Drift Reality

Irish bar pro: Old guy singing songs with a guitar.
Irish bar con: Ugly girls.

Irish bar pro: Funny old guys at the bar who are friends with the old guy singing songs.
Irish bar con: They are going to inevitably start making fun of you.

Irish bar pro: Wide selection of beer and not generally expensive.
Irish bar con: You will feel obliged to drink a lot because there is a wide selection of beer that is not generally expensive, and also because if you don’t, the funny old guys at the bar who are friends with the old guy singing songs will make fun of you.

Irish bar pro: Generally happy environment.
Irish bar con: You won’t remember it.

There, that essentially encapsulates what all Irish bars are.

Granted, Irish Times has a somewhat younger crowd, but take away the old guys at the bar and you have Irish Times.

Then again, take away the old guys at the bar, and you don’t really have an Irish bar at all, now do you?

So basically, Irish Times is an Irish bar that isn’t an Irish bar if that makes any sense.

And if it doesn’t, you’re obviously not smart enought to understand my writing so you may as well go elsewhere.

On June 9th, a House subcommittee voted to cut the federal government’s financial support for public broadcasting from $400 million to $300 million in 2006, as precursor to the eventual elimination of all federal funding for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB), a private non-profit corporation that passes federal funds to public broadcasters.

CPB was created in 1967 when President Johnson signed the Public Broadcasting Act of 1967. This act was based on a number of assertions, foremost that, “it is in the public interest to encourage the growth and development of public radio and television broadcasting, including the use of such media for instructional, educational, and cultural purposes.” To this end, CPB started the Public Broadcasting Service (PBS), which was responsible for shows like “Sesame Street” and “Reading Rainbow.” Additionally, CPB provided funding for member stations of National Public Radio.

With federal funding cut from their budgets, PBS may have to look elsewhere for financial support for programming like “Sesame Street” and “Reading Rainbow,” and it seems plausible that the “elsewhere” will take the form of corporate sponsorship.

I can already see how this will play out:

Kermit the Frog is sitting on a stoop, eating a Big Mac while humming Burger King jingle. Enter Snuffalufagus.

Snuffalufagus: I’m sad.

Kermit: Why are you so sad Snuffy?

Snuffalufagus: I don’t know. Nobody likes me.

Kermit: Ahh, Snuffy, I know what will cheer you up?

Snuffalufagus: What? Do you want to sing the alphabet song?

Kermit: Of course! But first have a sip of this SoBe Energy drink, made with guarana extract!

Just pathetic. What is more pathetic is the political struggle that is at the root of the budget cuts.

CPB has eight board members who serve six-year terms. They are selected by the President and confirmed by the Senate. Under the Bush administration, the board has become increasingly republican dominated and there have been some complaints from PBS and NPR that CPB has begun pushing a conservative agenda. Concurrently, many republican interests have been attacking public broadcasters for a perceived liberal bias in their programming. Consequently, many public broadcasters have interpreted the phasing-out of CPB’s federal budget as partisan retribution for supporting a liberal agenda.

The actual statistics seem to render the partisan conflict irrelevant.

In a recent survey, CPB commissioned two polling firms, one Republican and one Democrat, to gather information about NPR. The results showed that fewer than 15 percent of Americans said that NPR coverage of the war or the Bush administration is slanted, while 80 percent of Americans said they had an overall favorable impression of NPR. Furthermore, NPR’s listeners identified themselves as one-third conservative, one-third liberal, and one-third independent, defying the conservative argument that the majority of listeners are liberals.

Statistics don’t lie: public broadcasting is the closest thing to an unbiased source of information that we have in this country. By phasing out CPB’s budget and financial support for public broadcasting, this administration is sending out a message that unbiased information is not acceptable.

What is even more unacceptable is the fact that the CPB appropriation is practically negligible, when held in comparison to other parts of our federal budget.

Consider this: In 2004 the Bush administration requested 420.7 billion for the military in the fiscal year 2005, an increase of 7.9 percent. To put things in perspective, the 2004 budget request included a $4.7 billion budget for 24 F/A-22 fighters for the Air Force. This equals out to about $200 million per F/A -22-fighter jet.

In other words, our government has decided that having one F/A - 22 fighter jets is more important than having “Sesame Street” and “Reading Rainbow” for millions of children. If you put out a poll for the American people and asked them, “What is more important? Sesame Street or 1 F/A 22 fighter jet?” I wonder what most people would say?

I think that even the most dogmatic gun-wielding Christian-right homophobic racist republican would have to think twice about this.

If the public broadcasting budget cut pisses you off anywhere near as much as it pisses me off, please visit the MoveOn petition and make your voice heard.

When I was a student at Georgetown, I remember how much I dug going to Old Glory, having a Bloody Mary and delicious ribs. Strangely, I never realized that the place was an “American-only” bar and only served “American” products.

I love this country as much as the next person, but the concept of an “American-only” bar seems a bit wierd to me. Especially when you consider that one of the things that makes this country great is the fact that it encompasses such a wide array of cultures, religions, and races. The them “All-American” is cool, but does that mean that you have to discount everything foreign? Where do you cross the line? I mean, right now I’m wearing American clothes that were all manufactured in South America and I’m typing on an American computer, of which the various components are manufactured primarily in Japan.

Last week, a friend of mine accompanied me to Old Glory for dinner. We sidled up to the bar and my friend asked for a Bass Ale only to be told by the bartender that they only served “American” products in the bar. He then inquired why Guiness was on tap, to which the bartender responded, “Because it is brewed in the US. It is American beer.”

Feeling a bit saucy, I asked him, “Well, if Nike shoes are manufactured in Mexico, does that make them Mexican shoes?” After staring blankly like an idiot for a few moments, he slowly responded that, “Yes,” Nike shoes “were Mexican shoes. Everyone knows that.” Then he quickly scurried to the other side of the bar. My friend shouted after him, “Can we get some French Fries,” to which he responded, “We don’t have French Fries. Only Freedom fries.” We looked at one another and for a moment I wondered if we, a Korean/Iranian American and an Iranian American and were allowed to be in this “American only ” bar.

We laughed and then looked at the liquor bar and found it stacked with imports. It was then that I realized that Old Glory is still a cool place even if the bartender their is a complete dumbass. The food is decent and they have a cool outdoor patio even if they do serve you beer in these lame little pee cups that make you think you’re at a frat party.

When I was a wee lad, I used to play with swords. Not in the disgusting metaphorical sense that you are probably thinking, but in the literal sense.

For this reason, I used to badger my parents into taking me to the Renaissance Festival every year, where I would buy a wooden sword and then promptly shatter it into pieces within twenty-four hours.

The one memory that sticks in my head from when I was young, was of a heavy-set woman with breasts popping out of her dress, asking a man to eat a grape from between her bosoms. Why my parents let me watch this is unbeknownst to me, but my parents let me eat goat turds (I have the photographic evidence to prove it) so I suppose it’s not that surprising.

Later, as we were leaving, we stumbled upon the large-boned wench walking around once again, and this time she had dollar bills coming out of her cleavage.

“Why do you have dollar bills there,” I asked, while pointing to her bosoms.

“Because men like me,” she answered curtly before walking away.

This is not the picaresque memory one would really expect from a childhood memory of the Renaissance Festival. Perhaps I should have remembered this memory more clearly when I ventured to the event this past week.

After walking around for a bit and watching the obligatory joust competition, my friends and I decided to participate in the knife throwing game. The game was conducted in a small booth, with a circular wooden target at the far end. At the near end, the booth was partitioned into four sections, so that four individuals could throw knives at the same time.

A thin unctuous-looking fellow dressed as a peasant stood between the throwing platform and the targets, picking up the stray knives as I approached with a lady friend of mine. He looked up at me, disinterestedly, and then turned his eyes towards my friend. A perceptible smile crawled onto his lips as he set the knives in front of us.

“So,” another one of the participants asked. “What do you get if you win?”

“Well,” the peasant answered. “You get a free beer. But for you,” he said while turning to my friend. “You get a special prize that I will give to you later.”

“What,” I blurted reflexively. “My foot up your ass?”

He turned his peasant stare in my direction before answering dryly, “If you’re into that kind of thing I suppose,” before walking to the corner of the booth.

With effort, I managed to resist the urge to throw the knife into the face of the peasant and turned towards the target as newspaper headlines like “Upset Festival Patron Kills Peasant!” ran through my head.

Unfortunately, this interaction turned out to be the rule; not the exception, as I first proceeded to get into an argument with the condescending peasant at the axe throwing booth, followed by an altercation which resulted in me once again fantasizing about killing a peasant with a medieval weapon.

By the end of the day I was irritated, disgusted, and fatigued by all that had transpired. I realized that the Renaissance Festival isn’t a happy time, spent interacting with wizards and knights. Rather, it is a bunch of drifters and heroin addicts dressed up like peasants, yelling rude things to you and your friends while a strange mix of Goths and Dungeons&Dragons fanatics wander around.

Don’t make the same mistake I did. Save your ten bucks and just go rent Braveheart.

Addendum: On May 1, I received an e-mail from one of the guys I wrote about above. It read:

Thanks. You brought a tear to our eyes. No one has ever written about us before. Tell all your friends about us. By the way the Star throwing guy is upset because he is by far the rudest of us, and he never got to insult you.

Nigel the knife thrower

Harry J. Marble the Axe thrower

Kyle the Star thrower. ( he’s gay )

You think you don’t make a difference in this world, but to know we ruined one jackasses day, makes it all worth it. See ya next year.

I have to admit that’s pretty funny. It’s almost enough to make me want to go back next year.

Wake up, shower, shave, eat breakfast, go to work, go to class, come home, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed.

From the moment I began to breath, I had a conviction that I would be what I wanted.
That I didn’t know what I wanted to be was irrelevant.

I knew what I didn’t want to be, and that was everyone else.

I wanted to be different, I wanted to be unique, I wanted to be…

Wake up, shower, shave, eat breakfast, go to work, go to class, come home, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed.

The slightest hint of a breeze changes my dreams, whether it’s a book or a passing comment, in one hour I see myself as a lawyer, doctor, and archeologist.

I see a hundred ways outside of this cave but I don’t see where I’m supposed to take the first step in any direction except forwards or backwards.

There is no circle of decisions, so all I can do is put my head down and go.

Wake up, shower, shave, eat breakfast, go to work, go to class, come home, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed.

I’m 23 going on 50 and the confidence I had when I was young is slipping away, I’m still walking in that same tunnel and I can start to see where it ends, but it has nothing to do with where I thought it would end when I started.

I’ve had my head down for too long and now it’s almost too late to change my mind and go back.

What do I do - risk going back and waste all this time to find out I’m not better off than before, or just put my head back down and keep walking?

Wake up, shower, shave, eat breakfast, go to work, go to class, come home, eat dinner, watch TV, tuck the kids in, go to bed.

When I was a little boy, I would always ask my parents’ friends, “What did you want to be when you were younger.”

I’d shiver as I saw their eyes glaze over for a second, as if they were remembering what it was like when there was still time to wonder.

Now, it seems like there is just time to wake up, shower, shave, eat breakfast, go to work, go to class, come home, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed, and sleep.

The issue of how to study and get drunk simultaneously is one that has plagued man for centuries. In our modern era or supposed convenience, it continues to befuddle us. We can go to a bar and get drunk, but we can’t take our books there because someone will throw the books out of our hand and then call us a pussy. Conversely, we can’t go to Starbucks and slam a shot of tequila because first, they don’t serve tequila; and second, mocha frappacinos are terrible chasers.

Then came Tryst. It is a lounge/bar complete with a FREE wi-fi connection. You can go sit on one of the plush couches, drink a Pilsner, and surf the ‘net to your heart’s delight or until you’ve had too much to drink. Tryst is located at 2459 18th St. N.W. in Adams Morgan.
 

Moby Dick has the best Iranian food that I’ve ever had that isn’t home cooked. They bake their own bread and it is out of this world. They have somehow managed to perfect their cooking technique to the point that the kabob comes out perfectly. The Kabob Kubideh is simply mouth watering, as is the Jujeh Kabob.

The best part of Moby Dick is that it is laid-back and completely inexpensive. It’s the type of restaurant that I fantasize about when I’m at some trendy foo-foo fusion Mediterranean crapstand, paying up the wazoo for roasted bananas and fish eyes.

There are locations in Georgetown, Downtown, Bethesda, and Mclean.

Saki is the only sushi joint I’ve ever been to numerous times where I’ve never actually tried the food. It’s a pretty trendy venue located at 2477 18th St. in Adams Morgan and unlike so many venues that attempt to imitate a Manhattanesque ambience but fail miserably (see section on San Diego nightlife), Saki actually succeeds.

The downstairs area that contains two distinct bars, a small dance floor, minimal seating, and strange fluorescent lighting. The music is bearable and the place seems to repel meatheads, skanky broads, and prepsters, which is always nice.

In DC, we don’t have elected representatives to the senate or the house, we have atrocious taxes, housing is ridiculously expensive, most people work federal jobs with pathetic financial remuneration, the weather sucks in the winter and summer, and worst of all, we have a Gestapo-like army of meter maids patrolling the city.

This is the only city where I have to add a “parking ticket” fund into my monthly budget because it is inevitable that at least once/month, I will get a parking ticket.

There is nothing more irritating to me than walking to my car, already annoyed because the weather sucks and I don’t have any federal representation, and seeing that stupid pink slip on my dash.

What makes me even more irritated is that they print those dumb tickets out with some sort of strange glossy paper that makes your pen smudge. As if it isn’t bad enough that you actually have to write “I, the undersigned, admit,” like you’re some kid who has to write an apology, but your god damn pen smudges all over your hand.

To me, all these factors culminate in the metaphysical question of “Do parking meter attendants go to hell because of all the misery they cause?” Or is it DC local politicians, or whoever makes the parking violation quota, who goes to hell?

I like to think it is both.

What do you think? Or better yet, what would you wish happen, in a karmic sense, to parking meter attendants? Please offer your suggestions in the forum.

Smith Point, located at 1338 Wisconsin Ave NW, is a relatively new establishment and would have been one of my favorite places to go had it been in existence when I went to school there.

It attracts a slightly older crowd than most Georgetown bars, and it tends to be a little less rowdy than most Georgetown bars.

Sitting at the bar, I started talking with a young attorney who lived in the area. He told me that he had just gotten into town and had to go to work early the next morning so he could only have one or two drinks. When I asked him what time, he responded by saying, “Well, about 8 or 9.” Two drinks and three shots later, that estimate had gone to about “11 or 12,” and the next thing I knew, I was dancing around like a buffoon.

Later, I found out that some scrooge neighbors were trying to get the bar shut down, claiming that since the bar did not make 40% profit from food, it did not adhere to DC zoning regulations and should be shut down.

Addendum: August 2, 2006 - Several months after I wrote the initial review for Smith Point, I attempted to return with a housemate of mine and was summarily denied entrance. I can only assume that the place has gone downhill since I visited the first time. My sentiments have been substantiated by a close friend, who has composed a very amusing piece on the worst bars in DC, on which Smith Point is one.