the day that h street died

Since I hate keeping big news a secret (because I'm sure every minute thing that happens to me is noteworthy to your own lives), I don't. Which is why I immediately Twittered the Web (ew) last week when I procured my new two-wheeled whip. I'm sure your lives changed forever when I dropped this Earth-shattering news. So, without further ado, meet Champagne, my brand new-to-me, gold-hued French velo:



Oh crap. I apologize, but as you can imagine, this golden, French High Life of Bikes doesn't take a photo unsexy enough for the work place. I mean for Armstrong's sake, her name's Champagne. She's clearly made for bike porn.

Yet despite my excitement at having this genuine piece of the early '80s rubbing on my rear everyday, I still have my old whip, Junior, on my mind. I will never stop looking for him. Nor will I ever forget.

Which brings me the opposite of that -- to something I pray I will forget. And hopefully pretty goddamn soon: Little Miss Whiskey's. What the f*ck happened to H Street in the last six months? I'm hoping I was just there on a horribly Ninth-Circle-of-Hellish night, but I'm not so sure that's the case. The crowd at the aforementioned establishment on Friday rivaled the annoyingness of any crowd in Georgetown on any given day (or night).

For instance, STOP STANDING STILL ON THE DANCE FLOOR, DOUCHE! Not that the music was good, but it was danceable, which means there was no excuse for the people on the dance floor to just stand there, holding on to their Blackberrys in one hand and adjusting their balls in the other because the pleats on their madras were rubbing the wrong way; that is, they were rubbing the opposite of how a bicycle named Champagne rubs one's junk.

And, more importantly, STOP BEING SO UPTIGHT AND BORING! You're not attractive enough just to look at (we're in DC, after all), so you better at least be interesting. And no, you sitting on a chair and staring at me blank-faced, as I relay a hilarious tale about my homophobic cabbie, his self-disclosed enlarged prostate and his repetition of the exclamation, "SH*T ASS!" on my ride over here is not interesting.

Seriously, I suppose we all knew it was only a matter of time before H Street became the new Georgetown, but this seems far too soon. U Street hasn't even fully morphed into the new Adams Morgan yet. And Adams Morgan, although on the fast track to hell, still has at least a year before its collar is fully popped.

So, what the hell is happening around here? Where the f*ck are we supposed to go now? They've almost reached the end of the Douche Line!


Or maybe, just maybe, or perhaps, just perhaps, or, maybe, just maybe and perhaps or, perhaps, just perhaps and maybe, the line is an illusion! Maybe and perhaps, this line is a circle! And perhaps and maybe we're all on it, meaning it's time we complete it and start going out in Georgetown!


Jorts will not optional.

But, alas, this is both dangerous and a shame. Regarding the former, the chances of going out right now in Georgetown and seeing a Juicy Couture terry-cloth, baby-doll dress are still so very regretfully high. And regarding the latter, this is a shame because Little Miss Whiskey's has one of the best bar layouts in town, including one helluva back deck for outdoor imbibing. And I'll be damned if I can't enjoy a moonllt late night shot without feeling like I'm gonna get mooned by Late Night Shots. This is totally unacceptable.

So unacceptable, in fact, that I need to change the subject altogether or I'm afraid my tipple point will progress into a tipping point and we'll initiate the end of days. And while I can handle a bit of blood on my hands, I sure as hell can't handle any Tory Burch logos near my person.

I'm going for a bike ride...