It's been a morning that has featured a near girl-fight on the Metro and a biker flipping over his handlebars on 19th Street. I've definitely been kept on my toes. But instead of discussing Metro etiquette or proper bicycle technique, I'd like to share an anecdote revolving around my usual Sunday activities.
Most Sundays I make the hike down to the Clyde's in Chevy Chase, MD. The atmosphere is kind of shitty and the drinks are expensive, but they do offer a $5 menu featuring a delicious bacon chicken sandwich. Oh yeah, they show a bunch of football games too. And, most importantly, it's within walking distance from my humble residence. In conclusion, hurray for Clyde's.
Yesterday I made the short hike with a roommate. A few college buddies, all Patriots fans, met me there. We gorged on buffalo wings and ice cold Bass ales while watching our New England Patriots destroy the hapless Buffalo Bills.
My roommate had little interest in the Patriots. He was born and raised in DC, so he hates my blog. Actually, he doesn't read this. But I know he hates the idea of it. More importantly for this story, my roommate lives and dies by the R***kins. When a fellow R***kins fan called him up to make arrangements for their 4:15 game against the Colts, he took a walk around the bar. His travels took him past a tree on a staircase. After his telephone conversation came to a close, he tapped me on the shoulder.
"See that tree over there?"
"There are drugs in it."
I decided to inspect this magical tree. Indeed, underneath some woodchips, laid a little yellow dime bag of marijuana.
"That's not really something you see everyday," I appropriately muttered.
I couldn't just leave drugs out for a pre-teen to find. So, I did what any self-respecting concerned citizen would do. I pocketed it.
After about five minutes of lawless possession, I started to get a little antsy. What if someone left that bag there as a trap? What if security cameras saw me take the pot from the plant? What if someone laced it with cyanide? What if I'm hit by a car and the police find me with a ridiculously small amount of drugs?
If you can't tell, I'm really not that experienced with danger, lawlessness, or drugs.
I decided it would be funny to announce our find to the bartenders. I mean, finding pot in a restaurant. That's funny, right?
I gave the drugs to a bar manager. He did exactly what I expected him to do. He placed it in his shirt pocket never to be seen again. For the rest of the afternoon, drinks were on the house. Boy did I take him up on that.
My head hurts. Yay for drinking on a school night!
Does this have anything to do with DC hating? Not really. But what's the point of having a blog if you can't share stories, no, priceless memories, such as these?
Is there a moral to the story? Uh, exchanging illegal drugs for legal drugs is super-awesome? Can that be a moral?