A fistful of dollars.. and a few dollars more.

First off I want to thank everyone who came to my Fundraiser/30th birthday party this past Friday and left me $637 dollars richer (at least until transferring it to the Society the next day). My only regret is that before taking the wad of cash to the bank, I didn't spread it over my bed and roll around in it like Woody Harrelson in Indecent Proposal. Before I proceed further... some backslapping is in order.

• The fine people at Adams Mill bar certainly deserve your future patronage. They were exceedingly generous with their outstanding second floor bar space, and the staff was top shelf.
  

• Niall, thanks for helping set up and co-masterminding the effort in general.

• Alexis and Mark, let the world know that your beautiful minds came up with at least half of the pub trivia questions.

• Team Lymphomaniacs, you proved your mettle as champs. No one can ever take that away from you... even if those Google shirts you won don't quite fit. (by the way I can exchange those for you)
  

• Best call of the night goes to Andria for re-donating the Ipod nano she won in the raffle to an equally deserving KidsPower DC cause.
  

Great effort all around and I really hope everyone who attended had a good time. This past weekend cut my deficit in half, as I'm now 1 grand shy of my mandatory goal. Not too shabby.

However, I think I've nearly bloodsucked everyone that I know. So I'm open to any suggestions on how to raise the rest of the money. I was reminded that I forgot to sell "ad space" on my body, as suggested by Josette. So if anyone really wants to brand me with marker like a cow... I'm open to reasonable offers.

No soup for me.

Tell me if this sounds familiar. You like hanging out with your friends. Drinking your Bud. Watching the game with the local riff-raff. You're comfortable, but you feel like you're in a rut and you want to see what life's like on the other side of the tracks. So you put on your best duds, and venture off one night to a new place. It's a little bit fancier than you're used to, but you're ready to see how the other half lives. Once there you meet an absolute knockout. Completely out of your league, worldly sophisticated and gorgeous, you're shocked when you're able to set up a date. But you're looking great, you're on your game and you've convinced yourself that you're actually a pretty damn good catch. Full of optimism, you're confident that things have finally come up aces. With your chin held high you call to confirm the date a few days later. Just a formality at this point... a courtesy call really. How can things go wrong? Seconds into the conversation...its suddenly over. You've been rejected. Welcome back to reality.

This just happened to me. And though I could be describing some foxy lady who stomped on my heart... in this particular example, I'm actually talking about a bar. A bar named Saloon.

Saloon is located at U and 12th Street in Washington DC. It's one of those specialty import beer bars. Big selection of Belgian beers. It's run by a peculiar fellow... who bears more than a passing resemblance to the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld. In its main bar, Saloon doesn't allow its patrons to stand. Everyone must be seated, no exceptions. If there's no seat available... there's no Saloon for you. Odd, I thought and more than a little elitist, but I'd be damned if they didn't have some good beer.

Normally the bars I patronize tend to be on the more "working man's" side. In other words... places where I can wear a T-shirt comfortably and hear classic rock on the juke box. But in my search for a place to host my Team-In-Training Fundraiser/30th birthday party, I didn't want to settle for the ordinary, beaten path.

When I called the proprietor of the Saloon, he refused to listen to the specifics of my request. Instead he demanded a face-to-face interview with me; to see if I was worthy of having my party at his establishment. "Fair enough," I thought. So after work on a Monday, I head over to the Saloon. It's closed, but the owner lets me in to have our one-on-one. Before he sat me down to peel away at my story like an onion, he took me up stairs to the private party room. I was not prepared for what I saw.

The room wasn't just any room. It was a whole, separate and far superior looking bar from the main bar that normal customers see. Straight out of an old Clint Eastwood western, this second floor masterpiece was the most authentic looking "saloon" I've seen outside of the southwestern states. I'm not articulate enough to put into words how magnificent this room was. So I'll just throw out some things I recall. Balcony. Spiral staircase. Leather couches and chairs. Rich mahagony.

The owner led me back downstairs and sat me down in a booth. He then proceeded to grill me. I needed to 1) justify to him why I deserved to use the room and 2) convince him that the people I was bringing were up to his standards. So I proceeded to tell him what the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society was, my personal reasons for doing this fundraising effort and my assurances that the people I was inviting were about as threatening as the cast of Beverly Hills 90210. It was a good conversation. We traded stories and contact information. He penciled my fundraiser into his calendar and said he'd call me within the week to confirm that I could get the place. If I didn't hear from him by next Monday, then he told me to call him.

After a week of daydreaming how sweet the room was I call back the Saloon to confirm my reservation. A mere formality right? Not so fast Jack. The owner picks up, and I confidently tell him who I am. He says he remembers me and then abruptly says I can't use the room. This whole conversation lasts roughly 10 seconds and no explanations were offered. All dressed up... with no place to go.

Kiss my yellow ass Saloon. My friends and I will just have to take our business elsewhere. And no, I'm not bitter. Now where the hell did I put my can of Bud Light?

Rad things I saw this past week.

Ah, nostalgia....as comforting as hot chocolate on a brisk Sunday morning and cheesy as the bottom of a plate of half eaten nachos.

1) On Wednesday around 11:15 am, a flat bed truck carrying a silver DeLorean rocketed past me somewhere in the vicinity of Dupont Circle and McPherson Square in DC. I immediately thought how much I could have won if I placed $500 on the Giants to win the Superbowl in September of 2007.

2) While running in Rock Creek Park on Saturday morning I passed by a guy wearing a St. Olaf College hooded sweatshirt. As a die-hard fan of the Golden Girls (what?), I was tempted to ask him if he had any "Back in St. Olaf..." stories like Betty White used to have. Unfortunately I was out of breath and he probably couldn't tell a Rose Nyland from a Blanche Devereaux any way (what?).

3) Sunday at around 5:00pm walking down Wisconsin Avenue in the heart of Georgetown, a Corvette convertible (with top down), driven by a gray haired man probably in his 50s, was blaring an unmistakable mid 80s Madonna hit. As my friend noted upon seeing this... "That guy just doesn't give a shit."