No offense, but this weekend was pretty insane. Did I get wasted? Yes. Did I have a good time? Debatable.
Friday started with the obligatory barbecue, with beer, burgers, and brats. I’m not really sure where this became canon, much like the forced date of New Years or Valentine’s, or how you have to be a raging douche on St. Patrick’s Day. Not that this particular law really bothers me, as everyone enjoys a good barbecue, especially when you start the night with free food and eight or nine beers on the house. After a lot of cell phone tag and random invites, I headed up towards Mt. Pleasant to reconvene with some people before the fireworks. This is where the first atrocity happened. As my cabbie made his way up 15th street, we started to slow around Meridian Hill Park because of traffic. Since the weather was perfect on Friday (for most of the day), we had the windows down in our cab, and as we drove by a small group of teenagers, the cab almost came to a complete stop. Being the geniuses that they are, these beacons of light actually lit a string of firecrackers and threw it into the front window of a car that was now picking up speed. I watched in utter disbelief as an explosive literally went off in my driver’s lap. He pulled over and stopped the car, and I half-expected him to chase the little monsters down and beat them senseless. To my surprise, he simply stepped out, wiped the explosion off of his pants, and asked if I was okay. I responded in the affirmative, so he got back in the car and started driving. He said that if we lived in a third world country, the kids would have a bullet in each respective head. I thought it was a tad harsh, but then I realized that I hadn’t had a fire on my crotch a few minutes before, so I figured I’d let it slide. The best part was that he forgot to turn on the meter, so when I got to my friend’s house, I just gave him twice what it should have been. The shock lasted through a decent part of the night. The debauchery that followed through the rest of the night was pretty much par for the course, but mind numbing nevertheless.
The other truly horrific thing that happened occurred within a day or so of the Firecracker Incident. After drinking inhuman amounts of hard liquor the night before, I detoxed with my best friend. We walked around the city, each bought a book in Georgetown, got some food, and avoided the plebeians surrounding us. We had to separate for the night so she could head home, but we pretty much both decided to stay in that night and watch bad movies. As I made my through a truly awesomely bad film, one of my brothers texted me. Turns out an inordinately large amount of brothers were in town at the same apartment and all they needed was me. Flash forward to four thirty in the morning, with Detroit and myself wandering around Foggy Bottom trying to find that pesky CVS for munchies. We headed down the wrong way, realized our mistake, and turned around towards our ultimate destination. As we walked past the Department of State, we couldn’t remember if it was DOD or DOS (cut us some slack, we weren’t even close to sober). I literally stepped two feet off the sidewalk – at the entrance, mind you – to read the door. Turned out it was the State building, and within seconds we were on our way. Little did we know, George W. Bush hates frat boys. A pathetic excuse for a security guard sauntered on over to us as we walked up 23rd and asked us what our business was with the building. We explained that we had been momentarily lost and simply wanted to read the door. He told us that was highly illegal and we shouldn’t have messed around with the State Department. After I vehemently denied any wrongdoing of any kind, and told him there was no way we could get in trouble for reading a sign, he threatened me. He actually said, and I quote, “Then you don’t have a problem with being put on the terrorist watchlist?” Here’s the thing, children – I’m not a moron. You can’t blackball a person as a terrorist for reading a sign. If I had been checking for cameras or dropped something suspicious or even lingered for longer than literally two seconds, it could’ve been a problem. It clearly wasn’t. At this point, we apologized until the piece of garbage let us go, then I talked shit for the rest of the night, cursing him as we walked away. He tried to follow us some more, but I told him to leave us alone since we were on public property and not land owned by the federal government. A few more beers and horrible junk food followed, and I was fine.
So what it comes down to is this – was the Fourth of July horrible? No. Will I miss DC after experiences like a Rent-A-Cop’s threats or the repercussions of idle Black Urban Youth? Of course not. Here’s to hoping the next few weeks before I move won’t be nearly as eventful.