I'm a Member of the Mile High Club

Wikipedia says (so it much be true) that "The Mile High Club (or MHC) (<-- Seriously? MHC? It needs an acronym?) is a slang term applied collectively to individuals who have sex while on board an aircraft in flight."

Question: When was the last time you were in an airplane, and you were cruising at 5,280 feet? Probably NEVER. Because if you were, you'd CRASH right into the ROCKY MOUNTAINS. And it would be about half-way up the mountain, not just grazing the peak and rolling down the other side. No... you'd go SPLAT! Right into the side.

If being a member of the "MHC" (<-- so lame) means you've boned at a mile high, well, then, I'm a member, and have been for longer than I'd like to admit. Growing up at 6,700 feet will do a lot of things for you:

• Give you amazing stamina for sports/running/marathon-between-the-sheet nights due to the lack of oxygen your brain gets from being up so high
• The sun in a friendly reminder that it's hot. put some damn sunscreen on because you're 6,700 feet closer to the sun than you would be if you were at the beach and damn that shit is hot and intense.
• There's nothing to do above 5,280 feet because there are no decent sized cities, so you learn how to drink, and drink a lot.
• On the bright side, you can really booze it up if you even get down to sea-level.

I had a point to this post... oh! right. The MHC is lame and untrue and you don't have to bone in the micro-shitter on a plane to be a "member." How does that conversation go, anyway? "Hey... wanna put your ass on the counter inside that bathroom by aisle 24?" "Only if you're foot goes in the toilet" "But then it'll turn blue!" "Whatever, douche, my ass will forever be infected. "Oh hang on, I think that fat guy is taking a crap in there. He's been in there for a long-ass time" "Speaking of asses... get on the counter, biotch!" Ew. diseases. Gross.

And also, every single person I grew up with is also a member due to the need to entertain ourselves because the town was so small, and because we lived at such a high altitude. And when you have nothing to do at 16... you drink. Then eventually, you bone. It's the natural progression of things.

Mile High Club my disease-infested-ass.

Inside the Beltway

Washington D.C. is an amazing town. It's where laws are debated, passed, and vetoed. It was designed to be the most intimidating city on the planet (and actually IS the most intimidating city on the planet). It holds almost as much history as Jamestown, Virginia (the first English settlement in America, for you non-American-history peeps), and it has some of the best museums in America honoring people and cultures from all over the world.
Even though I was there for work, and was stuck in conference rooms for the majority of the time I was there, I still managed to get out and have a blast (sacrificing sleep in the process). Seriously. Here's my timeline (and I'm not sure how I survived):

• Friday
• Arrive at 6pm
• Dinner at 7pm
• Drinks until 4am (totally excessive) Saturday
• Saturday
• Up at 10am
• Meeting from 12pm-9pm
• After dinner drinks til 10pm
• Excessive drinking until 2am Sunday
• Sunday
• Up at 6am
• Meeting from 7am-5pm
• Drinks at 6pm
• Dinner at 7pm
• Passed the **F** out at 11pm
• Monday
• Up at 6:30am
• Meeting from 8am to 12:30pm
• Lunch meeting from 12:30 to 2:30pm
• Depart for airport (to arrive back in CA at 11pm. HOWEVER...)
• Missed connection in Denver, stay night in Denver with old high school friend.
• In bed at 1am (3am East Coast Time) 
• Tuesday
• Up at 10am to catch 12:30 flight
• Home by 3pm

I. Might. Die.

However, the places I did all the excessive consumption is what makes DC amazing.

Old Ebbitts, the 4th busiest restaurant in the country, one of the oldest, open til 3am, with a late night menu starting at 11pm, the best bartender on the planet (Brian, the Scot who loves Reggae music) and not one, but THREE amazing bars to choose from. Also a standard stomping ground for Congress and the President (many of them).

Ceiba, only the best mojitos, shrimp and taco nachos and fish tacos in the city, and within walking distance from Old Ebbitt Grill and the White House.

The Robins Nest at the Willard Hotel, this is only the place where the term "lobbyist" was originated. There's enough history here to knock Mrs. Deveroux, by High School History Teacher over (and she wasn't a petite woman).

These are just a few.  There are more, but I will have to reserve them for another post. For now, I bid adieu to the place that has given me so many wonderful memories, so many sleepless nights, and rarely changes from year to year.