We could be referring to white chocolate, you damned racists!

I love the NBA. I mean I really love the NBA. That's why I was a little mad at myself for not posting anything about the NBA Draft. I'm sorry. It wasn't right.

But...I had my reasons. These reasons are twofold: First I couldn't adequately express my rage over the Magic drafting a man named Fran. Not only that, but a man named Fran who only averaged 8 pts and 4 boards a game in the Spanish League...oh yeah he's also 22. Actually, it's not completely true that I couldn't express my rage. I did so quite eloquently by banging my head against my bedroom door for a solid five minutes after the pick. It's not just that he's a guaranteed bust, but that he is a guaranteed bust who plays the same position as the Magic's franchise player. It's not like there wasn't any talent available at that point in the damned Draft. I mean, would it really have been a bad idea to have Gerald Green or Danny Granger learn the ropes from a guy like Grant Hill? Instead we're going to end up with Kelvin Cato giving Fran Vasquez the NBA Gentleman's tour. Did I mention that Vasquez thinks he might not be able to get out of his contract this year? Jesus. Sometimes I think that David Stern awarded Orlando a franchise just to personally torture me.

Nevertheless, I said there were two reasons that I didn't write about the Draft last Tuesday. The second reason is that I was packing for my trip to Washington, D. C. I only call the city by it's proper name because, apparently, Chocolate City is frowned upon these days? Are you kidding me? Most cities would kill to have a nickname that cool. I bet Cleveland would like that...as oppossed to their latest moniker "Hell on Earth".

So with a lump on my forehead from the night before, my friend Vitas and I went to the Orlando Airport to fly up to DC on Wednesday night. The way we figured it, we'd get in town just in time to start drinking. Too bad only we figured it that way. After we boarded the plane in Orlando, both of us were asked to find new seats on the plane. No, we weren't sitting in someone else's seats just the seats we had purchased. This was the first sign that something was amiss. After a solid 45 minutes of sitting on the runway, the pilot informed us that we'd be getting off the plane for at least an hour. Or as we figured, just enough time to drink 3-4 drinks while barley making it back to the plane in time for takeoff. So, that's exactly what we did right down to the making everybody wait part. After all of that, we landed in D.C. around 1ish. Our buddy Greg was there to pick us up and we ended up back at his place in Arlington by 1:45 or so.

The next few days are were one big beer and jager induced haze. We went to a Nationals game at RFK on Wednesday and did our part to boost the beer sales (both inside and outside of the Stadium) in the greater DC area. Later that night, Greg tried to put on his jammies and go to bed while attempting to placate Vitas and I with Russell Crowe's cinematic debut "Romper Stomper". Now I'm sure that it's a hell of a flick but I didn't come on vacation to watch DVD's and snuggle...at least not every night. With that in mind, I summoned the hellacious guilt trip techniques of my mother Judy. After about 30 minutes of this, Greg could no longer stand my incessant bitching and broke down. Just like that we were on our way to the Rum District (that's downtown for all you virgins) and Greg's favorite little bar, The Bottom Line. The BL (that's right, I'm hip) was a cool and uncrowded venue which immediately felt like home. We proceeded to imbide until the wee hours of the morning while listening to ridiculous rugby stories from Greg's buddy Superboy. I didn't ask why he was called Superboy and, frankly, I don't want to know. The best part of the night was probably when we got out bill. $41.75, for three of us. Now, I'm not saying that we drink like Rod Strickland (who does?) but I'm quite sure we received a sizable discount this evening.

The next day we did a little shopping. I would've liked to have bought something cool that I can't buy in Florida (Virginia is for Lovers anyone?) but instead all I ended up with was a $27 cell phone charger. Thanks buddy, would you like to drag my bare balls across some grip tape while we're at it? As the afternoon turned into the...well late afternoon, we went out to meet some of Greg's college friends at a place called Ray's Saloon. We met up with T.J (http://www.gheorghe77.blogspot.com/) and a few others and settled in for some pitchers and a game T.J. likes to call Classic Rock Shootout. Basically, a group of people draft 3 rock bands and/or solo artists and then listen to the local classic rock station. If your band comes on, you get a point. A simple and fun way to pass some quality drinking time...in theory. On this evening the game should've been called "Rusty Coat Hanger Abortion", because that's what it was. Between the rock station playing 10 minute epics like "Freebird" and Greg constantly forgetting his bands, the game quickly lost steam and we all ended up drinking ourselves into a manly stupor. T.J. : It's not your fault. I promise we'll play when I come up to visit again in 5 years. All in all, it was one of the better happy hours I've spent in a while. Greg's friends were funny guys who seemed alot like the guys I hung out with in college...except, you know, without the cocaine habits. As the early evening was winding down we began to make plans to due some heavy drinking. All of Greg's friends turned us down with one reason or another, though none as classic as Geoff Burr's (http://www.wheelhouse.blogspot.com/) excuse of "I have to help my sister move at 9 in the morning". C'mon. Give me something better than that. Was your sister using you as a burro for the moving? Can her puritanical senses not handle the smell of alcohol emanating from your pores? I'm just saying, Lang Campbell would've expected better than that.

Anyway, we ended up going back out to the Bottom Line since we'd had such good luck there the evening before. Boy oh boy, were we glad that we did. On this evening, it was absolutely packed. Greg, being the mimbo that he is, met some 7 footer that Vitas and I quickly dubbed "Dutch Boy in the Paint". Greg is a big guy but this was a total mismatch. She was killing him on the boards all night, even swatting a couple of his meek offerings into the stands. Eventually, Greg was forced to submit and take her home for the grand tour. Though not before Greg, Vitas and I (okay, mostly me) made fun of some dude standing with his girlfriend on the curb so loudly that he was forced to defend his manhood. It started with his car (waaay nicer than mine) and then we moved onto his clothes. Then we were just plain making fun of him. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and decided to see what our problem was. I don't remember exaclty what I said to him at this point, but I'm pretty sure that I was doing one hell of a CT (from Real World: Paris) impression. That's right...I'm an awesome dude. Once that was all settled, sans fisticuffs, we all went back home where Greg would get posted up all night long by the Dutch Boy.

Saturday was our final night in D.C. and we decided to support the "lively arts" as Greg would say. First we went to the Crystal City Restaurant which, surprisingly, was a strip club AND a diner. Despite Greg's vehement insistence that the food was fantastic, I decided the better of ordering anything because...well, women get naked in there. After a few beers we moved on to some bars in the Rum District which were ridiculously crowded. So crowded, in fact, that we actually watched the conclusion of a NASCAR race on a TV in the far less crowded upstairs of one bar ( a personal first for me). Finally, Greg took us to another home of the lively arts named Camelot. I din't see any round tables in there but there was certainly plenty of scenery. As the evening was drawing to a close, I asked our somewhat portly cocktail waitress if she gave lapdances. Don't aks me why I did. I guess I though it was funny. Well she sure as hell didn't. She responded politely enought that there are no lapdances in D.C. Fair enough. Done deal. Not quite, about 15 minutes later one of the bouncers came by and then unceremoniously escorted us out of the building. I guess I can officially check "Kicked out of a Strip Club" off the list.

We flew back on Sunday and I ended going out drinking with my girlfriend and some buddies of mine. By the time the 4th rolled around, I could barely choke down a beer. I drank three and called it a day at that point. Since then I've been trying to get back into the swing of things at work, which is alot harder to do without the internet at your disposal. The only real event of note thus far this week is that I had a second interview with the YMCA for their Membership Director position. Keep your fingers crossed, I may be starting my fourth job of the summer by month's end and, just in case you were wondering, it pays more than the job I have now.

Sometimes I love me...okay I always love me. Who did you think Carly Simon was writing that song about anyway?

Finally, here's something to think about on your drive home from work today: Dusty Bibles lead to dirty lives...