Bastille Day Ruined by Seven Strangers

Very simply, Bastille Day is my favorite of the French national holidays. I’m quite aware that it’s yours, too. So what better place to celebrate than Bistrot du Coin in Dupont Circle, where I once had the most wonderful meal of my life.

So I’m getting down with the getdown in a hot sweaty sexy dance party…

Guns don't kill people. Lazers do.

Guns don't kill people. Lazers do.

Live emcee. Likely from "the islands."

Live emcee. Likely from the islands.

Live yazz saxophone. I will not say that it was saxy.

Live yazz saxophone. I will not say that it was saxy.

… and all the sudden, the Real World DC rolls in. The party quickly got stupid. It went from so-crowded-you-can’t-move to so-douchy-you-can’t-breath faster than you can say “stop being polite, and start being real.”

There's no tape delay for gonorrhea.

There's no tape delay for gonorrhea.

I know I’m not the first to say this, but I want the Real World out of my town. Just after I get that dark-headed Real Worlder with the “wedding band” to come out to one of my races. Hey, who doesn’t want to race on (M)TV?

2 Responses to Bastille Day Ruined by Seven Strangers

  1. Killer Tofu says:

    It’s eight strangers, not seven.

  2. bikesnobdc says:

    Yeah I noticed that reading some of the other posts on the Washingtonian’s website. I guess I’ve been out of the RW scene too long.

    I remember when it was a big deal to go from six roommates to seven in Seattle.

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