A Manifesto
- When you walk by the Russian embassy and Sergei (if that his real name) eyes you and your "re-usable non-state issued Whole Foods bag" for the 1234th time.
- When a bunch of shirtless drunk American University students put a television outside on their front lawn and begin a heated DDR tournament until 3 in the morning. You want to complain about the noise, but, well, you don't.
- When the neighborhood cab driver wears a red, white and freakin' blue sweat band around his bald head and a wife beater to work everyday.
- When you walk by Guy Mason Park late at night to see a group of nev'r-do-wells playing wiffle ball and drinking Jeremiah Weed.
- When you've seen enough brightly-colored khaki pants embroidered with various species of marine life that you begin to think that the whales don't need to be saved anymore. Glover Park does.
Just northwest of Georgetown is a neighborhood. Maybe you've seen it before. There's an Indian joint, a sushi joint, a beautifully manicured ballfield, and a strip club ironically titled "Good Guys." There are buses and flip flops and a farmer's market. There's life up here, man. I say Glover Park is the cultural Marshall's Department store of Northwest. We got everything all mixed together and if you look long enough, you see some pretty sweet deals next to two season old Liz Claiborne pants suits. We got boat shoes, expensive bicycles, and attractive professionals. We have gay men. We have a lot of yoga mats, laundromats, and diplomats. We have the National Cathedral. We have Two Amy's.
There's no telling what you might see climbing the hill passed the maindrag (yeah, I said it, drag) on a given day.
This blog is here to show you what you get when you throw together Georgetown graduates, organic-eating progressives, madras plaid, ex-hipster gone family vehicle driving folks into a few square miles.
This ain't Georgetown, Mo. This is Glover Park.
We now have a Chipotle, btw.
