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.