DC Moment

This is the full version of the shortened story I submitted to Hototoki DC. For the first time in my scholarly career, I ignored the assignment my writing teacher passed out (write a review of spas in D.C., wtf?), and wrote my own thing. Chronicled here is the story of the weirdest person I ever met in a bar. Enjoy!

On Pick Up Artists and Ice Cream

It was a breezy summer night in 2002 when my friend Avè and I strolled through the door of The Raven, a dingy little bar in Mount Pleasant, DC. I was pleased with the look of the place; the owner’s clearly laissez-faire attitude towards upkeep signaled that I would be able to afford more than one drink that evening, even on my pitiful salary. I asked at the bar about drink specials and was delighted to learn that the $5 bill in my pocket would allow me to buy two import beers. Avè and I got some drinks and slid into a red vinyl bench accentuated with rips—some fresh and some which were poorly patched over with grimy duct tape.

“So what did Chuck do this week?” she asked me regarding my vicious boss who generally made me want to fling myself into the Potomac but also provided me with some pretty great happy hour stories. I launched into my current tale of injustice. “Dude, that’s why I’m still in school,” she teased. We continued to catch up on our respective weeks and were permitted about 15 full minutes to enjoy each other’s company before a man sitting at the bar decided to improve our evening with his presence.

He was a tall black man in his late twenties and carried a slightly battered briefcase as approached our booth. He set his case down on the floor and put his hands flat on the table. “Well, well, well, look what we have here,” he smarmed. “A black girl and a white girl having some good times.” His tone was salacious, as if he expected that at some point later that evening we would be engaging in some hot interracial lesbian action. His sly expression read that if he played his cards right, he might be witness to, or perhaps even a participant in, such an event. Oddly enough, we had heard this astoundingly bad pick-up routine before—most recently from a white man in a sports bar in Brookland.

I pulled a face as he slid into the seat next to Avè but knew that he would be allowed to stay, at least for a while. It typically takes both women to reject a would-be pick up artist, and I knew from experience that Avè, sensing some good material for future drinking stories, would give this jackass enough rope to hang himself. He did not disappoint.

After telling us how fine we were, he asked Avè what her ancestery was. When she answered that her parents were from Guyana, he proclaimed his love for Africans in general and Ghanaian people in particular. I cringed, knowing that few things annoy Avè more than when people mix up Ghana and Guyana. Her eyes narrowed, and she set him straight. Eager to shift focus away from his error, he turned to ask me the same question. I told him that no one in my family could really remember far back enough to know what country we emigrated from, but that I guessed I was probably at least part German, based on my last name.

“Oooooo, a German, huh?” he said with a slowly spreading grin. “I know all about you Germans. Y’all are freaky.”

Avè’s lip started to twitch, but she composed herself and, while looking at me with wide eyes, asked in her most innocent tone of voice, “Oh really, I was not aware of that fact.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They’re all into that S&M shit. I bet you like that stuff, huh,” he asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Avè silently bowling over with laughter barricaded back by her hands tightly pressed over her mouth as I replied coldly, “No. Maybe I’m not German then, I guess I’m pretty vanilla.”

“Shit, girl, I bet your vanilla is like other people’s Rocky Road.” The barricade broke, and Avè roared with laughter. He looked at her, and asked, “What, what did I say?”

She laughed for a few seconds more, grabbed hold of herself, and began digging her in purse. She came up with a pen and told him, “Only the best thing that I’ve ever ever heard.” Then she used the pen to write on the bar napkin, “Your vanilla is like other people’s Rocky Road.” When she was finished, she slid him the pen and napkin and demanded that he sign and date it, so she that she could properly commemorate this moment. He did so.

Sensing that at least his romantic pursuits were futile, the man pulled up his briefcase from the floor and opened it on the table to reveal an array of homemade feather and bead necklaces and inquired whether we would be interested in purchasing any. We declined—strike three for him. As he walked out the bar and Avè continued to wipe away tears of laughter, I took a swig of my beer and resigned myself to the fact that, at least for a couple of weeks, I would be known as “Rocky Road.”

I Heart Photoshop!

We went to see the cherry blossom trees along the Potomac this weekend. I'll be posting some more pics of that soon, but first I had to pause to profess my love of photoshop. If you don't already feel me on that, check out the before and after pics on the left. It almost makes me look like I'm a good photograph!

Knitting on the Bus

I decided that I couldn't deal with being squished in the Metro this morning and so took the bus instead. It was awesome! I got four rows on my super secret sweater of mystery completed. A man even switched seats so that he could get a better look at what I was making. He tried to be surreptitious, but I caught him looking :)

Cat Attack!

We have visitors from Columbus, the lovely and charming Ami and Jim. Unfortunately, we only have a one bedroom apartment, and two cats. I'm pretty sure Seamus and Moira, cat 1 and cat 2, launched some sneak attacks upon them as they slept on the air mattress. Sorry guys! I promise we'll switch tonight. My cats know the wrath of the squirt bottle and so will fear me too much to try anything tricky.

I submitted a story to Hototoki DC today. It was agony, because I really liked it in all of its 896 word glory, and it had to be chopped to a paltry 500 words. Hopefully the spirit remains the same. I'll post the full version next week.

Sugarplum Shrug

A couple of weeks ago, I finished my toughest knitting project to date. I had to start it over about 4 times because I have a little problem trying to watch movies with subtitles while I do lace knitting. The two do NOT mix. Anyway, here she is...a little big...but loved nonetheless. Now if the effing weather would just warm up, I might be able to wear it!

For all the knitting fans out there, I substituted Shibui Silkcloud for the Rowan yarn called for in the pattern (IK Holiday issue). It was less than half the price and was gorgeous!

Zombie Preparedness

Last night Phil and I went to a lecture given by Max Brooks, son of Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, and more importantly, author of the amazing World War Z: http://www.randomhouse.com/crown/worldwarz/

I "read" it in the sense that I listened to the audio book version. Which was awesome. It had Mark Hamil, Henry Rollins, John Turturro, and Meathead Reiner lending their voices. Plus, I listened to it only on the Metro, which increased my awareness of any potential zombie threats.

But back to Max. He was funny, quick on the fly, and remarkably composed in the face of all sorts of weirdos asking him weird questions, like "What's the deal with the zombies in Legend," like, duh, those were vampires or "should you spend time trying to turn the zombies back into human?" No! They are dead already! That's the guy who is going to get eaten by his wife when he refuses to accept that she had turned into a zombie and lingers to look searchingly into her eyes.

Afterwards, I realized my zombie escape plan does have some faults...I'm totally going to have to invest in a sledgehammer...

Drinking Stories

It's been just about 5 years since I found my favorite watering hole in the world. I wrote this essay about it for my 3rd assignment. It was supposed to be centered on a particular place, but as usual with me, I ended up focusing more on the people in the place.

The Scottish Invasion

When I was 23, I left my mind-numbing secretarial job in D.C. to try my hand at being an illegal immigrant. My then-boyfriend, now-husband, Phil had taken a job on a military base in Germany. Since we weren’t married yet, I wasn’t permitted to come live with him. That, like many things in Germany, was verboten. I came anyway, expecting a jet-set European lifestyle but ending up as a haus frau in Stuttgart, a city which is roughly the German equivalent of Detroit. My favorite description of Stuttgart was made by a Berliner who said that the only way he would ever find himself in that city would be if he woke up there after being beaten and stuffed into a sack.

In short, I had kind of a tough time adjusting. One night, to cheer me up, Phil decided to take me out to dinner. While walking, I spied a restaurant called “Mexicana.” We rushed in with thoughts of burritos dancing in our heads. The interior was unexpectedly modern with no sombreros plastered on the wall or piñatas hanging from the ceiling. In fact, the only indication of the restaurant’s cultural leanings, other than the name, was a high shelf lining the room and containing precisely arranged bottles of Jose Cuervo gold. A man standing behind the bar shook his head and said something in German. We froze. The man repeated his statement in a louder, more irritated voice. I got a sick feeling that I had probably done something verboten again. Phil ventured a timid “Zwei?” The man blustered in a thick British accent, “no damn you, I’m closed!” “Oh,” Phil said, “I’m sorry, we’ll come back another time.” The man’s expression immediately changed from a stern mask to a friendly grin, “Oh wait, you’re Yanks? Come in, I was just kidding.”

Looking back, I can’t say with certainty whether it was the quality of the food itself or the fact that it was a tangible reminder of my much-missed home but after I had gorged on buttery smooth and spicy guacamole, perfectly-seasoned carne asada, and several sour and sweet margaritas on the rocks, I was convinced that this was the best Mexican food I had ever tasted. Proprietor and apparent friend of the “Yanks”, Collin, sat down with us as we ate. He told us that he was born in England, raised in South Africa, taught to cook in California, and been brought to Stuttgart by a fickle fraulein who now lived in Berlin. Most of his business came from the nearby American military base, and so he welcomed us with open arms. His friendliness was refreshing as we had arrived in Stuttgart just after the United States declared war on Iraq and had been running into a fair share of anti-American sentiment from the locals. We ended up becoming regulars. There was always something going on at Mexicana with Collin or his cadre of odd patrons, and I relished the drama in my otherwise too-quiet life. I garnered many of my drinking stories at Mexicana. This is my favorite.

I came into the restaurant and noticed that Collin was suspiciously eying a rowdy group of 8 or so men in green and white jerseys. He told me that those “Scottish bastards” had come through Stuttgart last year and had completely smashed up Molly Flanagan’s, an Irish pub down the road. He smiled briefly at that thought—he and Molly were rivals with an always hinted at, but never fully revealed, past. But his face soon darkened as he contemplated potential hooliganism at his own establishment. I wrote his concerns off as being the product of the long-standing enmity between England and Scotland.

However, it turned out that they were in the mood for some mischief. Almost immediately after Phil left for the restroom, the Scots began hitting on me. Because of their thick accents, I could only understand one of them, and he was nominated by the group to be the translator. Phil returned, yet they continued their pursuit. Risking a beating, Phil good-naturedly asked if they were even speaking English. “English??” one yelled, “NO, we’re speaking Scottish!” At that point, I fell in love with them. From Phil’s raucous laughter, I figured that maybe he had as well. They pulled up their chairs to our tiny table built for two and bought us drinks for the next few hours as we did our best to try to understand each other.

At one point, the translator looked me straight in the eye and began to caterwaul what I imagine was meant to be a Scottish ballad. I held his stare and shoved my fingernails into my thigh to keep from bursting into laughter. Once he had finished, he began trying to coax me into sharing a song of my own homeland. His enthusiasm was not dampened by the fact that the only such songs I knew were the Star-Spangled Banner and Rocky Top, Tennessee. Luckily for me, and for the ears of the patrons, Collin chose that moment to appear at our table with a tray of shots. He authoritatively stated that he was closing and would call them a couple of cabs. They shouted a cheer for their team and downed the shots. Then one by one, they all gave me a hug good-bye and walked out. I wondered to myself why Collin had given the men more liquor if he was worried about their appetite for destruction, and got my answer when I overheard him on the phone with the cab company directing the drivers to take them to Molly Flanagan’s.

Supreme Court Knitting

Yesterday I knit in public while waiting in line to get into the Supreme Court. For three hours. In heels. But, on the bright side, I got a good chunk of my circular shrug done: http://momcast.blogspot.com/2006/01/craftster-circular-shrug.html

I'm using this awesome reddish-pink yarn made out of recycled sari silk that Mili got me for my birthday. It has little flecks of all sorts of bright colors. I'm also planning on using some very soft silk/merino blend wool in blackberry to do some striping. I'll post some pics once it's further along.

Going to the argument was strange. The lawyers both made really good cases, but it was about a federal preemption issue, and I can't help but feel sorry for the group of what looked to be 3rd graders on their school trip. Might I add that Clarence Thomas sat slouched in his seat, with his head lolling back and looking incredibly bored the entire time. Wow. And one of the attorneys accidentally called Justice Breyer "Steve". Double wow.

Charm City

Mili and I went shopping at Lovely Yarns, an adorable yarn shop in Baltimore this weekend. Hampden, the neighborhood the store is in, is probably the best part of Baltimore. It's famous for beehived ladies and pink flamingoes. I highly recommend it!

We also ate the best pie ever at http://www.dangerouspies.com/. Holy crap. Mili had a chocolate chess pie, which tasted more like a brownie on pie crust--soo good, and I had a really tangy cherry pie slice.

Yay Baltimore!

In Memoriam of Gary Gygax

Hey to all of my 3 readers. This essay was the 4th assignment in my writing class--we were supposed to write a satire. I had to look up the precise definition of satire before I began. Yes, I was an English major. Yes, I am bowing my head in shame. I decided to write something in the style of the Onion's op-eds. With the news of Gary Gygax's death, and the Darkon documentary on IFC, this subject was occupying my mind recently.

I will be avenged!
By Lord Fenwick of Gillygate

“Warriors! Mages! Brothers in arms! Our fair kingdom of Darkon has been befouled, the plains of La’nag have been overtaken by a pervasive evil…what? What do you mean, “where are the plains of La’nag ?” Haven’t you been in the guild for like, two years now? Whatever, it’s past the soccer field, near the picnic area. Jesus. Anyway, a foul enemy, Caldorn, has betrayed me, your noble leader, and thus us all. No, not Kyle, Caldorn. Caldorn! You know, that guy Steve? You met him the other day at my Lord of the Rings marathon. Yes, that guy who was hitting on Trish. I mean the Lady Niviana. Thanks for promptly bringing that to my attention by the way. Jerk.

As Hadrian the Fair just helpfully pointed out, it was at that merry gathering where the seeds of Caldorn’s treachery were sown. His hands were swift to light the Lady Niviana’s clove cigarettes, his feet were fleet in bringing her flagons of Moutain Dew and Peach Schnapps, and his eyes were oft-times fixed on her bounty. Her bounty. Yes, I mean her tits. Are you done laughing? I’m not going to continue if you keep interrupting me Jeff. No, I’m not going to refer to you as Hadrian the Fair until you can act with the maturity of the level 12 fighter you are supposed to be. Done? Okay.

At the party, I was full of cheer, and admittedly, spirits, and so failed to recognize that Caldorn’s intentions toward mine lady were anything but pure. However, I quickly discovered my folly. The next day, the Lady Niviana called me to cancel our outing to the Ravenna Renaissance Fair, claiming that her evil overlord was requiring her to work an extra shift at Hot Topic®. I was sympathetic to my lady love’s plight as my own overlord, Bryan, can be such a douche sometimes, and decided to bring her some savory victuals from Sbarro® to dine on during her lunch break.

On the way to Hot Topic®, I cast mine eyes in the direction of Barley’s Brew Pub across the mall to see what specialty ales the barmaid was serving up. There I saw that blackguard Caldorn clasping mine lady’s hand! Whilst I was halted by the shock of such betrayal, Caldorn stood, kissed Niviana—who is decidedly, no lady—and went to the bathroom. I strode to the bar to confront this inconstant trollop. She told me that she “needed a break.” According to her, I take my duties as the leader of this guild “too seriously.” When I noted Caldorn also engages in live action role playing own membership in the guild, she told me that “Steve” thought the guild was “lame” and was going to quit and take up co-ed soccer instead. Soccer?? I should have known of his low character last month when I spotted him buying an NFL-themed PS2 game.

Caldorn is a villainous rogue who has made a cuckold of me! We will be avenged of his base treachery! Leofrick the Terrible, grab your mace, Hadrian the Fair, ready your sword, Fendral Silverleaf string your bow! What’s that Hadrian? How could you forget to bring your sword?? Okay, you know what, Jeff? That’s it. I’ve had it. You are officially out of the guild. No, don’t bother apologizing, it’s too late. I’m changing our story line so that your retarded character is easily picked off by a level 3 mage. I don’t care if you are my brother man, you deserve it.
The rest of you, make for the plains of La’nag where I have it on good authority that Caldorn is currently playing a soccer match. Although our numbers are few in comparison with the soccer team, we have the greatest advantage--that of surprise.