Irony #1: chicks don't like bars named after birds. Or, at least they don't like Hawk and Dove. Only one woman showed up this week. I missed her entrance, but can only assume it went something like this: She walks in. Smells the urine-scented bar. Sees 12 dudes in the corner sipping warm Miller Lite. Mutters "dagger" to herself. Wonders whether to sneak out, but remembers that I am her ride home. So, she stays. Our first DC: A-to-Z sausagefest commences. Which reminds me of my pet theory about sausagefests: contrary to popular belief, a sausagefest is not when a large group of dudes is hanging out. That's just guys' night out. But if said dudes invite women and only one shows up, that's a sausagefest. You see, a total lack of women signals to others that the guys have chosen to have a men-only evening. But if a woman (singular) is in their midst, it means they can't get women (plural) to hang out with them. I don't know why this rare occurrence took place this week. Maybe our female A-to-Zers knew Hawk and Dove sucked (which it did). Maybe there was a hot chick convention on the other side of town. Maybe they knew M. Germano would be making a guest appearance at A-to-Z. Whatever the reason, let's put this sad event behind us and hope for an A-to-Z estrogen injection next week.
As for Hawk and Dove, as briefly alluded to above, it was not that sweet. Smelled bad, hot and muggy inside, and beer was warm. There were a few highlights, however: 1) Overzealous new bartender who carried full kegs "World's Strongest Man" style and took a "tell me when" approach to drink pouring. While pouring said drinks, said "I'm new at this and I want to make you strong drinks so I can build a good client base." 2) A group of apparently unchaperoned 10-year olds sat next to us for most of the night. 3) We met the author of the Patriot Act (an A-to-Zer's old boss).
Hawk and Dove ran its course pretty quickly, but the night wasn't over. A few of us double-featured the night by heading to Hamilton's. Irony #2: chicks love Hamilton's. Even though it also smells of urine and serves warm beer. Seriously, the place was crawling with women. All of whom were wearing kickball t-shirts. Most of whom were obliterated. Three of whom were participating in a wing-eating contest when we showed up. One of whom tore the chicken off the bone like the CGI stars of "Jurassic Park." Gross.
Although Hamilton's was hopping, the hotwing carnage ruined our happy hour appetite, so we decided to head to my roof for a nightcap and to watch the airplanes fly into and take off from National airport. As I watched the jets take flight that evening, I couldn't help thinking back over the hawks, doves, and chicken wings we'd encountered that day. I searched for a grand connection, but there wasn't one.
All-star of the evening: Amy, for surviving Dudefest 2009 and being a good sport about it.
Average A-to-Z rating: 2 out of 5
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