Culture? I Hardly Know Her

Culture. It's more than just a sample in a preti dish that will tell you whether or not you have AIDS. It's something that people have. Other people, not me.

So when given a chance to meet with high-society types, I took this oppotunity to crawl out of the slop, hose myself off, and act like a human being.

Last night, as per usual on a Friday night, I found myself rather thirsty. Not thirsty for water or vengeance, but for delicious, delicious alcohol.

A friend of mine called me about a happening in Washington D.C., where some Libertarian website was holding a viewing party for their new special. Not that I give a shit about any of this, but it did have an open bar. Just try and keep me away from an open bar.

For most people, the evening was a chance to rub elbows with D.C.'s young, progressive elite, and meet like-minded people who would use these connections to one day change the world for the better.

For me, I could get drunk for free, and mabye create some awkward situations. A win-win really. And if I managed to find an emotionally distant chick with too much eye makeup to pity fuck me, well, it would be the cherry (if I'm lucky) on top.

So I got off work, and met my friend at his place, and we drove into D.C. The venue, as it turned out, was near DuPont Circle, which is a place that is rife with "the gays."

Nothing wrong with that, but I didn't want to find myself walking into the wrong bar and seeing bad things. Unspeakable things.

The club near the place I parked was called "The Ramrod" and it seemed to be one of those places where one might walk in to see an asshole stretched tighter than a snare drum.

I don't even know what that means, but I guarantee you the staff of The Ramrod do.

The guests at the particular event I was attending was the kind of people I rarely associate with.

Lime green sweater vests over pink shirts. Touch screen phones as far as the eye could see. Short, moussed hair. Chilled white wine in clear plastic cups. Goatees. Horn-rimmed glasses. Boot cut jeans over slip-on shoes.

That kind of crowd. Fuckfaces galore.

The event itself was absolutely perfect for two of my favorite pastimes: people watching and eavesdropping.

Most of the crowd was the mid-twenties, yuppie types who have likely never known the sweet sting of sweat after a hard day's labor.

But lo and behold! There was a mullet sighting. It was this guy who had a T-shirt tucked into jeans with elastic cuffs over white Asics. A classic look really. And timeless.

This guy was with a mousy looking girl, and they had a real Rocky-and-Adrian thing going on. He kept an arm around her the whole time, and she just looked like the sight of this many people would cause her to disappear into fine particle of pure estrogen.

Besides the guest lecturers, there wasn't any women over the age of 30. But there were plenty of gray-haired men, with nary a wedding ring in sight, and they always seemed to be following crowds of chicks. A little bit creepy (read: me in 20 years).

It was in an office on one floor of the building. It was a giant square room, with angled corners made of old brick and new white drywall between corners.

In the center of the room was another square, for glass walls and inside was the free food. The open bar was right next to this square, and that's where I decided to set up camp.

It was one of those parties where, if you came exclusively to drink (which I did), then you pretty much had to get back in line as soon as you got your drink (which I also did), because by the time you got back to the front, your drink would be empty (which it was).

The beer was pretty good, some micro-brew from California, but that didn't stop most of the doucebags from ordering Scotch.

I mean, seriously, Scotch, even good scotch tastes like shit. And they didn't have good scotch. They had Johnnie Walker Red, which is the equivalent of Budweiser in the scotch world. It's okay, but everyone knows the brand because of the advertising, and there are a ton of better drinks out there.

Everyone who ordered a scotch and soda made sure to say it really loud, and then look around, hoping to catch an approving glance from another like-minded prick.

Here's when I knew I was in a weird place. I went to use the men's room, where there were three urinals. I waited in line to use them, and I noticed a very curious thing.

Every dude at the urinal would unbuckle his belt to take a piss. Isn't that weird. Whatever happened to unzipping your fly? Freaking weirdos, man.

I decided to walk around spreading hate and awkwardness in my path. Since these were a progressive bunch, I knew which buttons to push.

A sampling of conversation starts I used:

• Hey, the government has functioned perfectly for the past 230 years, why change now?
• I miss Dubya.
  
• I don't know about you, but I think there's just some things the government needs to do to keep us safe, and we don't need to know about it.
  
• Sure, immigration needs reform, but won't that lead to a decline in white people? No one wants that. Right? Guys?
• That Ron Paul sure is a kook, isn't he?
  

Blank look after blank look, sometimes with flashes of pure, unadulterated hatred, was the only response I got. This night was turning out to be all right after all.

The event itself was a series of lectures on things like: universal pre-school, privatization of roads, immigration and the like. BOR-ING!

At one point, they asked for questions from the audience, and I raised my hand, and they passed the mic over to me.

"Uh.. do you think the Celtics will overtake the Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference?"

Deafening silence. I continued, thinking the audience hadn't gotten the question.

"Because, you know, the Celtics have been pretty good without KG, and they did it last year, but I just don't see how they can match up with LeBron in crunch time."

Cricket. Cricket.

I took that as my cue to leave. And when I say leave, I mean go to another, straighter, part of D.C., get hammered, get lost in the city, and end up driving through the ghettoes to get home.

Good times, good times.