Karaoke and Vodaka Gummi Bears shots

This weekend, someone would explain to me how much they hate the Ocean while working for an Ocean preservation non-profit.

I will be asked where a functional brothel exists in Washington D.C.

I will sip Vodka in a small cup filled with gummi bears.

I will also sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”, in perfect Falsetto.

Thursday night was the start of my weekend. I was entering that place of disconnect again, this time not induced by writing thousands of words in a fat, 120 page manuscript, but this time it was because of a highly complex business plan I had to create without having much data to substantiate 90% of my projections. At about 11 p.m I splash some cold water on my face and twiddle with my mohawk—a hairstyle I’m employing of late—and I grab my Jacket. Before I leave my house, my roommate tells me about how a guy offered her his virginity while they were studying for a final. I laugh about this as I walk to catch the Bus. The Bus doesn’t show, and I find myself wondering if I should even go out. Its cold, and DC looks like a huge black cloak.

I decide to go out.

For the second time I exit one the wrong side of the Dupont metro station, putting myself three blocks North of where I’m trying to go. It dawns upon me that I have an aversion to “South” exits, but I have no idea why. The last time I came out the wrong exit, I was almost lost, cursing myself because I really wanted to sip on my 2 dollar rails at the Lucky Bar. Tonight, it was better and after a light jog through the dark park in the middle of Dupont, I was back in the scene. I like Dupont in the way that a person likes visiting a nice hotel. I don’t always go there, but its always nice to step in and out every other week or so. Going to the Lucky bar has become somewhat of a ritual for me on Thursdays, but tonight I truly feel like I’m in the real world. I’m going out to have a drink--a drink ladies and gentlemen—not going out to meet and greet women or spend odd period of time being the only black guy on the dance floor… I am going ot have a drink, to relax.

I am mildly annoyed as I enter the bar, simply because it is filled with people and they are not moving, yet they complain about the door not being able to open... the very door they are standing in front of. A few girls grab their purses and cell phones as I step towards them at the bar, and I’m tempted to look one of them squarely in the eye and say “I already have a cell phone… wench.”

But I hold my Conan-esque needs to vent inside and chill. The night would end up with me engaging the purse grabbers in intense conversation before I headed home.

Friday wasn’t a blur. I usually like Fridays to be a blur, so that on Sunday I can struggle to remember who “Michelle No.3” is in my phone. I wanted to head to Adams Morgan, that delicate little slice of weirdly social DC life that I love to peruse, but I decided against it. Something told me if I went to Adams Morgan that night, I would run into people I’d rather not see. I headed to my default location, Wonderland and it was all good. I sat under a set of large outdoor heaters that closely resemble those walking man-killers from The War of the Worlds. I spend an hour talking about Capitalism with two pro-capitalists and an anarchistically inclined libertarian. “ Capitalism,” I say “Is expansive. For Capitalism to exists it needs to use resources and expand to suport itself.” One of the pro-capitalists, a guy named Fox (who was literally dressed like Fox Mulder in the “X-Files”) asks me, “ So are you saying if Capitalism doesn’t expand it will fail?” I reply. “No, I never said it would fail, I’m just saying it is by its nature expansive.” The other pro-capitalist a girl named Ashely, says to me, “Well Captialism works because even in America, poor people have cable.”

At this I pause.

Normally when I interact with libertarians, I am intrigued by the somewhat black and white way of thinking their interests represent. A country with poor people with cable is a good thing, and because anyone can (supposedly) get an education, then by choice you doom yourself to a life of misery regardless of your background of financial means. I think about this for a few minutes as the conversation continues, then two tall bouncers who look like ex WWF wrestlers tell us we need to go inside. Then myself, David Duchovny’s stunt double and the pro-capitalists head inside.

I realize I don’t dance much anymore. I talk, smile and drink. This would be sad to some people, but it’s a measured form of socializing. Its fun. This is where I meet Ocean girl. She works for an Oceanic preservation non-profit but hates the fact that the people around her are so obsessed with their jobs it makes her hate, yet love her job. I laugh as she says this and speak for twelve minutes about her t-shirt, which says “B is for Bling.”

Friday night ends strangely. I step out of the bar to have a late night drink of tea with a cute girl I met a week before who lives nearby. She tells me with no qualms she is so comfortable around me that it has fueled her to learn more about me on a soley friendly level. “The physical, “ she explains. “Detracts from how cool it is to just learn about one another you know?”

I nod, grab my coat and leave.

Saturday I was charged to go to Adams Morgan and touch a few bars. This wouldn’t happen. I was hanging with my buddy who likes Indie chicks with a huge sense of style. In DC, Indie chicks aren’t that easy to find in quantities greater than a handful. I agreed with him that Indie chicks are cool, but I wasn’t into indie chicks ALONE. I wanted to traipse through a few spots, probably Brass Monkey, Grand Central, Spy Lounge maybe, but I didn’t have a wingman for a while so I took it easy. We stopped by Tom Tom briefly to checkout a Guatemalan-themed party on the second floor. I found it interesting that they were playing Snoop Dogg right after some salsa music. That night I would meet a cute Georgetown Law student.

We head over to a Karaoke party in Columbia heights. After seeing rats the size of cats dart left and right as we walked block after block, we see a house with flashing lights visible behind a thick curtain. I enter to see four or five guys dancing excitedly under the intermittent glare of a strobe light. We have a few drinks and sing two songs. I’m hanging with a cool girl I met coincidentally at Wonderland. She reminds me that she’s seeing someone for the second time that day. I nod, and smile.

My friend and I walk to Wonderland at 1:45 a.m, talking about the DC scene and trying to find all the places where Indie chicks are hiding. When we reach the W, its pretty packed. I see a few familiar faces, get a hug from a cute bartender and walk around. The night seems to be an international one. I meet a mysterious looking Greek girl and reminisce with an Italian girl I’ve met before. The Vodka and gummi bears shots I did an hour before are having their effect. I’m warm even though its cold outside and I’m not thinking about anything in particular.

My friend goes home and I leave soon after. On my way back home three guys sitting on some steps ask me a VERY interesting question. “Hey man,” one of them says. “Its 3:45 a.m and I want to get laid. Where can I go?” I laugh to myself and tell them if they wanted to meet girls, they probably should have gone to Wonderland. “Is it still open?”Another one says. “No.” I reply. They guys are call from Ohio, in DC for two weeks. One of them, a short, jolly looking fellow who seemed quite innocent asks me:

“So where are the whore houses?”

The guy who stopped me, a guy wearing a baseball cap stops him.” This isn’t Europe man, there aren’t whore houses in DC.” The guy turns to me.” So yeah, do you know if there are any brothels around here?” I laugh and tell them no. I give them some advice… they can go on the internet and search for DC strip clubs, because that’s the best advice I can give.

I smile to myself as I walk away. On my way home, I see some friends of mine taking luggage out of a car and I get a drop home. In my e-mail, is a message from a friend who’s in DC for a day. I try calling her but the number is Canadian and I’m still buzzed. I sleep and have a weird dream about having a biracial son.

I wish I had dreamt about a brothel.

Candy Corn Makes Me Horny

I've found the latest aphrodisiac.

Candy Corn.


I'm not sure why Candy Corn of all things stirs my insides in a way that makes me wake up wishing I was in any number of pornographic films, but it does. The Candy I bought exactly one week ago has been sitting in my system, stirring up my desires and fueling my dreams in a strange way.

Then again, it might have nothing to do with Candy Corn. Sometimes when our minds are pushed to the limit, we can engage in what are called "mental extremes" which are spurred on by a sudden shift in emotional state. That might explain the hundreds of TV "sex after a huge fight" scenes, or the dozens of "bloody sex after i've killed a person" scenes i've seen during my lifetime.

I've had a huge deadline to accomplish this week, and I'm 99% done. In order to apply for a lucrative opportunity, I had to finish a film script i was working on in 4 days instead of 25 days. Between Monday and Today, I wrote about 80 pages, plus did multiple re-edits and still the bastard isn't finished. This is where my "shifting emotional state" theory comes in.

Yesterday I called Comcast, and laughed to myself briefly because the "hold" music sounded like cheezy 70's porn music. I wasn't on the phone all hot and heated with a Comcast representative, I assure you. I had to listen to that track for almost 5 minutes...which i'm guessing is the average length of a 70's porno.

Recently I watched this show with Robocop Alum Peter Weller called Screamers, which is an interesting sorta post-apocalyptic dystopia film where sentient aliens scream at a frequency that kills people.... in a nutshell. If you've watched any Peter Weller films, the man is like an 80's Charlton Heston, 100% man. What does a 100% man encounter in all his films? A saucy vixen of course. Even if it is on a mostly empty, frozen planet on the outer regions of some barely colonized area of space. In this movie it was a hot brunette. I personally didn't find her her that attractive, but the Candy Corn did. In an interesting scene in the movie, Peter Weller and this woman are speaking about escaping from the planet and heading to Earth and she removes her clothes (with no provocation) and proceeds to dab herself with warm water as they discuss these plans. I thought 100% man would have gotten some right there, but sadly, they don't have Candy Corn on planets covered in Frozen Tundra.

But this hasn't really been a "sexed up" week by no stretch of the imagination. This has been a week of shifting emotional states. When I write for more than 9 hours straight I tend to experience what I call "disconnect". I realize i'm disconnected when I`m typing and I realize I'm not even hearing the music playing on my computer, or noticing what's on the television behind me. When i'm in the mode of disconnect, if I go to sleep, sometimes I can wake up with such raging sexual tension I wonder if I was writing an explicit paper on the theories behind the origins of the "Money Shot" in pornographic films before I went into dreamland.

But at the end of the day, I always think its the Candy Corn. After all, I've gone into "disconnect" a few times this semester, and they have never had sexual side effects.

This has nothing to do with my Candy Corn tirade, but is it me, or has Vilo Ventimiglia's character in Heroes (Peter Petrelli) been shirtless in EVERY episode so far? I noticed that yesterday after wishing Masi Oka would be an asshole and sleep with the Japanese hottie and destroy the space/time continuum. Again, that was the Candy Corn speaking.

Heroes has been really annoying me lately, but I will save an entire post for that heroes rant. But since this is a Candy Corn post, I will mention, there has been only one Character who has been laid in Heroes so far who's significant other hasn't died or been written out of the show-- Adrian Pasdar's (Nathan Petrelli).

Anyways, I digress.

I am eating some Candy Corn as I type this. I didn't feel any effects today, so I believe it was all in my mind. When I woke up at 6 a.m this morning, ready to donate copious amounts of my manliness to any number of Sperm Banks, I theorized I probably hit a cycle, sort of like dogs in heat, but much, much more subdued. But i'm human, so I walked over to my computer, turned on some music and drank some water. I rubbed my head a bit, opened the curtains and hopped onto the computer.

I wrote more of my script, sipped on my water, and ate some Candy Corn. Even if the week was a Candy Corn induced high-low sexual madness period, at the very least the weekend is right around the corner. Which means I will replace Candy Corn with alcohol, and all will be right in the universe again.

The Drunken Anarchy

Twice this weekend, I will travel to Dupont Circle.

Twice this weekend, I will meet women named Anna.

Twice this weekend, I will feel as if I am dreaming.

The first occassion was on Saturday morning. My friend Jane called me at 8:25 a.m I find myself with my head spinning, speaking in a croaky voice to Jane, who is bright and chirpy. I believe I am dreaming, because I have never spoken to Jane this early, and I have only spoken to Jane four times on the telephone. When I heard my phone ringing and saw Jane's number on the LCD, it didn't seem real. The sun was out, but my head was heavy and I felt last night's buzz still clawing at my back.

The second time I would feel as if I was dreaming was ACTUALLY a dream. At 2:45 a.m on Saturday morning, I'm walking from Wonderland back to the train. It has been a particularly productive night. A girl named Justine approaches me at the bar and makes a statement that a 5 foot tall, reasonably cute blonde girl would not say without alcohol in her system, or possibly the presence of a celebrity. "You're cute. We should exchange numbers." As buzzed as I was, I actually took this as an invitation to speak to her, but then she compeletly ignored me. When I called her the next day, someone named Erin answers the phone. When Justine does come on the line, she says "Oh! I'll call you back, I just got out of the shower." Silly as it may seem, some people think that people are completely idiots. Three hours later, I send her a text message saying:

You win. You hold the record for the longest post-shower drying period in history!

In the train station, I am spent. It has been a particularly long Friday, and I spend the night downing beers, talking with friends and women I've never seen. I'm walking with a controlled buzz, the kind I know will probably give me a headache the next day if I decide to go jogging, but also the kind that won't bother me in the least if I don't do any major physical excercise. I sit on a bench near three young women. They all glance in my direction as I sit down, semi-unaware of them. I am not thinking about women when I am on the bench. I'm calculating how many odd steps it will take to reach home after exiting the metro at almost 3 a.m. A friend of mine taps me on the shoulder in an attempt to scare me. If I was completely sober, I would have probably yelped like a piglet. The most I muster is a "huh? Oh, what's up man." He laughs and tells me that i'm drunk. I protest and begin speaking to the girls beside me about the night i've had, and how drunk people are the people who drink at home and don't call anyone. My friend hops on the train on the opposite platform, his massive silhouette dissappearing into the confines of a sleek metro train. The three women are all good friends. Two of them are Law students at George Washington, and one is visiting from California. I have some very interesting conversation between the 2 minutes it takes to get from Columbia Heights to Shaw Howard. In those two minutes, the girl from California guesses I'm from Jamaica. I find out the girls names are Heather, Katie and Leigh respectively, they also ask me about some candy corn i'm eating because they themselves bought some at the same CVS I went to earlier. I tell the ladies goodbye and hobble home. I mentioned to Katie that she should add me on facebook.

I have a dream that she does in fact add me on facebook, which is what led me to wonder if the call from Jane was real in the first place. On the train, when Leigh guessed I was from Jamaica, I winced. Earlier that night, I ran a test on a girl named Bridgete (yes, with one 't') who was into Celtic music. "If you guess where I'm from. " I say, "I will buy you a drink." She looks at me and says, "Jamaica!" with no reservations. I sigh and end up buying her a sprite. (Luckily for me she doesn't drink). She invites me to come and check out the celtic music on Thursday. It is somewhere near Chinatown, and i'm not sure if I'll go. Maybe when Enya comes to town.

I want to try and get a cute bartender's number, but I can't bother because I'm interested in sleeping more than anything. A few of my friends come and go, and I find myself floating around and talking to a girl from Georgetown named Ally who likes to dance with her arms around my neck. Her friend Anna (yes, another Anna) pulls her away when its time to leave. She looks on me longingly and gives me a wet kiss on the cheek. I smile and wave.

A young man in a brown sweater with diamonds on the chest constantly gives me high fives and fists for reasons I can't figure. He is wearing a Kangol hat and has the look of someone used to getting what he wants. Not in a Tony Soprano sort of way, but in the way that a guy who used to bully kids in school looks. He comments on my outfit briefly and I tell him about the time a bouncer almost molested me at a bar. This story is not true.

I meet the boss of a girl who works at Urban outfitters. Her boss is a dashing brunette with dark eyes and a breath heavy with a liquor I can't name. She approaches me, constantly saying: "Show me what the fuck you got?". We do a man-to-woman te ta te for a while. She dances seductively, but drunk women annoy me after a while... I'm not that type of guy. I feel like showing up at the Urban Outfitters where she works and shout out: "Show me what you fucking got!"

That would most certainly get me tossed into jail. As usual, I meet another girl visiting from outside of the good old Washington D.C, a southerner named Kelsie (or was it Katie? i forget.)
I make plans to head to Ibiza with a friend of mind. He says it is guaranteed that we will meet some chicks. I tell him its an "Asian Haven". His eyes don't really sparkle, because he's Korean.
Mine don't either. The last time I was at Ibiza I experienced the kind of culture shock I should experience in a foreign country, not D.C.

Ibiza was pretty cool though.

I flop into my bed and take a few deep breaths and find myself falling asleep. I toy with the idea of watching the latest episode of Heroes and decide against it. The world of dreams awaits me at 3:30 a.m and I have to wake up for an entire day of activity at 9. Its all good though. Good to be alive and well, function in a world of oddity and semi-disfunction /:.