Holy Shit. That’s really all I have to say about this weekend.
Friday night, I deemed the “Night of Not Giving a Shit.” I wore some ridiculous outfit that I care to never speak of again, but let’s just say it included a wifebeater. This violates all my fashion rules, but it was fucking hot out and really, I just don’t care anymore. It was a pretty uneventful night out with the girls in Adam’s Morgan. Though, some guy did buy all of us shots, and I said, “You’re not from here, are you?” He said, “Nope. I live in Texas. How did you know? My cowboy boots?” No, but thanks for pointing them out because now I just got misty….down there. But I told him, “Because a guy here would never buy a random girl a drink.” He said, “Really?” Yeah dude, really.
I went home first, because, well, I hate Adam’s Morgan. If I wanted to be immersed in the type of crowd that frequents Adam’s Morgan, I would just find a way to go back to college. Ugh. I was happy to hear the Queen of Quantity say, “I’m fine with never going there again.”
Saturday night, as the contrarian, I deemed it the “Night of Giving a Shit” and dressed appropriately for a “couple drinks” at Chi-Cha with The Queen of Quantity. (You know a “couple drinks” means I got annihilated, right?) During the course of the evening, I developed a line to use on the guys that is so stupid but seemed to work. It rivals my prior use of the line, “Is your name Mike?” Let me rewind for a second, okay?
The year is 1992. The bar is in back country Connecticut, a watering hole where the yuppie kids go to get bombed. My friend Michelle and I go with a bunch of guy friends, and the place is packed. Michelle sees a guy she likes, and wants me to get him for her. I say, “Okay, I will.” I walk over, no clue what I’m going to say, then it hits me. “Are you Mike?” He says, “No.” I say, “Sorry about that. You look just like this guy I know named Mike.” Lie lie big fat lie. Then he says, “Well, my brother is named Mike…” And there you have it. Michelle pops by, I introduce them, and off they go. Except that she lost his interest, came back to me, and wanted to return the favor. I really wasn’t interested, but she liked the game, so I picked some guy out of the crowd. Michelle saunters up and says, “Is your name Mike?” He says, “Yeah.” And she ran away. So, maybe using the name Mike wasn’t the best among this crowd, all born in 1972 or 1973 when Mike was the most popular name.
Back to present day. My new line yielded all sorts of responses. It’s simple. The Queen of Quantity is going to be mad at me, cause she doesn’t want you bitches running up and down U Street using this line, okay? But the rest of the story falls flat if you don’t know the line. We have a patent pending in D.C., but the rest of you can use it in other parts of the country, and do report back on how it works? But you in D.C.? Off limits until our patent with the Patent & Trademark Shack Expires on July 31, 2006.
“Are you in a band?”
It’s soooooo stupid, but it works. The first guys we talked to started telling us they live in Philadelphia and were only here for the weekend. I told the Queen of Quantity what they were saying because she couldn’t hear them and she said, “Philly’s not that far.” My response was, “Not for you! You got guys in every neighborhood, you need to branch out. I got nothing. Let me start with someone on 18th Street!”
But, the responses we heard were quite funny and ran the gamut of possibilities:
“No, why? Do I look like I am?”
“That’s funny, people always ask me that.”
“My friend already told me you girls were saying that.” (Oops.)
I saw some guy walk in and asked the QofQ if he was in a band. After assessing his orange sweater vest and pink polo shirt underneath, she said, “NO, and he never was.” Good lookin’ out QofQ. I had goggles o’ beer by that hour.
It’s the best line ever. Our problems are solved. I will use that line until I’m dead. Or the rest of you start macking on my lines, then I’ll have to create another.
We left Chi Cha, popped into Stetsons where the QofQ got her ass grabbed by another girl, then went into Local 16. Somehow, we ended up attached at the hip with these guys we started calling, “the band.” That mere statement made a couple stupid girls all giddy with excitement. One asked the other, “They are in the band? Ohmigod!” I didn’t know they made people this dumb anymore. And where were they hearing a band anyway? No band plays at Local 16. Christ. Go back to Frederick, Maryland, okay? (Please. If you live in Frederick, no need to send me emails. That is what we call ‘tongue in cheek.’ A joke.)
Leaving Local 16, on the way to Cafe St. Ex for some fried chickpea goodness, some guys jump onto us and introduce themselves. Then one put his arm around me and said, “My bad, gotta walk on the outside.” I said, “What are you doing?” He said, “I’m yo man now.” I said, “Yeah, well my man cleaned my kitchen today and I know it wasn’t you!” He said, “Yeah, I may not clean your kitchen but I’ll flush yo pipes.” Then he turned back to his friend, currently hitting on the QofQ and said, “Man! Stay on the outside of the girl!” I said, “What is he, in training?” That took care of them. Off we went on our merry way. This could have been the end of a perfectly acceptable and hilarious evening. But. No.
Cafe St. Ex. QofQ and I get some beers, are joined by “the band” (oh great) and we head downstairs. We somehow had an entourage of people following us, who maybe thought we were following “the band?” After a few short minutes in that dungeon downstairs, we decide to go back up to the bar. As we’re walking toward the stairs, some girl backs into the QofQ and knocks her drink all over her. The QofQ just shrugs, walks by, up the stairs, making a left at the landing. I’m behind her. I get to the landing, where I’m about to also turn left, out of sight of the drunk girl, and go back to the bar. Then, you heard it. The kind of thing that reminds you of the whole place stopping, the music coming to a halt, the needle off the record. It was so loud and so mean, that you couldn’t have not heard it. And it was her boyfriend who said it.
The Queen of Quantity stops and says, “Did they just call me a slut?” I turn and look at them, as she’s out of eyeshot, and the guy waves me off as if to just get rid of me. I took a quick inventory of the situation. I quietly apologized to my Yuengling, acknowledging all the great nights we’ve had together since I moved to D.C. and took this locally (well, Philly) brewed beer under my wing. I said, “Sorry Yuengling. Tonight you will service me in a way that won’t involve being routed through my liver.”
I turned around, watching him at the bottom of the stairs, and tossed my very full beer all over him. It was like watching it in slo-mo. I could hear the Bionic Woman music in the background as everything went slllloooowww. My aim was better than a Briana Banks money shot. The beer hit his bald head and drenched him. I looked back at the QofQ as if to apologize for being so rash, and she bust out laughing and said, “Run!” He attempted throw beer back at us, but gravity and my uncanny ability to fun like FloJo in 4 inch heels were not helping his cause. We get back upstairs safely at the bar, and await their arrival back at the main bar. A few minutes pass, and no sign of baldy and the slut puppy. We tell the bartender (and the two men who we think are the manager and owner) what happened. I admitted that I threw my beer at them and the Manager said, “I would have done the same thing. At least you didn’t throw a punch. That would have been bad, and I thank you for not doing that.”
Then, baldy and the slut puppy come upstairs and sit a few seats away from us. I pointed them out to the Manager. He watches them, and the girl keeps saying, “There’s that slut” and looking at poor Queen of Quantity. From her: “I’m not a slut!” We know!!
So, the Manager asks them why they keep saying what they are saying, and an argument ensues. The Manager says he doesn’t want anyone in his bar who is going to be mean to other patrons. They get up and start heading for the now locked front door, and the girl says “I’ll call anyone I want a slut!” Then, the Manager yells to the bouncer, “I DON’T WANT TO EVER SEE HER FACE IN HERE AGAIN!!!”
Fucking awesome. Of course the whole time this was happening, the annoying “band” were yapping in our ear, despite me telling them to shut up.
On our walk home, the Queen of Quantity said, “Those people can’t live around here. No one in our neighborhood could be that mean to a neighbor.” I had to agree. I’m starting to despise the fact that I live in a neighborhood with nightlife heavily trafficked by non D.C. residents. I’m sorry to say it, but the people who don’t live here are the ones who come stumbling out of the bars at 3 a.m., screaming and smashing beer bottles, then driving off to somewhere else. It’s another thing I’ve grown to hate. But in the spirit of being balanced, I’ll show my love for something else: Cafe St. Ex. Oh how you will be getting all my drinking dollars from here on out.
Dear Cafe St. Ex: It’s not just your fried chickpeas, it’s your fabulous management that will ensure I will come back over and over and over. Love, Velvet