Monday, March 08, 2004

...Drinking Mad Dog Margaritas and Not Caring Where You Are...

After a recent party, Kriston and I were talking about how refreshing it was to meet terribly interesting people at a party with significant, meaningful careers, and engaging thoughts on politics, life, travel, environment, or whatever their gig was. Maybe this was just a good party, and certainly there was a lack of Capitol Hill staffers, but it seemed a relief from the parties I dreaded in college where nobody had anything to say, they just ran around screeching and puking.

Don't get me wrong.

I put in my screeching and puking years just like anybody, but I can't think of any behavior that loses its charm so quickly once you've outgrown the phase yourself. And consider the other delights of your average Riverside keg party. Inevitably shitty beer that you can't get to anyway because the apartment, balcony, railing, and stairwell are so crowded you can't squeeze yourself into the blacklit apartment. If you do accomplish this, some frat boy will be stationed at the keg to pour you a measly plastic cupful of diluted swill, with a leer on his face unquestionably suggesting that you should sleep with him at once for his kegside chivalry. If you are confronted with a conversation, it's an awkward back-and-forth of what'syourmajor,whatyearareyou,doyouknowsara? Needless to say, my friends gave up taking my antisocial ass to parties as soon as I was old enough to find my true home: the bars.

But back to my point. Despite the rumors, not everyone in DC is a pretentious, self-serving, schmooze artist. Those people are conveniently cordoned off in Capitol Hill and Georgetown, and can be easily avoided. Elsewhere, there are plenty of people who are interesting without being bores, and fun without puking on your shoes.

But however appealing this may sound, I can only stand about 3 months of this grown-up town before I crave the never-never land of Austin. Would I trade an interesting party conversation for the opportunity to vote for Leslie for mayor? Are the lovely spring cherry blossoms a mature replacement for the spectacle of Eeyore's Birthday? I don't know, I just hate to choose. I suppose this is what the economists call opportunity cost.

One thing's for sure. No celebrity sighting here in DC will bring as much cheer as my yearly sighting of this guy at Eeyore's. It was even worth slogging through all the hippies for an eyeful of...that.


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