Posts Tagged ‘commentary’

44, part eight (conclusion)

Nixon was easy.  We could go anywhere, really, but James had been talking about the 600 at Watergate South, which wasn’t really the sort of place where we belonged…but they had a full bar.  We somehow managed to get in and get a drink, but it was clear that our time was limited, so it […]

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44, part seven

Back to DC.  It was bourbon at the Hotel Washington for Eisenhower.  I don’t know the connection, but I’m sure it seemed logical at the time.  I also couldn’t tell you where we ended up for Truman, but a deep slice on my arm was bleeding steadily.  I had several napkins stuck to it, fouled […]

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44, part six

“Thirty.” James said. “Coolidge.” “Notable points?” “None.” “Really?” “Really.”

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44, part five

Twenty-eight.  Wilson.  The First World War.  We ended up in Silver Spring, Maryland, at the Quarry House.  None of us could remember how that happened, but it did, and so we made the best of it.  Energy was flagging all around, and David and James had opted for Vodka and Red Bull while I played […]

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44, part four

At Jaleo, the next president was easy for James.  Twenty-six was Teddy Roosevelt, and as soon as I said the name James was on his feet.  “Parks!  Woodley Park!  The Zoo Bar!”

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44, part three

We were in Chadwick’s, Georgetown, and still on Heineken.  Like every bar in Georgetown, there was a pervasive atmosphere of evil and inhumanity. “Twenty.” James said into his bottle. “Um…” “Uh-oh!” “Oh, Garfield.”

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44, part two

James leaned close to my ear:  “Fifteen?” “Buchanan.” “Penn State.  Single.” “Yep.” “Singles club?” “No.  Please.” “Pennsylvania Avenue?” “701.  Mo’s Bar.” James leaned back.  “Expensive.” “Yep.  You’re paying.”

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44, part one

“This is life in Washington, DC:  Moo!  I am a cow!” “What?” “Moo!  Cows live in DC!” My old college buddy James was on the floor, under the table, screaming over the oppressive jukebox and pounding the underside of the table with his fist.  I’d long since taken my beer and cradled it to my […]

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Sunday Archive VIII: Hyphenated Americans

From August of 2005, this is part of an article continued from notes written on the Metro.  I don’t remember it at all, so I guess it was never published.  God knows where those notes are… I have a closet full of pads and little reporter’s notebooks.

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Send me your poor, your tired, your depressed

Here’s how I pass my mornings: I wake up and stare out the window as the sun rises over the low-rise garden apartments that look exactly like mine. I watch the early commuters flock to their cars. I listen to the goddamn motherfucking squirrel that’s nesting in my ceiling try to chew through and kill […]

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