Drift Reality

Editor’s Note: In general, the restaurant and club reviews that I post to Drift Reality are my own work. In this case, a close friend of mine who accompanied me to The Goose pub in Bloomsbury did such a phenomenal job encapsulating our experience that I figured it might be better to just post her review.

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To whom it may concern,

I would like to advise you of, what I believe is the most appalling customer service and rudeness that I have encountered at a London pub.

Yesterday evening, three friends and my husband and myself were meeting at The Goose for dinner and drinks. We all live in Bloomsbury, and often to go The Goose for a drink or lunch during the week and dinner on Sunday nights. As we frequent the venue quite regularly, I was very surprised with our encounter there last night.

We met at 7pm for dinner, and went to the upstairs bar. The sign on the outside door of the pub indicated that food was being served until 10:00pm. At about 7:20pm we went to the bar to order dinner. One member of our party’s order for food was put through (an ultimate burger), and then the bartender then looked at my husband for his order. Out of courtesy, he offered for the other lady in our party to be served first. She put through an order (one bangers and mash, one ultimate burger and chicken wings). My husband then went to order our meals immediately after (we were all standing at the bar together) and was told by the lady at the bar that the kitchen was closed as they ran out of food. This meant that three members of our party were going to get food, however the other two were not able to order. The lady at the bar said that there was nothing she could do about it.

I then went to the downstairs bar to inquire. I was told that unfortunately the kitchen was closed as they had run out of stock. I said that half of our party had ordered, and two people were left without food. They just said they could do nothing about it. Another lady then came up and said it had been a really busy week, and they were low on stock - they only had ingredients for 3 meals on the menu left. I said, that’s fine - can you let me know what the 3 meals are so that I might choose to order them. I was then told no, because it was ‘just easier’ if the kitchen closed down. I then asked whether it would be possible, as 3 of our party have ordered, for us to go out and buy some food and bring it in to eat with our friends. I was told I could not do this.

I found it quite strange that there were enough ingredients for 2 ultimate burgers, but not 4 and also, if they had completely run out of chips (they kept telling me that they had run out of chips and baguettes), why were there chips with the burgers?

I found it appalling that no-one was even willing to compromise or help out. The kitchen clearly had food, as they had told me that there was food left, but instead of allowing 2 more orders through (and we would have just ordered whatever was left) everyone just said ‘too bad’, the kitchen decided to close and there is nothing we can do about it.

In any case, the food arrived and the burgers were missing some of the ingredients stated on the menu. This might not have been an issue if we were told at the time of ordering that some ingredients had run out, but we weren’t. At this stage, with half of our party not having food and then the orders not being what we expected, we asked to see the manager. The person who came to speak to us, was the rudest person I have ever encountered in customer service. He blatantly just stood there and said that he had to close the kitchen and what did we want him to do about it? I am sorry, but it should really be for a bar manager to come to us and offer us options of what could be done - not stand there and just stubbornly reply there was nothing he could do about it and what did we want? We eventually managed to get a refund from the manager, but this was after a long discussion with no other options offered by him, and was definitely our least preferred option - we would have rathered simply 2 meals so that we could all eat together, which was why we went out to dinner in the first place.

I would appreciate a reply to this comment in relation to your current policies on customer service and whether you believe that the situation that happened to our party was acceptable.

Yours sincerely

Rochelle Carey

Several days ago, a student society I work with threw a party at Metra Club and Bar in Leicester Square. The party itself was incredible fun. The thing that dampened the mood was the terrible service.

First off, I was greeted at the door by a Metra employee who looked like and evil Leprechaun and sounded a little like Chewbacca. After spending 10 minutes trying to explain that I was affiliated with the society throwing the party, and therefore didn’t have to pay, he passed me on to a guy who looked like he was on his way to audition to be an extra in Boys n the Hood until he opened his mouth and had a British accent. Thankfully, one of the society members was standing near the entrance and came over and somehow managed to explain that I should be let in for free. The doormen grudgingly acceded and I walked in.

I was happy to see a good crowd of people in the bar and chatted with some friends for a few minutes before deciding to grab a drink. Fortunately, it was still happy hour and cocktails were £2.50, so I ordered a drink for a friend and myself.

“That will be £13.50,” said the bartender.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“£13.50 for two gin and tonics,” he shot back unflinchingly.

As he explained to me, it turns out that you have to explicitly ask for the “happy hour” prices when you order the drinks. Otherwise, they mix you doubles and charge you £6.75. After he explained this, something still didn’t make any sense to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “So what you’re telling me is that it is £2.50 for a single. If I don’t ask for the “happy hour” special, then you give me a double, but the double costs £1.75 more than two singles?”

“Yes,” he responded.

“Okay, well, I’m going to give you £10 right now,” I shot back.

“Okay, give me £10,” he responded.

I shook my head while handing over the cash. After that conversation, I was going to need the double.

The rest of the night actually went fairly well, mostly because I didn’t have to interact with anyone who worked at Metra.

Until I was on my way out.

I threw my hat on and started walking towards the exit. As I passed a bouncer, he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to my hat.

“You’re not allowed to wear hats in here,” he said.

“That’s okay, I’m leaving,” I responded.

“Well, you still have to take it off.”

I sat and stared at him for a few moments, wondering how the bouncer managed to survive to adulthood. Shaking my head, I took my hat off for all of 10 seconds before putting it back on as I walked up the stairs towards the exit.

Bottom line – don’t waste your time or money by going to Metra. The people who work there are complete idiots and if the management had any sense, they would immediately fire all of them.

Greater than differences in culture, language, and race; religion has been responsible for some of the bloodiest conflicts between nations in the history of our world. Conversely, some of the bloodiest conflicts have been aggravated and sustained by differences in religion.

In present day society, differences in religion have contributed to substantive misunderstandings between western nations and nations in the Middle East.

Out of a desire to learn more about these differences and how we may be able to resolve them, I did some research into the prophets behind some of the major religions in the world, in the hopes that I would be able to find a common thread that could serve to bring us closer together as one race.

What I concluded was that there is indeed a common thread between all the major prophets, but it is not what you might expect. Consider the following:

Judaism: After Moses parted the Red Sea and led his people to Sinai, he left to speak with God on the mountain. After forty days, he returned with stone tablets, given to him by God, upon which were inscribed the Ten Commandments.

Christianity: In Matthew, Chapter 5 of the New Testament, Jesus, “seeing the multitudes, went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him.” What transpires then is the famous sermon on the mountain, in which Jesus essentially encapsulates much of the essence of Christianity.

Islam: The prophet Mohammed was born in Mecca, the principle commercial and religious center of Arabia, around 570 AD. He grew up during a time of decadence; and it was this decadence that drove Mohammed to the surrounding mountains in order to think of an alternative to the materialism and superficiality in Mecca.

Buddhism: Much like Mohammed, Siddhartha Gautama (who would eventually become known as the Buddha) would often leave the city in an effort to find the requisite peace that allowed him to grow closer to enlightenment. When the first disciples sought him out, he took them to the Vindhya Mountains for six years, where he taught them his wisdom.

If it’s not clear by now, what I’m getting at is the fact that high-altitudes play a significant role in the development of all world-religions.

Right now, you may be asking yourself, “Who the hell cares?”

Well, according to MedicineNet.com, at sea level the concentration of oxygen is about 21% and the barometric pressure averages 760 mmHg. As altitude increases, the concentration remains the same but the number of oxygen molecules per breath is reduced.

At 12,000 feet (3,658 meters) the barometric pressure is only 483 mmHg, so there are roughly 40% fewer oxygen molecules per breath. In order to oxygenate the body effectively, your breathing rate (even while at rest) has to increase.

This extra ventilation increases the oxygen content in the blood, but not to sea level concentrations. Since the amount of oxygen required for activity is the same, the body must adjust to having less oxygen. In addition, high altitude and lower air pressure cause fluid to leak from the capillaries, which can cause fluid build-up in both the lungs and the brain. Continuing to higher altitudes without proper acclimatization can lead to potentially serious, even life-threatening illnesses.

One of these illnesses is called High Altitude Cerebral Edema (HACE).

According to Rick Curtis, Director of the Outdoor Action Program at Princeton University, HACE is the result of swelling of brain tissue from fluid leakage. Symptoms can include “headache, loss of coordination (ataxia), weakness, and decreasing levels of consciousness including, disorientation, loss of memory, psychotic behavior, and even hallucinations.”

What type of behavior might these symptoms lead to?

Well, after experiencing HACE, perhaps one might be inclined to find large slabs of rock and carve commandments into them, telling people that “God” had given the slabs of rock to him.

Maybe after experiencing HACE, one might feel compelled to sit Indian-style under a tree for forty days until reaching enlightenment - an enlightenment that would include the ludicrous belief that sex was not a necessary part of life.

Maybe after experiencing HACE, someone might start yelling out crazy things like “if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.”

Brilliance or insanity?

Or High Altitude Cerebral Edema?

I’m a big fan of ESPN.com, but if they keep playing that stupid Coke Zero advertisement, I’m going to swear off sports and pick up knitting just so I won’t have to hear a bunch of clowns singing, “I’d like to teach the world to chill,” when I’m trying to read about how Sean Taylor (the Washington Redskins starting free safet) ripped someone’s head off in a football game.

Coke commercials have always really perturbed me, but this one takes it to masochistic levels.

The commercial starts with G. Love, who has apparently decided to become Coke’s man-whore, playing guitar and rapping on a Philadelphia rooftop. Then, we ostensibly go back in time and watch as G. Love walks the streets of Philadelphia with a black male companion.

Suddenly, his companion points up to rooftop, as if to say, “Hey G. Love, maybe if we go up to that rooftop we will find a multi-racial gathering of people drinking Coke Zero and you can sing and rap about how great it is and how people should chill out.”

Suddenly, we are transported back to the rooftop where we find out what happens if you mix the following together:

Ingredients for chilltop (Coke’s terminology) aka. rationale for making me want to scoop my eyes out with a spork (my terminology):

• One white male with brown dreadlocks.
• A black guy with a stupid gas station hat.
• An Indian guy with a big afro.
• A bi-racial black/white girl.
• Another white male with short brown hair.
• A white male playing the guitar.
• An East Asian girl who hasn’t showered recently.
• Another black guy who hasn’t showered recently.
• A white girl with brown hair.
• A white girl with red hair.
• About four more people who are spawned from interracial sex.
• I’ve been told that G. Love’s whore band is also in this commercial, which gives a whole new meaning to the name, “Special Sauce.”

Before I continue to lambast both Coke and G. Love, I’d like to note one glaring omission: I didn’t see any Latinos in this video. Do Latinos not deserve to drink Coke Zero? Is Coke saying that Latinos are fatties who don’t care about their weight? I hope someone who reads this works with a Latin-rights advocacy group and they start a campaign against Coke.

So while head toobag G. Love, “raps” and plays the guitar - and I use the word “rap” loosely because before I knew this was G. Love, I thought Donnie Wahlberg had died his hair dark-brown and was making a comeback - this creamsicle of morons sings:

“I’d like to teach the world to chill, take time to stop and smile. I’d like to buy the world a Coke and chill with it a while.”

When I first heard the lyrics to this song, I was literally shocked. First of all, I literally felt physically ill at the usage of the word “chill.”

The word “chill” makes me want to bitch-slap whoever has just had the nerve to use it in everyday speech, so imagine the effect that an entire rooftop of idiots, all singing “chill” over-and-over in perfect harmony, has on me.

It made me want to sprint through my TV and onto the rooftop, grab the guitar out of G. Love’s little claws, and go Belushi on everyone on that rooftop.

What does “chilling” have to do with drinking Coke? Nothing! It has absolutely nothing to do with drinking Coke. Actually, the defining ingredient in Coke is caffeine - a stimulant. Are you telling me that a kid who has had three or four Cokes in the span of one hour wants to chill? Maybe you could ask him if you could get him to stop running circles around his block and screaming the words to the “Star-Spangled Banner” for ten seconds.

If someone wants to “chill,” they should probably smoke pot or take a xanax; not chug down a drink that contains a stimulant.

And why does Coke have to be so blatantly PC with their casting (again, with the noted exception of any Latinos)? Do they really think that some Indian guy is sitting at home, watching this commercial and thinking to himself,

“Hmm..don’t like Coke Zero…

No…

Still don’t like it…

Not yet…

[sees an Indian guy on rooftop]

There it is! Mom! I’m going to the store to buy a six-pack of Coke Zero.”

It gets worse.

When I decided I needed to actually watch the stupid commercial again before blasting it, I visited the Coke Zero Web site and was privy to a load screen that stated “He who is the most chill wins,” and a navigation system that contained a link to “chillosophy.”

I don’t want to chillosophize, and I don’t want to win if winning means being the most “chill.”

I want everyone on that rooftop and everyone involved in the production of this advertisement to be sent to a deserted island with nothing to eat or drink except Coke Zero.

I want there to be large speakers placed throughout this deserted island that play their stupid chill song infinitely, until they all go insane and begin chanting the word “chill” repeatedly while deciding who will be the first “rooftopper” to be eaten.

You know what the ironic thing about this all is? I actually like Coke Zero. If only Coke hadn’t gone and ruined a perfectly good thing by being Coke.

I have to admit that the pathetic thumbnail of Chris Crocker’s contorted kabuki face with the caption, ‘Leave Britney Alone,’ was enough to pique my sometimes sordid sense of curiosity to the point of clicking through and watching his painful (for me not him) diatribe on why people need to stop hassling Britney Spears.

I suppose I should preface this by admitting that several days prior, I had actually dug up an online version of Britney Spears’ bumbling performance at the VMAs after hearing it discussed on sports radio on the drive to work in the morning.  Clearly, there was a precedence set in my mind as I thumbed through YouTube several days later and let my eyes linger over the thumbnail for the video before deciding it was clearly a waste of my time and moving on.

At any rate, it was several days later that I was perusing MySpace and saw that a friend of mine had actually posted the clip to another friend’s profile (in the comments section) and I suddenly realized I was going to have to watch this video, which I did.  Now you can watch it as well before proceeding (at your own peril):

At the time I am writing this article, 9:45 PM (ET) on September 18, 2007, I see that nearly 7.5 million people have watched Chris Crocker’s pathetic appeal to the masses.  I see that the video has elicited enough of a response from over 100,000 people that they went so far as to leave a comment.  I can also see that a rather substantial volume of people have already satirized the YouTube video with spin-offs (most of them making a mockery of Chris Crocker).  I also see that in addition to the response in the social media space a quick query of Google News reveals that there are over 150 results for the search term ‘Chris Crocker,’ meaning he had about that many pick-ups in the mainstream media.

David Duchovny’s claim in Californication that “people are getting dumber and dumber” springs immediately to mind but then I suddenly feel ashamed because I realize I am using a quote from a show on Showtime as a frame of reference to look condescendingly down upon pop culture.

How disgustingly hypocritical and sad - especially only 30 minutes after I sat down with the intention to start writing a piece of narrative fiction only to find myself feeling more comfortable writing about Chris Crocker and YouTube.

Or is it?

When I step back and really think about it,  I don’t think people are getting dumber and dumber - I think people have always been dumb. 

I think instead, what is happening is that through social media people have the ability to broadcast their idiocy to the world.  It is almost as if there has been a veil surrounding how dumb people can be (and I am including myself in this categorization) and social media has lifted that veil for all the world to see.

Are we really so short-sighted and arrogant to believe that we were actually somehow more sophisticated when we were younger? 

I don’t know about anyone else, but I feel like when I was eighteen I was sitting at home leafing through LL Bean catalogs and looking for the next flannel shirt I wanted to purchase (hey - I was going to high school in Cleveland, Ohio so give me a fuc#%ing break).  Thank God I didn’t have a Webcam and YouTube because I probably would be making Chris Crocker shaking his head in embarrassment  with the crazy s%*t I would have come up with back then (I write ‘back then’ with a nervously optimistic tone). 

If we really put things in perspective, what we have is a young self-absorbed kid who wants to be an acotr, who has managed to independently create something that over 7.5 million people have viewed and received coverage in most major news outlets in the US.  So is he really that much of an idiot? 

Or are we idiots for looking down upon him?

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.

I was happily minding my own business when I received an e-mail from a good friend of mine titled “The Tsunami Song.” I scanned through it quickly, catching something about a satirical song based on the tsunami disaster and actions being taken against it. There were a couple of MP3s attached to the e-mail. Thinking it was just your typical PC-motivated forward, I filed it away.
A week later, I was reviewing my back e-mails and stumbled upon the tsunami e-mail. Out of boredom, I fired up the MP3 and was captivated by a heated exchange between two women on a radio show - later, I learned that the two radio personalities were “Miss Jones” and “Miss Info.” They were arguing over a satirical track produced by two employees of Hot 97 titled, “The Tsunami Song.”

Apparently, Miss Info was trying to separate herself from the proponents of the song, and had consequently caught the ire of Miss Jones. I listened with interest as Miss Jones spouted off like a chicken on crack for about five minutes straight, as Miss Info made several attempts to be diplomatic.

The exchange ended with some vague allusion to continuing the argument off-air, and then the tsunami song began playing.

The next several minutes, I experienced the most ignorant, racist, hatred-fueled, piece of shit I have ever heard in my entire life. Just to give you a small sample of the verbal diarrhea that polluted the airwaves, consider the following lyrics:

And all at once, you can hear the screaming chinks.
And no one was saved from the wave.
There were Africans drowning, little Chinamen swept away.
You can hear God laughing, ‘Swim you bitches swim.’

For those of you who are interested, the complete audio file and other multimedia content are available on the Asian Media Watch Web site.

The song stirred the Asian community throughout the country, as mass protests, petitions, and other activism ensued. Jin, from the Ruff Riders, went so far as to produce a track blasting Hot 97; and House Democratic Leader Nancy Pelosi released a statement in opposition to the song and the radio station.

Before long, a number of sponsors including McDonalds and Sprint had pulled their advertising from the show. It wasn’t long until WQHT fired morning-show producer Rick Del gado, who created the song, and morning-team member Todd Lynn, who joked, “I’m going to start shooting some Asians.”

Miss Jones, DJ Envy and production assistant Tasha Hightower were all suspended for two weeks. Miss Info, the radio personality who protested the song on the air, was not suspended, but has taken a leave-of-absence of her own volition.

It blows my mind that in this day and age, something so full of racism and anger could actually be produced and aired. When you consider that this crap was aired in the wake of an international tragedy, it just leaves me speechless.

Well, not really.

After spending time reading about the situation, I have decided to focus in on the exchange between Miss Info and Miss Jones.

It all started with Todd Lynn introducing the song by saying, “Starring Miss Jones in the morning show players.”

Miss Info quickly adds, “minus Miss Info.”

Suddenly, Lynn and Miss Jones begin berating Miss Info for distancing herself.

Info responds by stating in very diplomatic terms, that “the song is very offensive to [her],” and she “opts not to involve herself with it.”

Miss Jones suddenly begins wondering out loud, if Info disagrees with what they are doing, why she is on the show.

Info responds by saying she “supports” their right to say what they want, and goes so far as to add that in tragedies, humor is one viable option. She then adds, that personally, she doesn’t want to “deal with [the disaster] that way.”

Jones quickly responds by saying in so many words, “Who asked you for your opinion.”

What then ensues is about three minutes of Jones berating Info, telling her that she shouldn’t always voice her opinion; yelling about how she should leave the show if she disagrees with what they are doing; and that she feels superior because she is “Asian.”

Info attempts to reason with Jones, but is drowned out by Jones’ moronic tirade.

Although I feel that Info handled the exchange as the consummate diplomat, I couldn’t help but find myself wishing I had been in Miss Info’s shoes for just two minutes.

But I can’t, so all I can do is write.

Miss Jones, you raggedy-ass racist, ignorant, no-talent b@#@h!

What you and your team have done is the lowest form of filth in the universe. You have made a mockery out of a tragedy and sold it for your own gain. You’ve also disrespected the constitution, Asians around the world, hip-hop, your family and friends, everyone affected by the tragedy; and you’ve also done a disservice to African Americans around the country by spouting your mouth off like the bigot you are.

Now I know why I never heard about you or your “players” until you stuck your foot in your mouth. Its because you are nothing other than a no talent, loud-mouth jockey who would be forgotten two minutes after you leave the mic if it weren’t for the fact that people are going to remember you for your ignorance.

And Lynn - if you want to get a gun and shoot some Asians, you better make out a will you fat bastard because your eyes would be closed before you could say “chinaman.”

F- Miss Jones! F- the morning show players! And f- Hot 97!

Ahhhhh…that feels much better…..

Anyway, to sign the petitions,

• http://www.petitiononline.com/endhate/petition.html
• http://www.petitiononline.com/tsunmai7/petition.html

After living in DC for so long that it hurts, I’ve realized a few things about the city. One, there are not a lot of very good-looking people here. Although this sounds like a superficial thing to say, no one can ever criticize me for being superficial because I actually left one of the more attractive cities in the United States - San Diego - to come back to this cesspool of homeliness. The reason I did, was because people tend to be pretty savvy about what’s going on in the world around them, unlike San Diego, and I appreciate that. Would you rather have beautiful vacuous people or sharp unattractive people?

At any rate, not only have I learned many things about the type of people who live in DC, but I’ve also learned quite a bit about the everyday trivial little details that go along with living in DC.

Now, I’ve already talked about my intense hatred for meter maids in the city. Today, I’d like to discuss something less infuriating, and more ridiculous: parking in DC.

Not only is parking in DC difficult due to the intense automotive congestion downtown, which must be in the same ballpark as Manhattan, but it is made more difficult by virtue of the fact that for every space there is available on the street, there are EIGHT MILLION FRIGGIN’ SIGNS YOU HAVE TO DECIPHER.

I was trying to park in Dupont the other day, and I was confronted with the following:

Sign 1: 2 Hour Parking; 10:30AM - 3:30PM; Monday-Friday
Sign 2: No Parking or Standing; 8:30 AM - 10:30 AM; 3:30PM - 5:30PM; Monday - Friday
Sign 3: No Parking; Street Cleaning; Wednesday Morning; 5:30AM - 8:30AM
Sign 4: No Parking; Special Event; January 20; All-Day
Sign 5: No Parking; 5:45PM - 6:30PM; If Driving Blue Honda ‘92-’95
Sign 6: No Parking; If Uncle’s Neighbor’s Brother is Gay; Or if Your Name is Harold

Okay, I threw in those last two, but do you see what I’m saying? It is absolutely ludicrous. Not only does it take 30 minutes to find a goddamn spot, but also it takes 15 minutes to sit and figure out the stupid GRE analytical problem, that is understanding the parking signs.

I’m sure that half of the reason there is so much damn traffic in this city is because people are sitting in their cars like a bunch of morons, trying to understand street signs.

If I were the mayor of this city, I would utilize a new approach to street signs. It would involve the following two signs:

Sign 1: NO
Sign 2: YES

Should I be mayor? What do you think?

“Hey!” the husky bouncer shouted as my friend and I walked into Nick’s Riverside Grill. “You have to stand in line like everyone else!”

The Caucasian boy looked like he was about twenty years old, with shaved hair, cargo shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt.

Turning around I looked back towards the spot from where we had just entered into Nick’s Riverside Grill and saw two groups of people milling around next to each other.

“What line?” I asked.

“The line that’s at the front,” he answered in a combative tone that made me wonder if he was about to try and start a fight with me due to the fact that I had failed to recognize his “line.”

We followed the man back to the entrance, where we took out our IDs.

I handed mine to the bouncer, who held it up and began scrutinizing it as though he were the gatekeeper to the Pentagon and I was an Arab, wearing robes and a turban.

“What is your date of birth?” he demanded.

It had been around five years since I’d been asked that question and I balked for a moment as a grin appeared on my face.

“Date of birth?” I asked. “Umm…March 10, 1978.”

He must have construed my bemusement for doubt, for he then asked me for a “second form of ID.”

Looking through my walled, I pulled out a credit card.

“I have a CVS card also, in case you’re interested,” I added.

He began glaring at my credit card with the same piercing gaze he had used on my drivers license.

Looking at his arm, I noticed he had a tattoo of the ‘ol red, white, and blue. Turning back up towards me, he handed me the ID back and turned to my friend.

“You,” he blurted to my friend.

After this initial irritation, we actually settled down and had a fairly nice time at Nick’s Riverside Grill, which is a pretty decent place if you can get past the people who work there on the weekend nights.

Gazing around, I couldn’t help but note the yellow t-shirted bouncers dispersed throughout the crowd, all sporting shaved heads and cargo pants - as if they were co-marketing for Abercrombie and the Aryan nation.

Later, while grabbing a drink, I noticed as my bouncer friend from before approached the bar and began jovially telling one of the bartenders about how he had “beat the hell” out of some poor jerk the previous night.

Shaking my head in disgust, I turned towards another bartender and asked for my tab. “Wei,” I said in response to his inquiry for my last name. A short while later, he returned, holding my bar tab.

As I scanned it, an Asian guy standing next to me asked for his tab. “Yang,” he stated when the bouncer asked for his last name.

I just gave you guys your tab the bartender responded, nodding towards me.

“He said Yang,” I stated. “My last name is Wei.”

Realizing his mistake, the bartender went to retrieve Yang’s tab.

“This guy’s getting his Asian last names confused,” I said, turning towards the Asian guy standing next to me.

The bartender returned shortly with Yang’s tab, turned towards the two of us, and said, “So, where are you guys headed?”

“We’re not together,” I responded. “You’re getting your Asians confused.”

He looked at me blankly, as if not sure what to make of what I just said, and walked away bashfully.

I turned towards my check and signed, when all of a sudden, the bartender returned and shot back, “That’s a pretty stupid thing to say.”

“Yeah, it is a stupid thing to say,” I answered and walked away from the bar.

I hadn’t sat down for two seconds when one of the Aryan nation members walked up to our table and said, “You guys have to get out of here. Now.”

We downed our drinks and left.

The moral of this story is that the people who work at Nick’s Riverside Grill on the weekends are morons. Weather permitting, the waterfront is an amazing place to go out in DC. Just make sure you have no expectations of polite service before you go.

There is a club in San Diego called 4th and B, and it sucks. This is long overdue, and the only reason that I write this is in the hopes that someone who is trying to figure out a good place to go on a Friday night in San Diego will type in “4th and B” into a Google search and spring upon this blurb. I’ll cut to the chase and make this as concise as possible.

Karl, James, and I went to 4th and B last Fall to watch the Crystal Meth concert. They were putting on a hell of a show and I was having a blast. I looked up and Karl had walked up to the stage in order to get a closer look at the band (or whatever they are called? DJs? I don’t even know anymore). Next thing I know, a bouncer puts his hand on Karl and tells him to get away from the stage. Karl complies, but as he is walking away, he tells the bouncer: “Fine, just don’t touch me.”

I think everything is fine, so I continue dancing. Two minutes later, the bouncer returns and starts yelling in Karl’s face. I sense that something might go wrong, so I start to head over to find out what is going on. Next thing I know, another bouncer has approached me from behind and put my arm behind my back.

This isn’t the first time that I’ve been put into an arm lock by a bounce who is substantially larger than me, so I say, “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing. I just wanted to talk to my friend.” He tells me to just stop struggling, which I wasn’t doing in the first place, and drags me out. A few moments later, I see Karl get dragged out in a similar fashion. A few minutes later, James calmly strolls out.

I spend the next twenty or so minutes, barking at the doorman, demanding to see a manager. Finally, someone comes out and we discuss the situation. He says that the best thing is to call back the following day.

To make a long story short, I pursue the thing for several weeks, but am never given a satisfactory resolution to the problem. So the next best thing is to complain about it on my website. If you are going to 4th and B, be warned - the bouncers are mentally unstable, roid-rage morons.