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.

2nd Saturday and the Turkish Problem

As usual, we attended the 2nd Saturday celebration at Capitol Hill Books. The wine flowed like Faulknerian prose and the patrons were ensconced in conversation that carefully wound its way from Baudelaire to Biggie Smalls. Giddy grad-students grabbed copies of Jane Austen, and tried to sound as if they knew what Ayn Rand’s books were about when their friends asked. (“It’s about, like, her philosophy…”)

The generally genial mood of the party was momentarily deadened by deep, guttural pronouncements projected from the mouth of an 84-year-old Serbian nihilist who had quietly entered the store, propped himself up with his wooden cane, and then stood proclaiming the death of Europe for several minutes. (Why is it that we want to take old men from the Eastern Bloc so seriously? and more so when their eyebrows are untrimmed?) Eventually, his Malthusian meanderings gave way to talk of chesty young women and soccer-style field goal kicking, but not before he had cast his aura of impending doom upon those within earshot.

Our next move was Tunnicliff’s, mainly because it was right across the street. We rolled into the bar 6 deep and ordered 5 beers and a cider. As is customary, the Admiral bought the first round and we settled into our stools. Talk then turned to our Turkish tablemate and his feelings on a secular Turkey. The Admiral, never one to mince words, got down to brass tacks:

Admiral: “So are you gonna vote for those Muslims?”

Mehmet: “No. I’ll vote secular.”

Then, in a brilliant non-sequitur:

Admiral: “You guys killed all those Armenians.”

Mehmet: “Well, you guys killed all those Indians.”

Ah yes, the scandal of origins. And of course, the Admiral is caught in a paradox—he wants a secular Turkey, but at the same time wishes for an acknowledgement of genocide that would undermine the meta-narrative that helps legitimate the nation-state as he wants to preserve it. Perhaps a secret acknowledgement of that fact, miraculously timed with the arrival of our appetizers, ended that vein of conversation.

On our table lay plates of calamari, buffalo wings, spinach artichoke dip, wasabi glazed tuna, and quesadillas. We were at once overwhelmed by the bounty before us and at the same time driven to annihilate it which we did in short order. After another round of drinks, the weak and girlfriended (Boullionnui, Never Bisque) and the old (The Admiral) went home, and the hearty moved to 18th Amendment.

The first floor of 18th amendment was inexplicably filled with Republicans in green polo shirts. It didn’t seem worth asking what was going on, so we didn’t. Instead, we headed straight to the basement in hopes of open jukebox and pool. Our hopes were partially dashed when the bartender informed us that someone had stuck a baseball in the pool table the previous night and as such, it wasn’t working. We played a few tunes on the jukebox and decided to move on to Capitol Lounge.

Cap Lounge was on its way to hypeness when we arrived. We sat on the west side of the bar and ordered beers. Rowdy petitioned for shots, but there were no takers. The bartender on the west-side is of Brazilian origin; More specifically, from the historically significant region of Minas Gerais, but just as she and Rowdy were about to toast “the Inconfidencia”, the female member of our party informed him that someone had etched “for a good time, call Rowdy” on the back of the stall in the lady’s room. Incensed at the besmirching of his honor, Rowdy stumbled downstairs to investigate…

At this point, as so often happens when 2nd Saturday draws to a close, details become nebulous. What is vaguely remembered is that the Mad Turk was missing, the rain drops fell more and more insistently, and as revelers scattered home, the need of self-intoxication slowly ceded its will to the practical problem of retiring to one’s private ambient.