I went out last night. Perhaps I should not have. Perhaps I should have. If there is a purpose to everything that happens I am trying to figure out what last night’s was. So let me give you some background on why I would go out in Washington, DC on a Monday night.
One of my close friends got fired yesterday for falling asleep on the job. Yes, yes, I know it seems very Dagwood Bumstead, however this happened for real and not in the comic strip “Blondie.” So like any red blooded American male, or any red blooded Hispanic male not marching, I decided to take him out to grab a couple of drinks. In retrospect, from past experiences with this person filling him with alcohol was not a very smart decision. However, because of the course of events, this decision would not come back to haunt me.
So what does one do with a recently unemployed, slightly robust, divorced friend? You take him to the one place where every man, at least for 5 minutes and a dollar, can feel desired—the strip club. Now this particular establishment is not one of those clubs that you read about in Maxim, FHM, or any other metrofratsexual rag that exploit man’s need to feel cool and self-important. No this place is located in a strip mall next to Peruvian Chicken restaurant and an auto parts store. Needless to say feature dancers there are few and far between. And so is good clientele. Which brings me to my next point. If you ever have a friend that is completely and utterly destroyed and depressed you can take him two places—this strip club or a soup kitchen; you will find the same people at both.
After the initial confusion and realizing that yes, in fact we were in strip club, and not some commercial for Derelict. We settled into a table, ordered two beers--that were priced like they contained a gallon of gas—and started to watch the “entertainment.” I use that word as loosely as possible, because I am not sure that you can qualify a girl walking angrily back and forth with a thong and pasties, picking up dollar bills. as she tries to remember whether she picked up milk for her kids’ breakfast as entertainment. Nonetheless, we are men so we decided to give it some time to see if it would get better—it did not. We paid our tab and left, blissfully ignoring that it was a Monday in Washington, DC.
Virgil commanded us to head to Georgetown. Within 20 minutes we were parked and headed to one of my favorite bars, Mr. Smith’s. As soon as we walked in something just seemed odd. I could not put my finger on what it was, but something was off. Was it that piano player? No, he actually sounded okay. Was it the beer? No the Kirin was cold and tasty? Was it the potato skins? No those were as delicious and as fattening as I remember. Was it the crowd? Hmmm, yes it was. While the bar was crowded it was all men. Now, I am given to hyperbole from time to time, but I swear this time I am not indulging. It literally was all men. Okay there were four women in the bar (well four women that did not work there) but the rest of the bar was all men. I looked at my buddy and said, “Can you believe that there is only men in here?” “Well, there are four women in here. And if you want, they are all big enough to count twice. So you can say you took me somewhere with eight women.” I declined his offer and we left.
Conventional wisdom would say that we should have cut our losses and gone home, but Virgil still had more to show me. Off we went to Old Glory. However, a funny thing happened on the way to Old Glory. We see a gaggle of Samanthas, Charlottes, Carries, and the occasional Miranda headed in opposite direction. So as Ron Burgundy says “When in Rome.” Quickly, our plan changes and we are headed somewhere else; not sure where, but it is not Old Glory. The Donner party ends their journey at Garrett’s; the sweet music from the Pied Piper compelled us to follow.
Granted we are in Georgetown but I felt like I walked into an
Marty Mcfly/Alex P. Keaton convention. Every guy was wearing a pink shirt—nothing wrong with that, look at my pics (well my shirt is more money then what they where wearing)—and a popped collar, or a pink shirt and blazer with patches. For the first time all night I thought I was having a lucid dream. But oh no, this was real. My friend and I sat down for a minute and then headed upstairs hoping for respite. That was not to happen. It seems like the popped collars had multiplied with every step. Now there weren’t just layered two deep, they were three, four deep, like some sort of Blake Carrington shirt hierarchy. We went back downstairs and asked one of the popped what this was all about. He said they were all Georgetown students and they were making fun of the way that others at Georgetown dressed and acted. Ah irony, I said to Luke Ward. I thanked him for the information, wished him good luck at his next polo match/lacrosse stripper party, told him to say hi to Muffy for me, and off I went.
Most normal people would call it a night, but I am good friend and I wanted to show my friend George Costanza a good time. I asked Virgil where was the next place to visit on our journey. To Midtown he said. Soon enough we were in Midtown and headed to Lucky Bar. Why Lucky Bar? Because from across the street we could see crowds of people headed in. And, well since the following a random crowd into Garrett’s worked so well, we figured we should do it again. We get to Lucky Bar and see a nice mix of men and women and no popped collars—jackpot. We walk in and hear some Regaton—not the best selection but beggars can’t be choosers—and then the DJ says something that I immediately recognize but my friend does not. I look around and notice that the only thing missing is McCain and Kennedy for this to be a full fledged rally. I am not as Brodie Bruce would claim a “textbook closet-case self loather.” I just was not in the mood to go all Ponch Poncherello on the dance floor, as my buddy fell into the rabbit hole of depression. Although, I tried to convince him that Hispanic women love their overweight “Papi Chulos.” We left the rally and decided that one more stop was in order.
I know at this point it feels like you are watching Mike Peters call Nikki after meeting her at the Dresden. You just want this train wreck to stop. But it keeps going. After a discussion on the merits of heading to the U street area vis-à-vis going to Hard Times in Springfield we decide that we should probably go somewhere closer to home. So Hard Times it is. We are there in 22 minutes and are immediately greeted by the familiar smell of beer, cigarettes and chili, and the sight of gangsta’s, underage kids, and people searching for things they will never find in bars (much like us—I know, ironic).
My buddy orders a beer and a tic-tac. I order a water and burger (yes I self medicate with food when I have had a LONG night) and immediately lose it. I have a Martin Lawrence meltdown and I just want to go home and forget that I have wasted 5 hours of my life that I will never get back. What prompted this? It could have been the midnight rape, the gay porn show in my room, no actually it was the presence of an Anna Nicole Smith impersonator walking in at 1:00 am on a Monday night at a bar where I was sitting knowing full well I had work the next morning. Was I truly that magnanimous that I would stay out all night with a buddy go through a tough time? Or, was this something deeper that caused me to not give up on the night? Was I like ANS and the rest of the people searching for something that I would never find in a bar? Nope, my burger came, it was delicious, and realized that like gay men my search that night had only been about meat and fodder for a blog full of pop culture references.
