Currently Chasing: Massachusetts Ave NW

So Saturday was my birthday. My girl D (and I should just call her Double D because she’s got huge, um, academic degrees) decides to take me to a Dane Cook comedy show. Granted, I saw the same show a few months back, but you can never get too much DC. That’s what I always say. Only, I was wrong.

You see, DC takes on a whole new meaning when you are referring to the mutha fuckin District of Columbia. And trust me; you can get too much of it.

I offered to pick DD up seeing as though she bought the tickets and the Patriot Center is closer to where she lives. I drive there…get a little lost, freak out because I think I’m going to be late, park illegally outside of her apartment building. Put on my flashers and run to the 7-eleven to get some cash. Escape some dudes outside who look like they are looking to rape someone, get back in the car, get her in the car, and get on my way.

We arrive at the venue with plenty of time. We get some beers, find our seats (which were so close I could scream and he’d actually hear me) and we wait for the show to begin. And it does. Dane is a riot. He is mixing it up a little, although not too much. I am still able to call out the punch line before it actually comes, which annoys just about everyone around me. But I don’t give a shit because I’m an ultra mega fan so fuck them!

Then Dane starts to tell a joke and he says, shut up and listen and my drunk friend DD yells out, “No, you shut up!” And he turns and looks at her and says, “Really? Are we 9?” And I’m like, Holy fucking fuck! Dane is talking to you. He is interrupting his act to call you 9! This is fucking awesome.

So the show ends, people start walking out, and then he comes back on stage for an encore. I’m close to the stage at this point trying to get a picture. Which actually looks like a big blob of light. Is there a fucking App for a flash? Damn IPhone.

So security is pushing us back to our seats and DD yells, “It’s her birthday!”
He says, “Is it really your birthday?”
I say, “Yes.”
He says, “Well happy birthday.”
I say “Thank you.”

Security is still rushing my ass back to my seat.

He says, “They are my happy birthday crew.”
I say, “Yeah, they are about to take me down right here.”
He says, “Well go ahead and find your seat.”


And I do. And I can die now. Only not quite. Because I have to drive back to DC to take DD to her place. I do that. All is well. I think I know where I’m going and then it happens. Fucking Devil GPS tells me to take the 7th exit from the roundabout to Massachusetts Ave NW. Seriously? The 7th fucking exit? So I start counting. But I see a bunch of Massachusetts exits. So one by one I start taking them. And one by one I’m rerouted back to the mother fucking start of the roundabout. By about the 5th time (and by now it’ s totally a scene out of a Chevy Chase movie…”Look kids, it’s Big Ben!”) I literally just cry. I finally just pick a road and start driving. The GPS is out of control. Reroute, reroute. I don’t give a shit. I’m staying straight. Tears pouring out of my face.

Then I see it. A sign for a freeway. I make my way toward it, and then I see something else. A police officer with a flashlight motioning me over to the side. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

He asks me where I’m coming from. I can hardly remember the extraordinary night I’d had. All I can tell him is, I’m coming from Satan’s asshole. I need to get out of the city. I’m in a bad movie. Please help! He asks how much I’ve had to drink. Not enough I assure him. He can tell I’m desperate. He lets me go with some directions and a warning. I finally get on the freeway and begin to recognize civilization.

I wish the happy birthday crew would have ushered my ass all the way back home. Or at least down Massachusetts fucking Ave….NW!