screaming over the oppressive jukebox and pounding the underside of the table with his fist. I’d long since taken my beer and cradled it to my chest. Across from me was a horrified Iraqi vet, and associate from my day job. I smiled apologetically.
“Moo!” James continued from the sticky floor.
Continue reading ’44, part one’
I’ve managed to avoid three Obama “victory parties” so far. The only thing that scares me more than the Nazis who follow McCain are the wild-eyed armchair liberals who rally around Obama’s “message” of hope and change.
Which is how Hitler ran his first campaign, by the way.
Continue reading ‘Victory Party’
I sometimes tell people I’m a political junkie. But I think I might be lying because, really, politics bores me.
Continue reading ‘President Nacho’
44, part eight (conclusion)
Nixon was easy. We could go anywhere, really, but James had been talking about the 600 at Watergate South, which wasn’t really the sort of place where we belonged…but they had a full bar. We somehow managed to get in and get a drink, but it was clear that our time was limited, so it was just quick shots of bourbon for the three of us, giggling at the black tie and gown folks, talking in funny voices to the waiter and manager as we were herded back outside, and then onto the street with a shot of Nixon warming our bellies.
Continue reading ’44, part eight (conclusion)’