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.

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.

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