Its a Saturday night and I feel like screaming.
Well, I'm not 100% perturbed enough to actually "man-roar", but I'm slightly annoyed at how the night played out. Tonight I was dressed like a member of The Strokes, wearing a dress shirt, with a nice tie, complete with tight pants and black sneakers. Its not a common thing for me to work on presenting myself in a certain fashion; living in a certain place robbed me of that. Two years ago, I lived in Hyattsville, seven miles outside of DC. Coming into the city was a task in itself. One, had to go to metroopensdoors.com, check Bus/rail times, ensure that one got early to the train station (after a twenty five minute walk) and then should you travel during weekdays, make sure you catch the 11:10 train (or else you are royally fudged) and on weekend you must be in the train station by 2:30 a.m.
I'm the type of guy who used to really be into my fashion sense. In 2004, on any given day you would see me in a dress shirt, with a close-fitted t-shirt over it. Some call it the preppy look, my friends used to call it my 'uniform'. After living in Hyattsville and realizing a neighbourhood of budding families, shady characters and long walks to the metro didn't require the pretty-boy flair I was used to pushing, I stopped. Tonight, I broke that mold somewhat. Sure, I will occassionally dab a few globs of hair gel into my chaotic head of hair, or wear my superpants. But the essence of the "image" I liked to portray forever changed after I spent dozens of weekends at home, pacing around in my room, occassionally seeing Deer run through the parking lot behind my apartment. Tonight I went to Adams Morgan, meeting up with my usual crew of friends I've been hanging with for a bit.
The first stop was the brass monkey, pretty much the exact same bar as all the bars on Adams Morgan. Its part ballroom, part rowhouse-converted into a ballroom. Features are similar in all of these bars; wooden floors, a certain smell of alcohol and cigarrettes and DJs spinning almost the same playlists regardless of where you go. My friend and I used to laugh when we went into these bars, because they are mostly populated by white patrons, and EVERY time we went in, we would hear what we dubbed the "white man's anthem"--a Journey song. If I don't go into a bar, and hear:
"She's just a small town girl.... living in a looonely world...."
Then I know i'm no longer in Adams Morgan, and in some shady mangrove in Cambodia. Tonight I didn't feel particularly excited or attractive, but there is an inevitable mental obligation a person gives themself if they put effort into their appearance. The style I had tonight gave a noticeable result in my eyes. I went to Tom Tom, a bar notorious for its Skanky yet uber-cool atmosphere, and there was a moment when a group of no less than five women all turned their heads at the same time when I walked past. I didn't pay much attention to that, sometimes I hear people say I remind them of Godfrey, the Seven up guy from a few years ago. Maybe they thought I looked like him.
In my mind my outfit was marginal, though when I met up with my crew at the Brass Monkey, everyone commented on how sharp I looked. I took the compliments at face value; I don't normally feel anything when I dress up, or dress down, I think the result of socialization is always the same--if a girl likes YOU, them maybe you have an in. If not, you could be dripping in Gucci and go home filled with sexual tension, mad that you will have to watch porn on your 100 inch plasma screen.
"Adams Morgan and Me" should be a short play I produce that shows how random and circumstantial certain things are. I have had certain successes in "the A", like meeting a Korean girl who was my one-month girlfriend, or eating pizza outside Pizza Boli's and laughing at my friend when a drunk girl gave him napkins straight from a garbage pan. (okay, that's not a success, but its damn funny).
These days, I like what Adams Morgan represents; a large scale melting pot of social mixup. I'd say seventy percent of all the people who come to Adams Morgan are white, with the remaining thirty being everyone else(yes, I have a penchant for stating the obvious, but I was factoring in dogs and possbily vermin in the lower 1 percentile). I don't mind this ratio, because I've been in the states long enough not to care. Tonight was no different. I roamed four or five bars, and each time, I saw no more than two other black guys in attendance. Even though I felt nice in my Strokes outfit, after my third beer things started to look dark. Sure, I could walk up to any number of girls and say "Hey, what's up?" But I didn't feel like wasting time with some BS conversation. I was feeling the pull of Wonderland again, that tucked away bar in Columbia heights that is part fantasy, part drug-induced high.
The crew would eventually head to wonderland. I tell my friend Jane that I am passing by the bar next door. "Make sure you let me know when you are leaving." I say to her. She nods in agreement, and I head over to Tom Tom. I'm in there for no more than ten minutes--its an easy place to size up--and I head back to The Brass Monkey. I go upstairs and everyone is gone. Not even a beer bottle remains at the table where they were sitting. A slight annoyance crawls up my back and I feel like slapping myself in the face. I send Jane a text message saying "I hope you didn't leave me."
Fifteen minutes later, I get a reply: "We just left! Heading to Wonderland!"
I groan inwardly. The crew consisted of at least eight people, meaning a cab fare to the W would only be three bucks, or less. Now they were all gone, and I didn't feel like taking a cab to Wonderland in the twilight hours for ten bucks. It was 1:00 a.m and things were no doubt dying down over there. I stood by the window, in my Strokes outfit and felt annoyance run through my system.
I wanted to leave Adams Morgan, I wanted to just run away and fall asleep somewhere while stranger poked me to see if I was breathing, but I was still in the Brass Monkey, looking at people milling about outside.
My annoyance didn't stay very long. I simply decided to go home. The rule is: If you hang with people that drink, chances are they will leave you somewhere if you leave them for too long. With this crew, this has happened a few times. This is the only time I have been really annoyed. Maybe because I was dressed up, with no where to go really.
I saw a girl I had met at Ibiza a week ago, but she told me (almost with a sad look on her face) that she had a boyfriend. I didn't mind, she was attractive, but life goes on. I walked slowly through the thick crowd, feeling people stepping on my feet as I walked and headed into Pizza Boli's. I grabbed a large cheese slice and wolfed it down in less than three minutes. Two red-faced Asian girls were standing near me, laughing with each other. One of them gave me the look---THAT look--but I just wanted to go home. Another weekend came to an end, and another weekend seemed... fuzzy.
There were certain good things that happened this weekend, but in terms of the going out scene, something has to change. As I sit on the bus and loosen my tie, I realize I'm probably just very tired. There is nothing I usually aim for when I go out, I simply leave my house to be out of my room and not feel locked in by the white walls and brown carpet. I venture out because I can, and its not very cold yet, so I'm enjoying the warm weather. But at the same time, going out without an angenda can sometimes be pointless. I close my eyes for a few moments and listen to the bus creak and groan as it drives me to my stop. I get off on Georgia, and I take in a deep breath. I have at least twelve blocks to walk, and it is chilly and I am tired.
My Strokes outfit is now defunct. The tie is in my pocket and I've raised up my shirt collar to give my neck some warmth. My thoughts are in between having to wake up early Sunday Morning to do a BOGUS 12-hour photography project, and a thrilling conversation I had with an old crush of mine. The walk goes quickly.
When I'm less than a block from my house, I see a Blue SUV pull up beside me. Inside is my friend, Mr. T. His very cute, indie girlfriend shoots a nice hello at me, and I give them a semi-disgruntled nod. "We're looking for a party that's on this street." he says. "It's probably over by now." I say. "Where are you going man?" he asks me.
I point to a rowhouse thirty feet away.
"That's where I live, I'm coming from Adams Morgan." I say. The SUV is full of people, and they are all beaming, showing white rows of teeth. My night seems like even more of a waste.
"Well, I'll see you man." I say, and turn quickly and start walking to my house.
"Bye Marcus." comes the voice of the indie girlfriend. Her voice echoes slightly in my mind and then I think of my bed, my pillow and everything seems to dissappear. Despite the range of feelings i've gone through this week, I realize I'm not a social pariah. Bars and clubs are too random for one to gauge oneself with. Maybe I would have better luck on Myspace, because poking girls on Facebook does nothing for me. I head inside, feeling a little flat, but not depressed and toss my shirt into my laundry bag. I have to wake up at 7 a.m, and for some reason, I'm thinking of going to Wonderland.
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