I hope it says something about this week that my options for this evening are: a) drinks; and b) yoga, and I’m considering the yoga. Seriously. It’s a special full-moon yoga pachage — an hour of kundalini, followed by an hour of gong immersion. I mean, why the hell not?
There was a woman who used to take a weights class at the same time I did a while back. She was, what’s the word? Insufferable. Whippet-thin and toned down to the last muscle, she was the sort who, when the instructor said, “If you’d like an extra challenge, raise your legs into table position,” would raise her legs into table position and add something extra on top of that. Just to be insufferable. She never sweated. During breaks, she’d say things like, “I never have to watch what I eat. Just eat whatever I want. Must be my genes.”
In fine weather, she would ride hr bike to the gym, like me. No helmet. No lock. “Yeah, I should probably get one of those,” she’d say, wrinkling her pretty nose before pedaling off, her unsweaty hair trailing behind her. She never did.
But one day we were doing a yoga strength move, and she confided something someone had told her: “Guys? It’s anti-Christian.” After that, I resolved to do downward-facing dog for the rest of my life, and I will probably think of her skinny ass every time I do.
Yeah, I’m thinking yoga tonight. And then drinks.
Much good bloggage today, so let’s get to it.
Once upon a time, the president was a young man, and he went to his prom. With pictures.
As we’re on a happy hour theme, two booze stories. First, the pricey stuff:
Even though I know it’s coming, it’s hard not to feel sticker shock when I get the bill at The Rye Bar in Georgetown’s new Capella hotel. On my tab: a $22 Manhattan and an $18 Old Fashioned. With tax and tip, the whole thing rounds out to $50. For two drinks.
Don’t get me wrong, the cocktails at The Rye Bar are very good, and the Manhattan is one of the best I’ve ever tasted. It’s made with Dad’s Hat rye, a small-batch whiskey from Bristol, Pa., Dolin sweet vermouth, and French aperitif Byrrh quinquina, all aged together for six weeks in American white oak barrels, making it so smooth that the buzz catches you by surprise.
It so happens I recently interviewed a craft distiller, and the products were wonderful. On the other hand, the day I pay $22 for a drink is the day I go back to Budweiser in bottles.
Now, the cheap stuff:
Twenty-nine bars and restaurants, nearly half of them TGI Fridays, filled premium brand liquor bottles with lower-quality booze and sold it to patrons who thought they were buying the good stuff, authorities said Wednesday.
Worse yet, investigators said at least one New Jersey bar was mixing food dye with rubbing alcohol and serving it as scotch. Officials would not say who used the rubbing alcohol. But they said no health issues were reported.
Nothing about this surprises me, I regret to say. Speaking of which, don’t get the Sno-Cones at Minute Maid Park.
But let’s try to close on an up note — Gene Weingarten observes a neighborhood eviction. As only he can.
Oh, let’s all try to have a good long weekend, shall we?