Yes, we've been away again, but now we're back with a vengeance. Bou and Row have spent the last month frolicking about Europe.
Our first adventure led us to Spain. After a relaxing fishing trip off the coast of Mallorca, we headed over to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls where many a poor red scarf wearing sap was gored because of his drive for meaningful participation in his own culture (lucky for us--we can just go to McDonald's and down a McRib for that shit.)
Many bibulous and riotous times were had. The calimoxo flowed like coke and wine, paella was eaten like it was leftover, room-temperature Papa John’s laying around the morning after a good 2nd Saturday. Many Museos de Jamon were visited, and lispy, aggressive women with lusts for life fixed our eyes in conversation while we tried to plead innocent of American barbarism. Despite Row beating up some vegetarian bullfighter named Romero, and some other drama which we may or may not save for our mamas, the Spanish leg of our trip was a drunken success.
Next it was on to the Tour de France....
At first, watching the alpine stretches of the race was a bit tiring due to the elevation sickness that befell us both. However, we found our way to the training tent, and after a few EPO cocktails, we felt surprisingly refreshed, what with all the extra red blood cells. An unexpected downside of doping our blood to better observe the race was that it took longer to get drunk, and when the Euro is bludgeoning the dollar like it is these days, that makes France expensive.
Following Montaigne's famous aphorism, "For what ails you, Albania the answer be," we decided to trek down to Tirana. After an emotional visit to the Unkown Partisan Monument, we felt inclined to drown our sorrows in carafe after carafe of Raki and Korca beer at the local pub. For one reason or another, we fell in with a bad crowd, and only by our wits and guile did we manage to escape. Still, there's nothing quite as rousing as a Raki fueled night at the Pravda Lounge if you ask us. But hey, had to be done. We had to fight them there so none of you have to fight them here. (We're pretty sure the Albanian mob won't come looking for us on the Hill...)
So Capitol Hill Bar Review is back, and none the worse for wear, whatever that means.
Soon we'll be making our way to the H St. bars and you'll finally find out whether they're cool or not.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
RFK-- Stadium Arcadium
You may have noticed that Capitol Hill Bar Review hasn’t posted much for awhile. In the meantime, we’ve been inundated with email from thousands of readers wanting to know what gives and demanding new posts.
Armless Jane: “Are you guys on the wagon or something? WTF?”
Saucy Chaucer: “Has CHBR lost its Rage to Live?”
Feckless Finnegan: “I swear to you. I am perched on the edge of my balcony. If you guys don’t post again by June 26th, I’ll jump.”
Well, with apologies to Finny’s mum, it so happens that we’ve been spending a reasonable amount of time drinking beer in RFK stadium since our last post. Bouillonnui is a bit of a Tigers fan, and Rowdy is down for basically anything that involves baseball and/or nachos, so we wound up watching the entire Detroit/Washington series. (Quick note: If you, by some strangeness of character or act of God, have become a Nationals fan in the last couple of years, you might want to stop reading now because this story won’t end well for you.)
Just before Game 1 of the series, we grabbed some dinner and margaritas at La Lomita on 13th and Penn. The Bouillonnui/Detroit contingent was large—Papallionnui and Mamallionnui had actually driven down from Michigan to watch the series with several other family members in tow.
There’s always something slightly intoxicating about walking into a major league baseball stadium on game-day. Don’t get me wrong. Watching a game at RFK is nothing like seeing a game in old Tiger stadium, Fenway Park, or Camden Yards, but it can still give you a little tingle. What grabs you first is the sound—the slow roar that emanates from the crowd interspersed with the looping cries of the vendors. Then you look around. There is beer everywhere. There are hotdogs and nachos and pretzels, and as you walk down the corridor looking for your seating section, you catch glimpses of the field, the green carpet of Bermuda grass trimmed tight like a fresh military haircut.
I have these moments when I forget that America is the greatest country in the world. It’s natural, I suppose, to have thoughts like “Is it really ok that we’ve dropped thousands of tons of depleted uranium munitions on Iraq?” or “Is this really the ‘freest’ country in the world? I bet I could hold up a ‘Bong Hits 4 Jesus’ sign in Sweden.” Well, there are two things that render those thoughts meaningless—one is March Madness; the other is the elation of walking into a baseball stadium in mid-summer. And I can promise you all that as long as those two American traditions remain intact, the terrorists will never win.
We found our seats near the middle point of the lower section on the first base side and sat next to a couple of middle-aged, mustachioed Dominicans who spoke lazy, Caribbean Spanish. It was hot, about 96, and later, when I arrived home, I would take one look at my sweaty, matted hair, and shave it all off.
Now, beer at baseball games has never been known to be too cheap, and RFK is certainly no exception. However, you can get a reasonable amount of bling-bang for your buck if you hit up the Guinness/Harp stand. I mean, a Guinness will run you around $6 in most D.C. bars these days. You can get one at RFK for $6.50 so you don’t exactly feel like you got sodomized on the deal.
Here is the skinny, baseball-wise:
· Tigers came to town for interleague play with a chance to move into first place ahead of the Indians.
· The Nationals suck and have sucked all season.
· Detroit’s Magglio Ordoñez is flat-out redunculous this year. Right now, you could throw a chick-pea anywhere near the plate and he’d hit it for an opposite field double. (see Rowdy’s post-game phonecall with his Pa below)
Rowdy: Hey Pa, what’s up? I just got back from the baseball game.
Pa: How’s Detroit look?
Rowdy: Indestructible, but they were playing the Nats…
Pa: Ordoñez get any hits?
Rowdy: You tryin to be funny? He went 7 for 10 in the series.
Pa: Wow, he’s batting like .350 isn’t he?
Rowdy: Try .382
Pa: Dear God.
· Tigers swept the series and scored 32 runs in 3 games.
A particularly pathetic play occurred midway through the top of the 5th inning in the series finale that I feel I must mention. Detroit’s Brandon Inge hit a ground ball to Nats shortstop Cristian Guzman who, instead of getting in front of the ball, bending his knees, and trapping it in his glove with both hands, decided to lazily bend over at the waist and make a one handed grab at it without moving his feet toward the ball at all. He bobbled it, was charged with an error, and allowed Inge, to take first base. Inge later scored.
It was, perhaps, the most insultingly lazy play I have ever seen attempted by a major league short-stop, and a slap in the face to all of Washington. I would’ve been pissed if the shortstop on my little league team had pulled a stunt like that, and my little league shortstop wasn’t being paid $4.2 million dollars a year. Not to mention that here we are in a city chalk-full of problems that need urgent attention and we’re about to spend our tax dollars on a new, $611 million baseball stadium, so you’ll have to excuse me if I find it F-ing incredible when Guzman decides it’s too much of a bother to move his fat ass two steps to the left to get in front of a ground ball. That’s a show of disrespect to the entire city. Also, Guzman may not have heard any of the curses I threw in his direction from the upper deck of center field, but I like to think they had something to do with his recent thumb injury.
By invoking the outlandish cost of the new stadium in the previous paragraph, I don’t mean to come off anti-baseball, because I’m anything but. What I basically object to about the new stadium is the swankiness of it all. The new stadium is clearly designed to cater to the wealthy, and given the diversion of public funds into it, it is bad form to spend so much money on things like “luxury suites” that will almost certainly be gobbled up by rich lobbying firms. The one thing that will make me puke up my ballpark frank at the game is watching a pharmaceutical lobbyist in the luxury box rub some congressman’s ass while Ryan Zimmerman strikes out for the 3rd consecutive time. (speaking of Zimm, MLB needs to put some theme music rules in place. Should Zimm really be able to play “This is Why I’m Hot” every time he steps up to the plate when he’s batting .245? Get on that, Selig. Might be a good distraction from Balco et al.)
On a slightly different note, I gots several lefty friends who reference certain intellectuals (Chomsky) out there who say sports serve to re-direct the energies and attentions of the public away from political realities, and towards meaningless events that feed into primitive gladiatorial pleasures and contribute to a false consciousness that positions subjects of the same political class against one another. They aren’t necessarily wrong, but they commit the same error of omission that many Marxists and folks on the left commit—they fail to acknowledge and properly account for the symbolic side of social existence. It's such a terribly unimaginative position to take, and what I would say to Chomsky is this: Do sports not also serve a valid, theatrical function in our world?
Each game is densely laden with plots and subplots. Protagonists triumph and fail due to combinations of natural ability, character, and chance; and all you can think to say is “sports are a meaningless distraction”? Ummm... Since when isn’t all of life a meaningless distraction? The next thing you know you’ll say we shouldn’t read novels because they’re just fake stories meant to distract all the rest of us from being just like you. Thanks for your concern, Noam, but only an unimaginative dullard could think that professional sports can’t be more than an empty distraction. I shall keep watching baseball, anti-capitalist sympathies intact. And while I'm at it, I think I'll have a few beers and some nachos.
-Rowdy Chowder
Armless Jane: “Are you guys on the wagon or something? WTF?”
Saucy Chaucer: “Has CHBR lost its Rage to Live?”
Feckless Finnegan: “I swear to you. I am perched on the edge of my balcony. If you guys don’t post again by June 26th, I’ll jump.”
Well, with apologies to Finny’s mum, it so happens that we’ve been spending a reasonable amount of time drinking beer in RFK stadium since our last post. Bouillonnui is a bit of a Tigers fan, and Rowdy is down for basically anything that involves baseball and/or nachos, so we wound up watching the entire Detroit/Washington series. (Quick note: If you, by some strangeness of character or act of God, have become a Nationals fan in the last couple of years, you might want to stop reading now because this story won’t end well for you.)
Just before Game 1 of the series, we grabbed some dinner and margaritas at La Lomita on 13th and Penn. The Bouillonnui/Detroit contingent was large—Papallionnui and Mamallionnui had actually driven down from Michigan to watch the series with several other family members in tow.
There’s always something slightly intoxicating about walking into a major league baseball stadium on game-day. Don’t get me wrong. Watching a game at RFK is nothing like seeing a game in old Tiger stadium, Fenway Park, or Camden Yards, but it can still give you a little tingle. What grabs you first is the sound—the slow roar that emanates from the crowd interspersed with the looping cries of the vendors. Then you look around. There is beer everywhere. There are hotdogs and nachos and pretzels, and as you walk down the corridor looking for your seating section, you catch glimpses of the field, the green carpet of Bermuda grass trimmed tight like a fresh military haircut.
I have these moments when I forget that America is the greatest country in the world. It’s natural, I suppose, to have thoughts like “Is it really ok that we’ve dropped thousands of tons of depleted uranium munitions on Iraq?” or “Is this really the ‘freest’ country in the world? I bet I could hold up a ‘Bong Hits 4 Jesus’ sign in Sweden.” Well, there are two things that render those thoughts meaningless—one is March Madness; the other is the elation of walking into a baseball stadium in mid-summer. And I can promise you all that as long as those two American traditions remain intact, the terrorists will never win.
We found our seats near the middle point of the lower section on the first base side and sat next to a couple of middle-aged, mustachioed Dominicans who spoke lazy, Caribbean Spanish. It was hot, about 96, and later, when I arrived home, I would take one look at my sweaty, matted hair, and shave it all off.
Now, beer at baseball games has never been known to be too cheap, and RFK is certainly no exception. However, you can get a reasonable amount of bling-bang for your buck if you hit up the Guinness/Harp stand. I mean, a Guinness will run you around $6 in most D.C. bars these days. You can get one at RFK for $6.50 so you don’t exactly feel like you got sodomized on the deal.
Here is the skinny, baseball-wise:
· Tigers came to town for interleague play with a chance to move into first place ahead of the Indians.
· The Nationals suck and have sucked all season.
· Detroit’s Magglio Ordoñez is flat-out redunculous this year. Right now, you could throw a chick-pea anywhere near the plate and he’d hit it for an opposite field double. (see Rowdy’s post-game phonecall with his Pa below)
Rowdy: Hey Pa, what’s up? I just got back from the baseball game.
Pa: How’s Detroit look?
Rowdy: Indestructible, but they were playing the Nats…
Pa: Ordoñez get any hits?
Rowdy: You tryin to be funny? He went 7 for 10 in the series.
Pa: Wow, he’s batting like .350 isn’t he?
Rowdy: Try .382
Pa: Dear God.
· Tigers swept the series and scored 32 runs in 3 games.
A particularly pathetic play occurred midway through the top of the 5th inning in the series finale that I feel I must mention. Detroit’s Brandon Inge hit a ground ball to Nats shortstop Cristian Guzman who, instead of getting in front of the ball, bending his knees, and trapping it in his glove with both hands, decided to lazily bend over at the waist and make a one handed grab at it without moving his feet toward the ball at all. He bobbled it, was charged with an error, and allowed Inge, to take first base. Inge later scored.
It was, perhaps, the most insultingly lazy play I have ever seen attempted by a major league short-stop, and a slap in the face to all of Washington. I would’ve been pissed if the shortstop on my little league team had pulled a stunt like that, and my little league shortstop wasn’t being paid $4.2 million dollars a year. Not to mention that here we are in a city chalk-full of problems that need urgent attention and we’re about to spend our tax dollars on a new, $611 million baseball stadium, so you’ll have to excuse me if I find it F-ing incredible when Guzman decides it’s too much of a bother to move his fat ass two steps to the left to get in front of a ground ball. That’s a show of disrespect to the entire city. Also, Guzman may not have heard any of the curses I threw in his direction from the upper deck of center field, but I like to think they had something to do with his recent thumb injury.
By invoking the outlandish cost of the new stadium in the previous paragraph, I don’t mean to come off anti-baseball, because I’m anything but. What I basically object to about the new stadium is the swankiness of it all. The new stadium is clearly designed to cater to the wealthy, and given the diversion of public funds into it, it is bad form to spend so much money on things like “luxury suites” that will almost certainly be gobbled up by rich lobbying firms. The one thing that will make me puke up my ballpark frank at the game is watching a pharmaceutical lobbyist in the luxury box rub some congressman’s ass while Ryan Zimmerman strikes out for the 3rd consecutive time. (speaking of Zimm, MLB needs to put some theme music rules in place. Should Zimm really be able to play “This is Why I’m Hot” every time he steps up to the plate when he’s batting .245? Get on that, Selig. Might be a good distraction from Balco et al.)
On a slightly different note, I gots several lefty friends who reference certain intellectuals (Chomsky) out there who say sports serve to re-direct the energies and attentions of the public away from political realities, and towards meaningless events that feed into primitive gladiatorial pleasures and contribute to a false consciousness that positions subjects of the same political class against one another. They aren’t necessarily wrong, but they commit the same error of omission that many Marxists and folks on the left commit—they fail to acknowledge and properly account for the symbolic side of social existence. It's such a terribly unimaginative position to take, and what I would say to Chomsky is this: Do sports not also serve a valid, theatrical function in our world?
Each game is densely laden with plots and subplots. Protagonists triumph and fail due to combinations of natural ability, character, and chance; and all you can think to say is “sports are a meaningless distraction”? Ummm... Since when isn’t all of life a meaningless distraction? The next thing you know you’ll say we shouldn’t read novels because they’re just fake stories meant to distract all the rest of us from being just like you. Thanks for your concern, Noam, but only an unimaginative dullard could think that professional sports can’t be more than an empty distraction. I shall keep watching baseball, anti-capitalist sympathies intact. And while I'm at it, I think I'll have a few beers and some nachos.
-Rowdy Chowder
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Club
Yuppers, the legend is true. There really is a dance club above the Hawk n' Dove, and those of you looking to relive your College experience, The Club is for you. Not so much the part where you enrich yourself, study abroad, or make lasting friendships, but rather, the part where you dress up like a skank, put on some Axe, down a fifth of Popov, grind on several anonymous dance partners through the night, and do the sweaty late night make-out on the dance floor routine.
Really, who needs Adams Morgan when you got The Club? You can avoid the lines and the insane crowds, and you have the added bonus of hanging out with a bunch of Marines. So you can get hammered, have a good time dancing, and, assuming you're not holding some grudge against Freedom, hook up with a Marine to help the war effort.
If you live on Capitol Hill, you should definitely hit up the Club at least once. As they say on their website,
In the heart of D.C you'll find your not so typical "dance club".
Catering to the college crowd, we know how to party! With disco lights, a moderate dance floor, and the areas hottest bartenders and bouncers-you are sure to have a night to remember.
They ain't kidding neither. Rowdy's been to the Club just once. He walked up the stairs, saw a topless girl writhing on the bar, smirked, and turned around and walked out (I know, I know, there's something wrong with Rowdy). Also, there was the night Bouillonnui watched as a Marine and a snarky looking Hill staffer almost got in a fight. That's always an interesting dynamic to watch play out. On the one hand, you're just waiting for the Marine to absolutely destroy the guy and thinking to yourself, "Oh shit, I just hope this guy hasn't learned any kill moves." On the other hand, you keep watching said staffer talk about the validity of Sen. Inhofe's global warming views, and you start thinking, "Maybe it's ok if he just gets his jaw broken." And really, it would be.
Our advice is to spare yourself the cab money and added insanity that comes with going to Adams Morgan, and instead go to The Club sometime soon. We recommend going on a Saturday night when they have $5 pitchers from 9 - 11. Order one of the specialty shots they have, such as "Blood Clot" or "Sex at my House", hit up the dance floor and let the inevitable craziness begin.
Really, who needs Adams Morgan when you got The Club? You can avoid the lines and the insane crowds, and you have the added bonus of hanging out with a bunch of Marines. So you can get hammered, have a good time dancing, and, assuming you're not holding some grudge against Freedom, hook up with a Marine to help the war effort.
If you live on Capitol Hill, you should definitely hit up the Club at least once. As they say on their website,
In the heart of D.C you'll find your not so typical "dance club".
Catering to the college crowd, we know how to party! With disco lights, a moderate dance floor, and the areas hottest bartenders and bouncers-you are sure to have a night to remember.
They ain't kidding neither. Rowdy's been to the Club just once. He walked up the stairs, saw a topless girl writhing on the bar, smirked, and turned around and walked out (I know, I know, there's something wrong with Rowdy). Also, there was the night Bouillonnui watched as a Marine and a snarky looking Hill staffer almost got in a fight. That's always an interesting dynamic to watch play out. On the one hand, you're just waiting for the Marine to absolutely destroy the guy and thinking to yourself, "Oh shit, I just hope this guy hasn't learned any kill moves." On the other hand, you keep watching said staffer talk about the validity of Sen. Inhofe's global warming views, and you start thinking, "Maybe it's ok if he just gets his jaw broken." And really, it would be.
Our advice is to spare yourself the cab money and added insanity that comes with going to Adams Morgan, and instead go to The Club sometime soon. We recommend going on a Saturday night when they have $5 pitchers from 9 - 11. Order one of the specialty shots they have, such as "Blood Clot" or "Sex at my House", hit up the dance floor and let the inevitable craziness begin.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
June 2nd Saturday
For those of you whom, for whatever reason, were not able to attend the recent 2nd Saturday party at Capitol Hill Books, we have again taken the time to recap the events that transpired.
Around 4pm on Saturday, the air outside hung heavy with hedonism. Perhaps, we thought, there will be no middle ground this evening—all or nothing time. Things appeared to be coalescing. When the Admiral finally unveiled several cases of wine and queso, the patrons seemed primed for debauchery.
There are days when what at first seem like widely disparate, almost subterranean phenomena begin to group themselves into a sort of worm-like self-organizing system of meaning that slowly works its head above the sand and shows itself. In this case, the phenomena that came together were as follows: The bookstore fridge was stocked with Tecate, Pilsner Urquell, and a case of white wine; Mr. Bisque was en route to store and ready to unwind after a hard day’s labor; confirmation text messages blipped themselves into being on our cellies; and Boullionnui was wearing the same T-shirt for the 3rd day in a row, and it had never looked so right.
The party started at 4pm sharp and within seconds we were half-way into the first jumbo bottle of wine. We wandered upstairs to find two giggly interns occupying several chairs in the fiction. Chit-chat meandered from chick-lit to lit-crit and back again, but somewhere around the time a third fit of giggling erupted from the interns, Rowdy shook his head bemusedly and tumbled back down the stairs to find 3 Brazilians browsing European history. Anyone worth their salt knows that one surefire way to spice up a party is to add Brazilians, and these were no exception. It soon became apparent that they would be in it for the long haul.
At around 7, we made the move to Tunnicliffs for dinner and more drinks. We came in about 20 deep and overtook the better part of the dining area. On the west end of the table, the Old Serbian nihilist (see last 2nd Sat.) had returned and was once again holding court. Ths time, however, his usual “Europe is dead” talk had been supplanted by a fear of German nationalists within the U.S. who may or may not be plotting something. At first listen, this sounded preposterous, but soon, we began to question our own complacence regarding the latent German-American threat, and began to wonder whether or not David Hasselhoff was somehow involved.
After dinner, we hit up the Key-Hole Bar in the basement of 18th Amendment for some pool and jukebox action. High Lifes were on special for $2 and there were good times to be got. Bisque tried to temporarily kill the vibe by playing two Megadeth songs in a row, but the inherent happiness of the Brazilian contingent wouldn’t allow our carnival caravan to be offput by a short barrage of death-metal.
Around midnight, Boullionnui was beginning to miss Battlecat, so we went to Banana Café to check out white Ray Charles, and he didn’t disappoint. And as if white Ray Charles wasn’t enough to blow our minds, the 50-year-old pony-tailed hippie dancing like an extra in a made-for-T.V. movie about Woodstock was. He left half the bar cracking up, and the other half staring at him in disbelief.
After white Ray Charles played his last number, we finally dispersed into the night, racking our brains for creative ways in which to pre-empt the morning hangovers that lie in wait.
Around 4pm on Saturday, the air outside hung heavy with hedonism. Perhaps, we thought, there will be no middle ground this evening—all or nothing time. Things appeared to be coalescing. When the Admiral finally unveiled several cases of wine and queso, the patrons seemed primed for debauchery.
There are days when what at first seem like widely disparate, almost subterranean phenomena begin to group themselves into a sort of worm-like self-organizing system of meaning that slowly works its head above the sand and shows itself. In this case, the phenomena that came together were as follows: The bookstore fridge was stocked with Tecate, Pilsner Urquell, and a case of white wine; Mr. Bisque was en route to store and ready to unwind after a hard day’s labor; confirmation text messages blipped themselves into being on our cellies; and Boullionnui was wearing the same T-shirt for the 3rd day in a row, and it had never looked so right.
The party started at 4pm sharp and within seconds we were half-way into the first jumbo bottle of wine. We wandered upstairs to find two giggly interns occupying several chairs in the fiction. Chit-chat meandered from chick-lit to lit-crit and back again, but somewhere around the time a third fit of giggling erupted from the interns, Rowdy shook his head bemusedly and tumbled back down the stairs to find 3 Brazilians browsing European history. Anyone worth their salt knows that one surefire way to spice up a party is to add Brazilians, and these were no exception. It soon became apparent that they would be in it for the long haul.
At around 7, we made the move to Tunnicliffs for dinner and more drinks. We came in about 20 deep and overtook the better part of the dining area. On the west end of the table, the Old Serbian nihilist (see last 2nd Sat.) had returned and was once again holding court. Ths time, however, his usual “Europe is dead” talk had been supplanted by a fear of German nationalists within the U.S. who may or may not be plotting something. At first listen, this sounded preposterous, but soon, we began to question our own complacence regarding the latent German-American threat, and began to wonder whether or not David Hasselhoff was somehow involved.
After dinner, we hit up the Key-Hole Bar in the basement of 18th Amendment for some pool and jukebox action. High Lifes were on special for $2 and there were good times to be got. Bisque tried to temporarily kill the vibe by playing two Megadeth songs in a row, but the inherent happiness of the Brazilian contingent wouldn’t allow our carnival caravan to be offput by a short barrage of death-metal.
Around midnight, Boullionnui was beginning to miss Battlecat, so we went to Banana Café to check out white Ray Charles, and he didn’t disappoint. And as if white Ray Charles wasn’t enough to blow our minds, the 50-year-old pony-tailed hippie dancing like an extra in a made-for-T.V. movie about Woodstock was. He left half the bar cracking up, and the other half staring at him in disbelief.
After white Ray Charles played his last number, we finally dispersed into the night, racking our brains for creative ways in which to pre-empt the morning hangovers that lie in wait.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
A Rage to Live: The Problem of Induction, or More Humean than a Humean.
Once upon a time in South America, Rowdy, Boullionnui, and two friends were finishing up their dinner as table-talk turned to the possibility of post-pollo entertainment. We all agreed that we probably shouldn’t go too hard since the next morning we would be attempting a climb to a glacial lagoon near the summit of Nevado Churup which stands at just under 18,000ft. But after dinner we found a few local hotspots and familiarized ourselves with a handful of smiling native women…
At this point you might be saying to yourself “What does any of this have to do with Capitol Hill Bars?” Well, be patient... After a few beers, the other two dudes stayed true to our plan of not overdoing it and went back to our place of lodging, but Rowdy and Boullionnui are not men who fall prey to such logic, for they possess a certain rage to live which renders them incapable of surrender. We pressed on to the wee morning hours and paid the price the next day on the mountain.
Now jump ahead two and a half years to yesterday when, after many Wednesday evening margaritas, we could’ve just called it quits. Some of our party did just that, and we bade them no ill will, but there was an implicit understanding that we could not follow a similar path. This is not what we do.
There are, no doubt, many of you out there who would flatly accuse us of being insane and illogical, of allowing our bodies and lives to be continually abused by implementing our policy of live in the moment and bollocks to the mañana. But are we illogical? Are we??? No, dear readers, not these barbloggers; Let us examine the problem of induction:
We give out a "heavy petting" award to David Hume who famously observed that we cannot logically arrive at the conclusion that the future will resemble the past in any way shape or form, and the argument that the sun will rise tomorrow because it always has in the past is circular because it inductively justifies induction. Rowdy and Boullionnui are keenly aware of this point and it genearlly leads us to live hard. After all, why should we worry about being hungover for work tomorrow when we cannot logically assume that our offices will exist by then? Karl Popper’s so called “solution” to this problem is merely a functional temporary concealment/avoidance of it, so that does nothing to slow us down.
While Hume himself allowed that radical skepticism is entirely impractical, this is just Hume protecting the world from the secret of the world, a secret that not all are hearty enough to live with. So while we readily admit that your life may not be able to handle Hume’s logical positivism, Capitol Hill Bar Review calls Hume’s scotch and skepticism, and raises him three Jager-blasters and a complete ban on a priori reasoning. In this way, we're more Humean than Hume.
Of course, we would never ask our readers to subject themselves to this sort of ban, but keep in mind that it is this strict reading of Hume that, in part, makes Capitol Hill Bar Review possible.
-Rowdy Chowder
At this point you might be saying to yourself “What does any of this have to do with Capitol Hill Bars?” Well, be patient... After a few beers, the other two dudes stayed true to our plan of not overdoing it and went back to our place of lodging, but Rowdy and Boullionnui are not men who fall prey to such logic, for they possess a certain rage to live which renders them incapable of surrender. We pressed on to the wee morning hours and paid the price the next day on the mountain.
Now jump ahead two and a half years to yesterday when, after many Wednesday evening margaritas, we could’ve just called it quits. Some of our party did just that, and we bade them no ill will, but there was an implicit understanding that we could not follow a similar path. This is not what we do.
There are, no doubt, many of you out there who would flatly accuse us of being insane and illogical, of allowing our bodies and lives to be continually abused by implementing our policy of live in the moment and bollocks to the mañana. But are we illogical? Are we??? No, dear readers, not these barbloggers; Let us examine the problem of induction:
We give out a "heavy petting" award to David Hume who famously observed that we cannot logically arrive at the conclusion that the future will resemble the past in any way shape or form, and the argument that the sun will rise tomorrow because it always has in the past is circular because it inductively justifies induction. Rowdy and Boullionnui are keenly aware of this point and it genearlly leads us to live hard. After all, why should we worry about being hungover for work tomorrow when we cannot logically assume that our offices will exist by then? Karl Popper’s so called “solution” to this problem is merely a functional temporary concealment/avoidance of it, so that does nothing to slow us down.
While Hume himself allowed that radical skepticism is entirely impractical, this is just Hume protecting the world from the secret of the world, a secret that not all are hearty enough to live with. So while we readily admit that your life may not be able to handle Hume’s logical positivism, Capitol Hill Bar Review calls Hume’s scotch and skepticism, and raises him three Jager-blasters and a complete ban on a priori reasoning. In this way, we're more Humean than Hume.
Of course, we would never ask our readers to subject themselves to this sort of ban, but keep in mind that it is this strict reading of Hume that, in part, makes Capitol Hill Bar Review possible.
-Rowdy Chowder
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Dollar Beer Nights: Boullionnui's Rules
Dollar Beer Night Rules:
There's something reassuring about Thursday dollar beer night at the Pour House. Everyone is on the same page. Everyone's there to get hammered, watch sports, eat nachos, and do each other.
To be sure, the Pour House has its drawbacks, but there's no other place better for those nights when you want you want to get a group of friends together and get schnockified on the cheap. We recommend doing a Thursday at the Pour House at least once or twice. Sure, the place will be hot, loud and packed, but if you follow Bouillonnui's simple dollar beer rules, you should be ok.
- Get there early. Get there by 5:30 so you can get a table or a booth. If you don't want to deal with the loud noise, head downstairs to the Scheissehaus and try and snag a table in the back. Don't depend on a waiter showing up. Save yourself some time and order from the bartender.
- Order at least 3 beers per person at a time, especially since it's so much fun to say "18 Budweisers please." Try it sometime. Come on, they're a freakin' dollar!
- Eat nachos. The Pour House nachos are the best on Capitol Hill and will probably remain so for some time (no thanks to you, Tancredo!) Make sure you wait till at least your 4th beer, or for Rowdy, your second, so you're a little drunk when you eat them. Everyone knows all foods are at least 30% more delicious when you're starting to get a little tipsy.
- Hit up the jukebox early. If you don't get there quick enough, there's a good chance you'll be left listening to Bon Jovi or Godsmack all night. Be sure to sparcel out your selections with some chill tunes at the start, then maybe some mid 90s rap, a couple crowd pleasers, something obscure....aaahh..screw it, we’ll just make a playlist for you:
Perry Como - Papa loves Mambo (just to freak people out)
Peter, Bjorn and John- Young Folks
Fujiya and Miyagi- Collarbone
Eazy E - Gimmie That Nut
Midlake- Young Bride
Bob Dylan- Ballad of a Thin Man
William Shatner - Common People
The Editors - Munich
- Don't flirt with anyone until you've had 9 beers (4 for Rowdy). You know you're not clever until you're hammered, so there's no use in rushing it. Just spend the first few hours enjoying your nachos, watching the game, and putting together a solid scouting report. Don't worry about the other guys putting in the leg work, talking to the girls all night. The swoop in method is always the way to go, and even if you fail, at least you didn't have to spend the whole night having some long, awkward conversation...
You- "Sooooo, umm. Where are you from?"
Girl- "Minnesota."
"Oh, wow, really?"
"Yeah, why? Are you from there"
"Well, no. Michigan. But I always liked Minnesota."
"Oh."
"Yeah, a lot of lakes, huh?"
"I guess, yeah."
"I heard Michigan actually has more lakes than Minnesota. Wouldn't that be weird? Cause you guys are all like..."
"Umm."
"Umm. You want another beer?"
"I think I'm good."
"Shots? You want a shot. No? Screw it, bartender! 6 Jager bombs!"
"I'm gonna go find my friends now."
"Guh? Damn, this sucks. Why haven't my songs come on? And where the hell are my nachos?"
- If it's dollar beer night, don't try to kickstart your conversation by ordering 6 Jager bombs. However, a very good maneuver on most other nights.
- Eat Nachos. If you're still around at 10:30 and on you're 17th beer, there's no reason to not go all in for the 2nd feeding. At this point, you've blown your chance with that cute Minnesota girl (comparing lakes? What were you thinking?), you wasted 80 bucks on shots, and you're gonna be totally fucked in the face come morning if you don't get some more grease in you fast.
So there you are. Stick to these rules, and be sure to get a breakfast sandwich in the morning and you should have many fine dollar beer adventures.
-Boullionui
(edited by R. Chowder)
There's something reassuring about Thursday dollar beer night at the Pour House. Everyone is on the same page. Everyone's there to get hammered, watch sports, eat nachos, and do each other.
To be sure, the Pour House has its drawbacks, but there's no other place better for those nights when you want you want to get a group of friends together and get schnockified on the cheap. We recommend doing a Thursday at the Pour House at least once or twice. Sure, the place will be hot, loud and packed, but if you follow Bouillonnui's simple dollar beer rules, you should be ok.
- Get there early. Get there by 5:30 so you can get a table or a booth. If you don't want to deal with the loud noise, head downstairs to the Scheissehaus and try and snag a table in the back. Don't depend on a waiter showing up. Save yourself some time and order from the bartender.
- Order at least 3 beers per person at a time, especially since it's so much fun to say "18 Budweisers please." Try it sometime. Come on, they're a freakin' dollar!
- Eat nachos. The Pour House nachos are the best on Capitol Hill and will probably remain so for some time (no thanks to you, Tancredo!) Make sure you wait till at least your 4th beer, or for Rowdy, your second, so you're a little drunk when you eat them. Everyone knows all foods are at least 30% more delicious when you're starting to get a little tipsy.
- Hit up the jukebox early. If you don't get there quick enough, there's a good chance you'll be left listening to Bon Jovi or Godsmack all night. Be sure to sparcel out your selections with some chill tunes at the start, then maybe some mid 90s rap, a couple crowd pleasers, something obscure....aaahh..screw it, we’ll just make a playlist for you:
Perry Como - Papa loves Mambo (just to freak people out)
Peter, Bjorn and John- Young Folks
Fujiya and Miyagi- Collarbone
Eazy E - Gimmie That Nut
Midlake- Young Bride
Bob Dylan- Ballad of a Thin Man
William Shatner - Common People
The Editors - Munich
- Don't flirt with anyone until you've had 9 beers (4 for Rowdy). You know you're not clever until you're hammered, so there's no use in rushing it. Just spend the first few hours enjoying your nachos, watching the game, and putting together a solid scouting report. Don't worry about the other guys putting in the leg work, talking to the girls all night. The swoop in method is always the way to go, and even if you fail, at least you didn't have to spend the whole night having some long, awkward conversation...
You- "Sooooo, umm. Where are you from?"
Girl- "Minnesota."
"Oh, wow, really?"
"Yeah, why? Are you from there"
"Well, no. Michigan. But I always liked Minnesota."
"Oh."
"Yeah, a lot of lakes, huh?"
"I guess, yeah."
"I heard Michigan actually has more lakes than Minnesota. Wouldn't that be weird? Cause you guys are all like..."
"Umm."
"Umm. You want another beer?"
"I think I'm good."
"Shots? You want a shot. No? Screw it, bartender! 6 Jager bombs!"
"I'm gonna go find my friends now."
"Guh? Damn, this sucks. Why haven't my songs come on? And where the hell are my nachos?"
- If it's dollar beer night, don't try to kickstart your conversation by ordering 6 Jager bombs. However, a very good maneuver on most other nights.
- Eat Nachos. If you're still around at 10:30 and on you're 17th beer, there's no reason to not go all in for the 2nd feeding. At this point, you've blown your chance with that cute Minnesota girl (comparing lakes? What were you thinking?), you wasted 80 bucks on shots, and you're gonna be totally fucked in the face come morning if you don't get some more grease in you fast.
So there you are. Stick to these rules, and be sure to get a breakfast sandwich in the morning and you should have many fine dollar beer adventures.
-Boullionui
(edited by R. Chowder)
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Shake of the Fist/Heavy Petting
We're starting a new section here on Capitol Hill Bar Review. From time to time, we're going to do a little round up of random things we've encountered at various Capitol Hill Bars. A la Siskel and Ebert's Thumbs Up/Down, or Colbert's Tip of the Hat/Wave of the Finger, we're going to assign "Shake of the Fist" for something we view as lame, and "Heavy Petting" for something we like.
Shake of the fist:
1. We were at Top of the Hill (Pour House 2nd Level) recently, and
overall it was pretty good times, mostly cause it was void of the usual Hill-jerks typically found there on weekends. The bartender brought us three beers that we hadn't ordered. We thought we were getting the hook-up, but later we saw she tacked them onto the bill. Now, you can tell from Bouillonnui and Rowdy's appearance that we are not men of great wealth. Granted, we don't really belong in a classy establishment like Top of the Hill, but come on, you don't have to rub it in by making us pay 16 bucks for beers we didn't order. We po' mo-fo's yo! Recognize!
2. Rowdy reportedly got some more bad beer at Tune Inn. This makes twice in a row. Get on your horse, Tune Inn! We know you're not looking to be the snazziest place around, but non-skunkified beer is a must for any bar, even if your fried okra is one of Bouillonnui's favorites.
3. We made a valiant effort to hit up Pour House's Dollar Beer Night after a year layoff. We showed up around 6:30, and the place was hot, packed and loud to the point of being un-stayable. Soon, Bouillonnui will post his Rules for Dollar Beer Night.
Heavy Petting:
1. Major heavy petting goes out to Conrad's Pub, which came up huge last Thursday after the Pour House debacle. You simply can't beat walking into a bar, getting a $5 bucket of beer served to you by a dude who looks and behaves as if he still thinks he’s in rural Norway, and then looking up to find American Gladiators reruns are on TV. I mean c'mon, what else could you want?
Once you get 3 or 4 pitchers deep, order the Old Bay French Fries, or even some hit or miss Thai food from the adjoining restaurant.
2. All Tune Inn Burgers were $5 on Tuesday night. The burgers were
simple and good. That's all we ask. That's all we ask...
3. To Top of the Hill (despite the forced beers) for being a good place for us to chill for a bit while hatching late Saturday plans. Jukebox was good and the Dylan gave the place an aura of hard wisdom that served as a nice backdrop in which to contemplate the evening.
Shake of the fist:
1. We were at Top of the Hill (Pour House 2nd Level) recently, and
overall it was pretty good times, mostly cause it was void of the usual Hill-jerks typically found there on weekends. The bartender brought us three beers that we hadn't ordered. We thought we were getting the hook-up, but later we saw she tacked them onto the bill. Now, you can tell from Bouillonnui and Rowdy's appearance that we are not men of great wealth. Granted, we don't really belong in a classy establishment like Top of the Hill, but come on, you don't have to rub it in by making us pay 16 bucks for beers we didn't order. We po' mo-fo's yo! Recognize!
2. Rowdy reportedly got some more bad beer at Tune Inn. This makes twice in a row. Get on your horse, Tune Inn! We know you're not looking to be the snazziest place around, but non-skunkified beer is a must for any bar, even if your fried okra is one of Bouillonnui's favorites.
3. We made a valiant effort to hit up Pour House's Dollar Beer Night after a year layoff. We showed up around 6:30, and the place was hot, packed and loud to the point of being un-stayable. Soon, Bouillonnui will post his Rules for Dollar Beer Night.
Heavy Petting:
1. Major heavy petting goes out to Conrad's Pub, which came up huge last Thursday after the Pour House debacle. You simply can't beat walking into a bar, getting a $5 bucket of beer served to you by a dude who looks and behaves as if he still thinks he’s in rural Norway, and then looking up to find American Gladiators reruns are on TV. I mean c'mon, what else could you want?
Once you get 3 or 4 pitchers deep, order the Old Bay French Fries, or even some hit or miss Thai food from the adjoining restaurant.
2. All Tune Inn Burgers were $5 on Tuesday night. The burgers were
simple and good. That's all we ask. That's all we ask...
3. To Top of the Hill (despite the forced beers) for being a good place for us to chill for a bit while hatching late Saturday plans. Jukebox was good and the Dylan gave the place an aura of hard wisdom that served as a nice backdrop in which to contemplate the evening.
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