It is business as usual at the Hampton Lounge on a random Tuesday evening toward the close of this most regrettable year, two-thousand and fourteen. The Hampton is an upscale martini bar which ekes out its meager existence amid the raunchy nightclubs of Washington, DC’s Adams Morgan strip. Tourists mostly avoid the Hampton which offers no entertainment, unless the term is defined to include staring drunk-eyed at the widescreen above the bar or at the patrons themselves, as sorry a group of aging hipsters as you’ll ever encounter.

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