Ooh that dress so scandalous
Ok, I've got half a dozen blog entries just lined up and ready to go....er, I mean, half done and totally incomplete.
And they were going to be good - film and record and restaurant reviews, this whole series about how tough it was to date in D.C. back when I was single, and just a great chronicle of all the things I've fucked up lately. I really did have some plans for this blog at one time.....but I got kinda distracted.
Anyway, thought I'd dash one off before my next business trip....Getting back to the whole "life in D.C. isn't really all that bad" theme that was originally going to guide this old online diary thing.
So, on Saturday, the lady and I were planning on hitting M'Dawg, the new hot dog joint on 18th Street, which it appears will never actually open. And, no, you won't lure me into some Ben's vs. M'Dawg debate (though I know that's a lie, and that I, like several other losers online in D.C. won't miss the opportunity to do so at some point, and that at that time, I won't fail to remind everyone I can that I was going to Ben's long before white people knew it was an acceptable thing to do....or, at least a few years before white sorority girls from Massachusetts named Lindsey knew it was viable late-night dining option....
Oh, shit, FINE, I first went to Ben's ten or twelve years ago, ok? Lots of people were there before me, but I still like to think that I'm superior to most of the cracker-ass white kids on U Street, these days, ok? Yes, I am just that insecure).
Where the fuck was I?
Oh, yes, we were going to check out M'Dawg, but it wasn't open yet. We ended up back at Amsterdam Falafel for the ten millionth time, knowing full well that whatever the secret ingredient it is that makes the falafels better than just about anywhere else I've been, also gives me the wind something fierce. (And by fierce, I mean "more horrifying that staying up late to watch "The Fog" on channel five when you were eight years old, then being so scared that you woke your parents up, knowing full well that they'd punish you for staying up past bedtime and watching films you weren't supposed to watch, but it was too damn scary to be alone in the dark after watching that shit. I mean, we're talking about some nasty, driving-with-the-windows-down-in-the-middle-of-February farts).
So, while my girlfriend and I were standing on 18th Street, debating what we were going to do for lunch, I glanced inside the Spy Lounge for no good reason.....I really don't know why. I've only been in the Spy Lounge once, and it was a very short stay that ended with a lot of vomit and my carrying My Pal Pete
into a cab and back to my old beloved Newark Street apartment, where, upon waking early the following morning, very disoriented and confused (as he had never been to my apartment and didn't remember being transported there the evening before), Pete decided that the best course of action would be to grab my copy of Angela Bowie's "Backstage Passes", strip naked, and take a nice hot bath in my filthy tub.
All of that would have been fine if I'd thought to look for him when I first roused the next morning. Of course, I'd forgotten all about the evening before, forgotten that I had failed to meet any young ladies that night because Pete had gotten wasted and gotten himself 86'd from the Spy Lounge for throwing up on three separate levels of the club.
So, instead of looking for Pete and making sure he hadn't pulled a John Bonham in the middle of the night, I instead did my usual Saturday morning routine, which involved heading to the bathroom for a pee.
You can imagine the rest...weenie out, hungover and unshaven, there I stood in front of a naked and very wet Pete, who had been reading all about David Bowie's beautiful gay 1970's pre-Iman sex for god knows how long. All that erotica and both of our penises exposed, I'm sure you know what happened next.
We kind of screamed a little.
So, that's my spy lounge story....Wait what was I getting at?
Oh, yeah, I peeked in the Spy Lounge, and some photographer had rented it out for the day for a totally killer King Magazine style photo shoot. Leggy black women in thongs, posing in front of 18th Street.
And, so here we are again, proving who D.C. still rules. Sexy black girls, vomit, homoerotic experiences with former bandmates, good falafels and bad farts.
Goddamn it, this town rules.
And they were going to be good - film and record and restaurant reviews, this whole series about how tough it was to date in D.C. back when I was single, and just a great chronicle of all the things I've fucked up lately. I really did have some plans for this blog at one time.....but I got kinda distracted.
Anyway, thought I'd dash one off before my next business trip....Getting back to the whole "life in D.C. isn't really all that bad" theme that was originally going to guide this old online diary thing.
So, on Saturday, the lady and I were planning on hitting M'Dawg, the new hot dog joint on 18th Street, which it appears will never actually open. And, no, you won't lure me into some Ben's vs. M'Dawg debate (though I know that's a lie, and that I, like several other losers online in D.C. won't miss the opportunity to do so at some point, and that at that time, I won't fail to remind everyone I can that I was going to Ben's long before white people knew it was an acceptable thing to do....or, at least a few years before white sorority girls from Massachusetts named Lindsey knew it was viable late-night dining option....
Oh, shit, FINE, I first went to Ben's ten or twelve years ago, ok? Lots of people were there before me, but I still like to think that I'm superior to most of the cracker-ass white kids on U Street, these days, ok? Yes, I am just that insecure).
Where the fuck was I?
Oh, yes, we were going to check out M'Dawg, but it wasn't open yet. We ended up back at Amsterdam Falafel for the ten millionth time, knowing full well that whatever the secret ingredient it is that makes the falafels better than just about anywhere else I've been, also gives me the wind something fierce. (And by fierce, I mean "more horrifying that staying up late to watch "The Fog" on channel five when you were eight years old, then being so scared that you woke your parents up, knowing full well that they'd punish you for staying up past bedtime and watching films you weren't supposed to watch, but it was too damn scary to be alone in the dark after watching that shit. I mean, we're talking about some nasty, driving-with-the-windows-down-in-the-middle-of-February farts).
So, while my girlfriend and I were standing on 18th Street, debating what we were going to do for lunch, I glanced inside the Spy Lounge for no good reason.....I really don't know why. I've only been in the Spy Lounge once, and it was a very short stay that ended with a lot of vomit and my carrying My Pal Pete
into a cab and back to my old beloved Newark Street apartment, where, upon waking early the following morning, very disoriented and confused (as he had never been to my apartment and didn't remember being transported there the evening before), Pete decided that the best course of action would be to grab my copy of Angela Bowie's "Backstage Passes", strip naked, and take a nice hot bath in my filthy tub.
All of that would have been fine if I'd thought to look for him when I first roused the next morning. Of course, I'd forgotten all about the evening before, forgotten that I had failed to meet any young ladies that night because Pete had gotten wasted and gotten himself 86'd from the Spy Lounge for throwing up on three separate levels of the club.
So, instead of looking for Pete and making sure he hadn't pulled a John Bonham in the middle of the night, I instead did my usual Saturday morning routine, which involved heading to the bathroom for a pee.
You can imagine the rest...weenie out, hungover and unshaven, there I stood in front of a naked and very wet Pete, who had been reading all about David Bowie's beautiful gay 1970's pre-Iman sex for god knows how long. All that erotica and both of our penises exposed, I'm sure you know what happened next.
We kind of screamed a little.
So, that's my spy lounge story....Wait what was I getting at?
Oh, yeah, I peeked in the Spy Lounge, and some photographer had rented it out for the day for a totally killer King Magazine style photo shoot. Leggy black women in thongs, posing in front of 18th Street.
And, so here we are again, proving who D.C. still rules. Sexy black girls, vomit, homoerotic experiences with former bandmates, good falafels and bad farts.
Goddamn it, this town rules.
posted by t-o-n at 7:33 PM
1 Comments:
Great work.
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