One of the saddest things I know is when a friendly neighborhood bar is "discovered" by the cool set and transformed into a meet-my-meat market. Such is the case with my local watering hole. Chi-cha is the kind of place where characters in sitcoms while away endless comedic hours, with its overstuffed chairs and low-key jazz ambience. Many of us in the neighborhood looked at Chi-cha as an island of sensible cool in the manufactured funzone of the Adams-Morgan bar scene.

Then, as is always the case with unspoiled environments, Chi-Cha was located and marauded by forces eager to exploit its indigenous riches. The barretted and Beemered Georgetown crowd, following on the heels of fearless nightspot scouts at the Washington City Paper, sent wave after wave of eager hepsters to denude Chi-Cha of its charm and install indoor radio transceivers to radiate high frequency Attitude directly into the brains of anyone walking through the front door.

I didn't realize how bad things were until I walked into Chi-Cha last night with Susan her next door neighbor, unionized labor economist John. As a consultant, I had been experimenting with varying my personal hygiene habits and dress code to see if it affected my productivity. I was wearing a hat to cover my disgusting, unwashed locks, when two goateed thugs in Chi-Cha's employ accosted me and told me to doff my lid. I laughed at first, assuming that this was some sort of insider joke that my slack-jawed waitrons were playing, but they were dreadfully, drearily serious in their enforcement of Chi-Cha's new "no hats" policy.

"It's just that we want it to be the kind of place where people can relax, like a lounge," one explained in a programmed monotone, as I passed quickly from incredulity to Anger. I explained that I hadn't washed my hair, and that hiding my embarrassing lack of cleanliness under the hat was a necessary component of my relaxation. A furious argument resulted. While I was debating this obvious affront to my personal liberties, Susan and John had casually abandoned my side and were moseying over to a quiet corner, anticipating my eventual defeat. And defeated I was, although it took me a few minutes to chill out enough to even consider starting the process of getting drunk.

Chi-Cha's owner Mauricio, whom we've known since our early Chi-Cha days, eventually came out to chat with us and quell my remaining fume. Even as he was explaining the nonsensical reasons behind the hat ban, I could feel my last lingering ties to Chi-Cha withering away. It dawned on me that this might be my last Chi-Cha gin and tonic, or at least my second-to-last. Mauricio threw us a bone by giving us some stuff he'd received for a Bass Ale promo... hats. He gave us fucking hats! Okay, they were nice hats. And he could have had my ass thrown out instead of giving me a hat. I admit that.

But still, my soul is not at rest. Cities are like enormous social engineering machines designed to obliterate earnest ties between people and replace them with cold contracts. Living in Washington, we're in constant danger of losing the will to participate in the human community. The neighborhood bar, full of connected, caring locals, is one of the last bastions of shared social space, the kind of place where revolutions begin.

Later, as we sat around commiserating on this topic with stylish exec and untapped phone-sex maven Inga, we resolved that finding a new local hangout was the next order of personal business. The work would begin immediately, and we would not stop until we had once again settled into a quiet, unpretentious corner of someplace we could belong.