We're down to the last couple weeks with my hand on the happy hour tiller, for now at least, so I'm going to give you a break from my usual spouting off about things other than the happy hour. When MAK and I took on our current interim assignment, I was just hopeful that we could somehow engineer at least one event that suggested the event's excellent tradition. It took eleven weeks, but I think that last week finally hit the mark.
It reminded me that happy hour is not about the drinks consumed, the things broken, the keg stands, the upended couches, the juvenile wrestling matches, or the eggs, frozen vegetables, or birthday cakes tossed. No, it's about being in a situation in which you might reasonably open a door and be faced with Pulp Fiction's "Gimp."* I want to thank each of you who traveled near and far to H Street, NE, last week to remind me of what's important. The only things missing were a keg and a Winnebago.
Thanks especially to the new folks who made an appearance. The award for most distance traveled goes to J--the proprietress of J-Two-O--who drove 300 miles to join us. I hope we met her expectations as to our immaturity.
For our final happy hour before Dave P's temporary return, please stop by this Friday, March 26, at the Iron Horse Tap Room, located at 507 Seventh Street, NW, between the Gallery Place and Archives Metro stations. No food, excellent beer, and I'm not sure about the Gimp situation. We'll start at 6:30.
* I should add that this scene kind of freaked me out. I use it here, as it was in the movie, as a metaphor for the strange places and events that are just under this city's barely normal surface.