As Joe Englert and I take a taxi (he rarely drives because he thinks it's cheaper to take cabs, once you figure in parking tickets in D.C.) to Enology, the wine bar he co-owns with Adam Manson, I ask the businessman if this indeed has been an average day for him. After all, by my reckoning, here's his day (at least the parts I witnessed):

• Eat breakfast with sons, Henry and Alex
• Call a taxi and take Alex to school
• Play tennis with buddy Matt Weiss
• Sign a few documents in his office
• Play bubble hockey with me
• Share some rum shots
• Eat lunch and crack jokes at Argonaut
• Pick out china and flatware for the H Street Country Club
• Drink a small glass of black muscat at Enology
• Make phone calls

Yep, Englert says, this is pretty much an average day, though he's quick to remind me that he did get some documents notarized at the National Capital Bank of Washington, where he traded jabs with Vice President John Gordon, who wanted to know when Englert moved to D.C. It was 1984, Englert remembered, right after he gorged on Big Macs in Los Angeles when McDonald's was giving them away for every U.S. gold medal won during the Olympics. "That explains a lot," Gordon says dryly.

But Englert says that sometimes he goes from place to place, checking on the Internet jukeboxes at his bars and restaurants. He wants to make sure that some evil music hasn't been automatically downloaded onto the machines. "You can show up one day, and George Michael is on the jukebox," Englert says. "It's just not good for your place."

Joe Englert keeps teasing me about a blog item I wrote, calling for a moratorium on stories about the H Street Country Club until the place actually opens. Englert thinks that I secretly believe the indoor miniature golf/Tex-Mex joint will never open. As if to prove me wrong, we stop by the construction site so that Englert can help select china, drinking glasses, and flatware.

It takes all of three minutes to make the choices. The rest of the time is spent cruising the three-story (including roof) structure that will, no doubt, once it's finally built and open, become the hottest goddamn ticket on H Street NE. (See sketches below of some of the proposed holes.) Part of its appeal will be the Tex-Mex menu, conceived by Ann Cashion and executed by former Cashion's cook, Pablo Cardoso, who just happens to be on hand at the Country Club to explain both the sit-down menu and the bar menu. There will be, Cardoso says, lobster tostadas, homemade tamales, Mexican slaw with chicharones, lamb shank enchiladas, snapper Veracruz, gorditos, and a dessert pineapple chimichanga with Mexican vanilla ice cream.

The joint will also serve a decent line of Mexican beers, which will be available even on the 18-hole miniature golf course (nine holes on one level, another nine on the roof). Englert plans to have a putt-putt version of a beer cart, delivering cold ones to parched putters on the course.

Later, after we cross H Street NE and step inside the office that's overseeing beautification projects in the neighborhood, I ask Englert if he's not worried that construction will do to his businesses what construction did to those on P Street NW---almost ruin them. He brushes off the question and says there's already a shuttle bus that operates along H Street and that many patrons don't drive over, but take the Metro to Union Station. The operators here, he adds, have learned the sad lessons of P Street NW.

In other words, I'm just being a pain in the ass again.

All outward appearances to the contrary, Joe Englert is not some overgrown man-child. He's a pretty serious-minded businessman, of which I was reminded when we took a taxi cab to his second office just off H Street NE. While in the cab, we had an in-depth discussion about the politics (and cash) required to get a business up and running in the District. Believe me, Englert sheds any pretense to silliness when discussing permitting issues.

Englert's success in the bar and restaurant business, it seems, merely allows him to behave as he wants. Sometimes he plays the role of middle-aged game boy; other times, he takes on the persona of a college senior perpetually looking for the next party. Englert admits that he likes hanging out with young adults in their early 20s as well as seniors, those who have a good eight decades under their belts. Everyone else seems a bore to him, just more workaday drones with no sense of humor and no willingness to drink at noon.

Which brings me back to Englert's H Street office, which was once a plumbing supply store. The space is actually more than an office. It's also the living quarters of Englert's nephew, Travis Englert, who has a very cool one-room apartment upstairs.  The first floor looks more conventional by contrast: big leather chairs and sofa, a desk, a wall of books.

But as Englert is showing me around, he pops open a bookshelf, haunted castle-style, to reveal a secret speakeasy behind the wall. There, inside, is a battered old bar. Several bottles of liquor sit on the shelves. A cooler is stocked with beer. This, says Englert, is where he conducts business when on H Street NE.

Then he insists that we have a shot. He pulls down a bottle of dark rum from Guatemala and pours a finger for me and his two construction workers/drinking buds, Steve and Josh. He pours three fingers for himself. The rum goes down sweet and smooth. It's only around noon, and I already have a slight buzz.

This, I think, is the price for hanging around Joe Englert.

Andrew Beaujon can finally go home, and so can everyone else at the NEA: Flanigan leaves with her to-do list unfinished. At my request she reviews the day's progress. About a third of the list done. But they've decided on a lot of action items, and tomorrow there won't be a pain in the ass reporter asking for clarifications and repeats of info. On the way out we talk about the perilous state of arts budgets as states deal with the economy--what if there's no one to work with in a year? Still Flanigan isn't too worried that the as-yet unnamed new NEA director will cut her program--it gets a lot of pop for the relatively small cost.

She's off home via the red line to Silver Spring. And my goddamn my bike's still locked up outside the Starbucks on 11th Street NW. I'll have that coffee i was needing and head home myself. Also just heard that one of our theater critics got an NEA Arts Journalism Fellowship today. Have to assume my work here today played a part! Congrats Glen.

What's a more depressing happy-hour hangout on your average Thursday: A sports club at 5 p.m., or a strip club at the same time? At Fast Eddies/Archibalds, the double threat located at 1520 K Street NW, we find out!

UPSTAIRS: Fast Eddies, sports bar. At 5 o'clock, a guy in a suit is alone at the bar, save for a Miller Light, a plate of french fries, and the bartender, who sits on the wrong side of her job to plug quarters into the video poker machine. A couple women sit in the back with coats draped over their shoulders and six-inch heels strapped to their feet. A row of televisions above the bar show no sports in this sports bar---just some muted talking heads and an infomercial for the no-break, no-bend, money-back-guarantee "SlimClip." (You put dollars in it). When a regular comes in asking for a vodka martini, dirty, the bartender reclaims her station to tell him to reconsider: She can't make it dirty, and besides, the shot glass is bigger than the martini glass anyway. He gets a straight shot of vodka and sits down.

DOWNSTAIRS: Archibald's can make it dirty. Depression? Recession? Marriage? Not at Archibalds, where all the women all naked, garterbelts are overflowing, and everyone---especially the eccentric man in the vest standing very close to that dancing woman---is smiling. One middle-aged patron, who has a stripper in his right hand and a wedding ring on his left, only appears depressed when he has to say goodbye.

Archibald's is a "gentleman's club," and its bustling economy depends on the strange gender dynamics at play. Like any bar, there are about equal numbers of men and women here. The only difference is that when a woman talks to a man, he's expected to provide her a regular stream of cash. Also, boobs.

All the women here---the women in the schoolgirl uniforms passing drinks, the ones shimmying on stage one and two, and myself---are getting paid. When I enter, the bouncer doesn't even think to card me. Later, he asks for my ID and admits that he had mistakenly assumed that I worked there. Despite the very overt female presence, some of the men here say that they actually come to avoid women---their wives and girlfriends, of course, but possible dates, too. I sit down at a table with four collared-shirted businessmen who are taking turns rising, trotting over to the main stage, and depositing a dollar bill in the band wrapped tight around the stripper's thigh. I apologize for ruining their game. "Don't worry---My game just keeps on going," one of the men tells me. Later, he admits that the real game hasn't even started yet. The four men are just making a quick stop at Archibald's before happy hour. Soon, they'll head to Clarenden, where they'll actually try to pick up women.

When the main-stage stripper has finished removing her clothes and then putting them back on, she stops at our table and introduces herself as Tabbitha. She tells me I've come to the wrong place if I'm looking for an average strip club---Archibald's employees are "prettier and nicer" than most D.C. clubs. "I've heard that Camelot is supposed to have the most beautiful girls, but I've been there, and I just don't think that's true anymore," she says. Plus, Archibald's women skimp on the attitude. "We just don't deal with the diva thing here," she says. "The dancers, the customers, everyone is very, very nice, and that's really important to me. There's no weird stuff. There's no funny business. It's just a nice place."

One of the businessmen puts his arm around Tabbitha and slips her a bill. "What, you want change?" she says, rifling through her stack of ones. The man laughs like a boy. His friend leans over and informs the table: "You know, some of the girls even meet their husbands here," he says---indicating that not all of Archibald's clientelle come here to escape average life.

When Joe Englert goes to work, he doesn't drive to some sterile office building in Arlington. After a game of tennis with friend Matt Weiss, Englert is chauffeured to work in Weiss' black Lexus. His office? It's a converted garage on Capitol Hill, where Englert's modest desk takes up a tiny fraction of the space. The rest is filled with pinball machines, Pittsburgh memorabilia (Englert's hometown), a TV lounge, a diner booth, a collection of random signs and souvenirs, a Ping-Pong table, and a bubble hockey game.

Englert does seem to perform work while in the office. He reviews extremely detailed variance reports from his various properties, trying to figure out if there's some suspiciously missing liquor. He also signs a few documents handed to him by his long-suffering assistant, Cheryl Webb, who plays the disapproving mother role to Englert's perpetual adolescent. Webb even hands Englert the latest paperwork from the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board, which has approved licenses for three new ventures: Joe's Coal & Ice House (a barbecue joint on H Street NE), Vendetta (an Italian restaurant on H Street  NE), and an unnamed po' boy shop on Capitol Hill.

I press Englert about the po' boy joint, since I haven't heard about it before. He won't say much other than to note that it will include the services of Dr. Granville Moore's chef Teddy Folkman and a well-known local chef. I try to guess the chef. I guess right, but he won't let me print the name.

Did I mention that Englert likes to play games? He swears he's a very good table-tennis player and that, given the right opponent, he can even turn it into a work-out. But while I'm there, he challenges me to a game of bubble hockey. It takes me awhile to master the handles and knobs, which allows Englert to jump to a quick 3-1 lead. But I score again, and Englert taunts me that I need to make another soon to force overtime. I'm resigned to losing---until I flip my wrist and, much to my surprise, I score again to tie the score at 3.

Just seconds into overtime, however, Englert smacks one by my goalie. He whoops as if he just won the Stanley Cup.

Peter Nickles' average day lasted longer than yours: He got up at 4:30 a.m. and went for his traditaional swim. Nickles, famous for marthoning and triathloning---and also Blackberrying, even at 70!---has had trouble with his knees in recent days, forcing him to quit running. After embarkring on more biking and swimming, however, "my knees are feeling better," he says. 

There could be a comeback!

By Mike DeBonis

It's 5:15 p.m. In other words, dinner time! Terrace Dining Room (TDR) is AU's dining hall. Beloved by some, reviled by more, tolerated by all. On the menu tonight is the average array of soul food (African pork roast, wtf?), vegan legume-based side dishes and  the all-you-can-eat ice cream bar. Substitutions: grilled cheese instead of chicken at the "American Grill" station.

With only one unfried-entree dining option (who want's an Einstein bagel for dinner?) open to students, the likelihood of bumping into last week's hook-up is well above average. But, bent forks and fiestaware aside, the atmosphere is communal - all the students descending on the salad bar and carving station between 5 and 8 p.m., all of Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity bursting into "I Want It That Way" at 5:30 p.m. on the dot. The atmosphere is comfortable, familiar. Which means, fraternizing with friends in a comfort food coma, people will say the darndest things.

5:41 p.m. "I don't wanna smell your cheap cologne while I'm trying to eat, Eurotrash."

5:55 Girl waiting in line for stir fry - "This is just a shit TDR night."

5:57 "Once you poop yourself, I'm gonna wipe it all  over you!"

6:05 "Chocolate bread! Chocolate bread! Yeeeaaaaah, WHAT!?"

6:15 "Are you gonna, like, spoonfeed her?"

6:18 "He reeked of alcohol. He was passing out in my bed! Like, why would someone do that? He doesn't appreciate me."

6:29 Dude #1, "So what's good?"  Dude #2, "Nothing."  #1, "No, that's just TDR."

6:30 "I'll catch it in my mouth! Dude, I swear, I'll catch it in my mouth! Throw it, like a Frisbee. LIKE A FRIS- Ow!"

6:33 "If I'm not mistaken, that's Rudy's favorite sauce!"

UPDATES...

6:36 "Hey, go find a girl to make-out with. You cheat on your girlfriend, you sack of shit!... HOME. WRECKER."

6:42 "I just don't feel like girls get on each other like guys do."

6:50 "Have you ever watched The Land Before Time? You'd be Petrie! You definitely would...So what's the little duck? No you're Petrie, you really are. You're Petrie."

6:59 "Moment of truth - African pork... Mmm."

6:59 "It's black people. Black people at American."

7:00 [From the Petrie gallery] "I'm still debating the dinosaur question."

7:02 "I just spilled fruit punch on my crotch. Awesome..." [Drinks some punch.] "And the fruit punch is fuckin' warm, too. What the fuck."

He's better known for his ability to keep the District's twentysomethings entertained and well-lubricated, whether at the Capitol Lounge or at one of his playpens on H Street NE. But Joe Englert's preferred form of fun includes a morning tennis match, often against his sometime business partner and Lounge 201 owner Matt Weiss (both picture here in an extremely crappy shot).

Weiss is the superior player. He has a killer serve. He hits harder, and he's not carrying around an extra 20 pounds in belly fat, like his opponent. But Englert is a master at mind games. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for with sheer cunning. Englert knows how to get under your skin. Every time he wins a point, he releases a vocal torrent that sounds something like this: Whooo-waa-waa-waa-waa!" It's Englert's version of Nelson's two-toned taunt on The Simpsons.

But Englert has other tricks, too, particularly when he's losing. At one point, when Weiss has a seven-point lead, Englert starts his serve with this announcement, "9-2, Douche-bag."

"Did you say Jew boy?" Weiss shot back. "I'm sensitive about that."

After losing to Weiss, 15-13, when his opponent allows a soft lob to land out of bounds, Englert complains, "That wasn't sporting at all."

Englert is apparently looking for favors.

If Englert is prone to teasing on the court, he says that at least one fellow player at the East Potomac Tennis Center can dish it right back. There's a Chinese gentleman who plays in his street clothes. Seriously. This morning he was wearing black slacks, a dress shirt, and black rubber-soled shoes. He likes to give people shit, particularly Englert.

Englert says the man likes to ask him: "Why you so fat? You play every day!"

Jerry Carter runs the workout room at the Armed Forces Retirement Home.

It's a huge and impressive facility, with all the free weights and strength and cardio machines any gym manager could want.

But at least one thing separates Carter's workplace from a typical gym: The average age of residents at the Retirement Home is 83, Carter says.

So something called Osteo-balls, which are basically beach balls with handles and are designed to improve flexibility, are a much hotter attraction than the 50-pound dumbells.

On an average day, the gym is most crowded during the morning Osteo-ball class.

He loves the work.

"I've got a theory: Just keep them in motion," Carter says. "When I see people move in here, and see their attitude and the whole mental part change from coming [to the gym], see them start doing things they thought they couldn't do, start to want to ride bicycles here and get outside to ride bicycles, that gets me going. And I see it all the time."

Because of the demographic of his customer base, Carter has to look after his patrons a lot closer than most guys who run gyms. He's trained in several forms of lifesaving, he says.

Just in case.

"If they fall, we're ready," he says.

Nobody's died in the gym during Carter's five years of managing it.

Portrait of a Student as a Young Rapper

Alonzo is an aspiring rapper. He's originally from Bed-Stuy (like Biggie!), but now resides in Petworth. Around 3:30 p.m. today, we catch him hanging by the entrance to the Tenleytown Metro Station with his friends. As he raps, a friend records the song.

Brockett says he's been out of class since 11 a.m. He's a senior, and he doesn't have very many credits left to graduate. Some days, he and his pals "hit up Chipotle." Maybe later, they'll go to Union Station, a good spot for checking out the ladies.

Portrait of a Student as a Young Fashionista

Traivr (left) is a sophomore. We found her hanging out near the front of Domino's---$2 pizza slices!---on Wisconsin Avenue. Like her glasses? They were handed out today for a movie she saw at the Newseum with her history class.

Portrait of a Student as a Young...Student

This is Amadeo, a sophomore. At the moment, he's waiting for a bus to take him to Chevy Chase, where he works at the Broad Branch Market. School was "horrible," he says. And tomorrow won't be much better: He's got three exams and he won't be able to start studying for them until 8 p.m., after work.

Images by Darrow Montgomery

More on City Administrator Dan Tangherlini's budget powwows. Post lunch, the city's top day-to-day manager had three additional rounds of discussions with agency directors on money---first with the Office of Property Management (OPM). "We need to find savings everywhere we can," said Tangherlini to OPM Director Robin-Eve Jasper. "We're doing to look to you for a lot of help."

More than an hour later, the brass from the Fire and Emergency Medical Services agency arrived---Chief Dennis Rubin and two assistants, all of whom are gloriously mustachioed white guys. Dan Tan's message to Rubin: "What is the core mission and function? What are the things that protect lives? What are the things that we've inherited, longstanding practices that we can look at?"

Just before a reporter for Average Day got kicked out of the room, Rubin said, in describing possible savings, "We feel like there's somewhere between $3 and $5 million in auto accidents." Now, does figure encompass departmental vehicles? Don't know---we got the hook.

Dan Tan is now deep in a skull session with University of the District of Columbia executives, including new President Allen Sessoms.

By Mike DeBonis

A blonde haired student picks up her Blackberry. It's another e-mail from Match.com.

"It's not for me," the Catholic University student quickly points out. "It's for my mom."

Justine G. (how she asked to be identified to keep up a "positive image" in her Google search results) is a sophomore media studies major from Allentown, PA. She has secretly signed her mother up for the dating website. She filled out a question form, but it has not posted any photos yet.

"I don't really want any divorced guys for my mom, not that there's anything wrong with it," said Justine.

She was surprised to see that there are CUA students on the website.

Justine describes the dating website as "like Facebook for old people" as she sits by a computer in the yearbook office (she's co-editor) and scrolls through profile after profile of possible digital date prospects.

Here are her thoughts on potential suitors for her maternal unit:

"He studied Vietnam, I like Vietnam!"

"The funny stuff is the turn-ons, it's kind of gross."

"You have to read the jobs, that's what is important."

"He's only separated though, you can't be on here and be separated, that's not how it works."

Some of the pictures are "from like 20 years ago" said Justine.

"He's a Buddhist though, that's not going to work."

"Some of them have kids and I was like, oh I could have a brother, I could have a younger sister!"

"Me and my roommate sat on here for like two hours. You know that's not the real person though, that's the only thing."

"I want a professor to be on here so bad, you have no idea."

UPDATE (5:40 p.m.)

Justine plans to print out a number of the profiles (using a free university printer, of course) and present them to her mom over spring break. "It's going to be a surprise."

UPDATE (5:46 p.m.)

On this article: "It reads like an Onion article," says Justine.