Tonight’s a big night in DC. There’s Fashion’s Night Out, a big art party, some great concerts, late-night dance parties, etc.
We are all about heading out and having fun, especially on a Thursday night. (It is the new Friday, after all.) But while you’re out galavanting and downing one or eight cocktails (happy Thursday, everyone), heed Charles Bukowski’s tale of the worst hangover of his life, which may or may not involve a dead body and may or may not be the most entertaining of morning-after stories we’ve heard of late.
Plus, any story that starts out nonchalantly with “There’s the hotel where the guy dropped out of the window where I was sitting, you know?” is A-OK by us.