Bad Satan

Now I don't want to get off a month-ending rant here, but is it just me or does the new Red Room at Summers look like Bad Satan and Bad Santa got together on a Friday after work, drank a couple of Jaeger bombs, had a few bear fights, scarfed down a couple of six-month old fruit cakes, maybe even mixed it up with a couple of elves and then forgot they were in the coolest bar in Arlington so they proceeded to projectile vomit all over the walls in the back room in a violently grotesque and nauseating pattern?

On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner, on whoever painted this room must have been Blitzened.

Seriously, the new Red Room at Summers is the ugliest thing I've seen since I mistakenly looked at myself in the mirror this morning.

Anyone think the new Red Room at Summers is an improvement? I call B.S., but let us know at slumlogger@gmail.com.

Rock the Red, White and Blue

I do so few things right, and so few things that are nice, that I would like to recognize some people that do. On this Memorial Day, I would like to give a shout out to the men and women of our Armed Forces. The people that defend this country and afford me the liberty to make an ass out of myself at the place I like to consider the pinnacle of that freedom they defend, Summers.

Monkey See, Monkey Design a Space Back-Asswards*

Now I don't want to get off on another rant here, which is good, because it is Tuesday and if I continue to rant at this pace, I'm going to run out of things to say before S.H.I.T arrives.

As my esteemed colleague has taken to doing in these pages, I'm going to give a shout out to Summers. Summers, in my humble opinion, is not the worst designed place ever.

Granted, it is designed in the shape of a big giant U which is like the least effective shape for a bar ever, but it is not nearly as bad as the Giant Food Store at the north end of Old Town. It is designed in the shape of a giant F, and only dreams of being a U. But as it stands, the aisles extend all the way from the front of the store to the back. And the aisles are narrow. You can't squeeze by anybody, you have to back up all the way down the aisle.

Kind of like when you see Mya is working the bar.

You don't make eye contact, you don't turn around for fear your movement will draw her attention, you just back straight up and slide on out the door.


* - Legal Disclaimer. My attorney, Michael Green, Esq. has informed me that I need to alert my readers that I am writing this post sober, in clear violation of the terms of my contract. To limit my liability it was also suggested that I apologize for not being genuinely funny.

REO Bandwagon

You know what I hate more than REO Speedwagon? REO Bandwagon.

Now I don't want to get off on yet another rant here, but there are few things I hate more than bandwagon fans. Maybe I'm just bitter because I hate Chris Pronger more than any defenceman since Mike Green, and I hate Daniel Briere because he's more of a traitor than Chris Drury, but where in the hell were Flyers fans all season?

I mean jay-sus, I have a harder time finding Flyers fans than I do finding my house keys after a night of hitting Happy Hour at Cafe Asia and drinking half-price sake and then trying to stumble home and tripping down the incline on Courthouse Road and rolling into a construction site at the intersection of Courthouse Road & Route 50, and being forced to remove my pants because they're all covered in vomit and mud, and the mud I can explain easily, becuase I tripped over one of the sprinkler heads of the Courthouse Vista complex, but the vomit, not so much, but I swear it is because the waitress spiked my sake because I know it tasted funny, and finding that I fell into the same trench that was dug for the hi-speed internet for all the white-collar snobs living in that complex and then having to high-tail it home because I tried to water one of the plants of some stuck-up tenant stupid enough to live on the first floor , and then realizing that my apartment keys are in the pocket of the same pants in the same trench guarded by an aggressive english boxer out for a midnight stroll because his master fed him chocolate, and then realizing I have to go back, without any pants, and might I add without any dignity, and still realizing I can't find my pants or my keys because its raining and the trench is full of mud and I'm just looking for shelter from the storm, and yet as I claw through the mud like I'm Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption and I'm trying to escape from prison, I realize I will find my keys eventually.

It also dawns on me, that even if I work this hard, I'll never find a true Flyers fan again.

Who says you can't learn anything at the Ballston Mall?

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the Summers staff for being so well-trained.  Maybe I should be thanking Joe Daddy for training them, but I’m not sure how much he really had to do with it.  So, the staff gets the credit.  Now before you spit out your dirty beer in shock and disgust, allow me to explain.  Friday night, a couple friends and I found ourselves carousing down Clarendon Boulevard with a pocketful of stinky pinky sunshine and, embarrassingly enough, no proper device to bring the party to the people.  Since girls don’t generally carry knives, the old hippie standby of carving something out of a fruit or vegetable was right out, as was poking holes in a bent-up can.  Besides, we also didn’t have fruit, vegetables, or a can.  And even if we had, that’s a lot of work.  Then, in a mighty flash the solution presented itself: Aluminum foil.  But what kind of place would hand out aluminum foil immediately upon request, no-questions-asked, to someone who just walked in off the street and didn’t even sit down or pretend to be a customer?  Summers, that’s what kind of place.  It worked out perfectly because at 9:30 on a Friday night, the only people in the new RedRum were the Karaoke Idiot (beltless), his Four Lonely Microphones, half a dozen colored Strobe Lights, a Disco Ball, and two teenagers sucking face at a back table.  And then there was Mya, standing attentively behind the bar, empty glasses at the ready, just in case a tour bus dropped by.  I flagged her down with a grin and politely asked for some foil.  She sprung straight up like a kindergartener at a fire drill, (“Sure!  No Problem!  Okay!  Sure!  Be Right Back!”), and in 10 seconds returned to regale me with enough foil to wrap a 15-pound turkey.  Now that’s service!  I thanked her sincerely and bounded back out into the street, where I can now thank the dark woods behind Colonial Village for providing the other necessity of our evening’s interlude.

A Hockey Game, A Hockey Game, My Kingdom for a Hockey Game!

Now, I don't want to get off on another rant here, but how hard is it to put a hockey game on one of your televisions? I mean H-E-Double Hockey Sticks, you're a sports bar for Christ's sake. Granted, there are some narrow-minded philistines that don't even think hockey is a sport (yeah mom, I'm looking at you. hockey is more of a sport than figure skating is. hockey players skate and do sowcows and kick ass. for any doubt, look at jerome iginla).

On the other hand, there are several more open-minded individuals who appreciate the sport of hockey (although, let's be honest, they're totally ovechkin bandwagon fans. and dont understand the concept of a penalty. or what a team needs to do win in the playoffs).

Despite the fact that these people want to come in and drink your beer, and drink it night after night, you drag your gigantic javelin-throwing feet up the stairs from your basement of broken dreams and try and charm your disgruntled customers with your half-baked excuses.

"Heyyyy. No hockey tonight. Watch CNN. The US invaded Malta."

Take a tip from the people who run The Penalty Box in Old Town. I walk in and ask for a hockey game and its on, and I can get a little more volume if I want. Plus, they have Blue in bottles, every night of the week. Not just on Wednesdays, like a certain establishment in Arlington.

World Cup Haikus

Everyone at Summers is getting really excited about the 2010 FIFA World Cup which will begin in just a few short weeks.  Joe is getting the cave all gussied up with red paint, and I hear he's having new t-shirts made for the staff to wear.  World Cup sure is an inspirational event!  Lately I've even found some random, somewhat mysterious haikus lying around in the dark corners of the restaurant, so I thought I'd share.

World Cup is coming
Time to refill the hand soap
From four years ago

Servers are busy
Sonny will take your order
Hooray for World Cup

World Cup is starting
Wipe this lipstick off my dick
Dust off the bar stools

***
Aren't these some of the most festive haikus you could imagine?  Joe gets a special twinkle in his eye this time of year.  If you see any more poetry lying around, please let us know.

You Can Kiss My Ascot

Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but who the hell wears an ascot into Summers?

Having just read Rene Descartes' "Discourse on Method" I now know my first question should have been who the hell actually wears an ascot out in public?

I hate to rush to judgement because I like to consider myself an open-minded and flexible person. Maybe he likes to wear an ascot. Maybe he's from England. Maybe he's the world's worst tie tier and he just sort of bunched it up and shoved it down the front of his button-down Oxford.

Open-mindedness aside, Summers is no place for ascots. Hell, I feel like a Narc every time I walk into Summers wearing a tie. Honestly, I feel like a Narc when I'm wearing pants in Summers. Summers isn't a very welcoming place.

I certainly don't welcome someone wearing an ascot.

I also don't welcome someone that tells the bartender how to make a drink and then gets into an argument about how a slice of lemon is different from a twist of lemon. I don't care if you're a professor or a Doctor of Drink Garnishments, that kind of talk has no place in Summers.

Summers is for the people.

And if you ask me why I know what an ascot is, I'll kick your ascot.

I Didn't Know The Sandman was Orange

Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but what the hell is up with Philadelphia Flyers fans? Doesn't everyone know that Summers is a Washington Capitals bar? Sure, the Caps didn't show up in the playoffs, but that fits in perfectly with the Summers theme considering that most nights people don't show up there either. On the other hand, don't think for one second that throwing on a ratty Flyers jersey and waving a tattered old flag is going to draw in the crowds either. They're not saying "Boucher", they're saying "Boo. Sit down old man. Get a hair cut. Wash the giant orange fist every once in a while before you bring it to Summers. This is a respectable establishment."

Well, its not a respectable establishment with my parents or the people I work with, but its my respectable establishment. And I don't like Flyers fans. Or Sabres fans. Granted, everyone is allowed to cheer for their team and hoot and holler and get a little out of control, but not on Wednesday. Not on Molson Candian Night. Have some respect.

Summers Beautification Project Underway

It appears as though the Summers back bar is undergoing some kind of paint job.  The back bar is being painted blood red, in what was described by Joe as a strategic move to contrast with the green bar up front.  Maybe he was starting to feel guilty about making all those environmental claims back on Earth Day, and decided to use this gruesome paint color to reflect the real story.  Regardless, it ought to be interesting, as the executive decision was made to forgo the traditional, professionally advised use of a tinted primer (or any primer for that matter) in favor of the "three coats" approach.  Anyone who has ever attempted to paint anything red (obviously not Joe), especially over top of a darker color, should be able to see where this is heading.  The good news is that blood red walls do have the proven effect of stimulating appetite in humans.

After the walls have been butchered, so to speak, there is a plan in the works to paint the ceiling a rusty orange color called Gingerbread something-or-other.  Joe explained to me that this was being done because the metal frame for the ceiling tiles is "already stained that color anyway."  How sensible.  The current plan is to just paint over the decades-old ceiling tile.  Bye-bye mold!  Black mold is kinda like monsters in your closet: the more you believe they exist, the more they will try to get you.

Stay tuned for updates as the renovation carries on!

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