Its funny how broken things can still be used.
Sometimes I walk around myself, feeling like a sad, emotionally broken creature, who still has use. I sometimes meet an attractive girl, smile with her and spend moments worthy of any number of Dawson's Creek episodes, then she might flake, and act strange. In moments like these, we broken individuals realize that even though we are emotionally winded and a bit jaded, we still have some use. We pick ourselves up, head out into icy winds and go to bars. We drink and entertain idle conversation, sometimes we don't mind when strangers look at us with lascivious expressions, lecherous gazes and leering eyes. So in a way, we are broken, yet functional.
Like my bike.
A few days ago I almost crashed my bike. It was a dangerous affair, with me almost falling face first on the street going at thirty miles per hour. The back wheel was bent out of shape and I was pissed. I was heading to the Giant to get some ice cream for an achy stomach and I almost ended up breaking a collarbone. Long story short, the bike still works. Its broken, yet functional. As I ride through the city I realize the bike isn't in such bad shape. It creaks and groans like Tony Soprano's mother, but it gets me from point A to B.
Broken yet functional.
I wonder sometimes if this is a theme for a lot of people I know. They are injured through circumstance, edgy from limited expecations and a bit frazzled by fortune. They are effectively wading through the marshes of daily life with their nose out of the murky water praying that a Crocodile doesn't make mincemeat of them.
Today was a day of traipsing. First I traipsed around Chinatown regretting my Alfie-isms. My thin French connection pants, sports jacket and scarf couldn't save me today. The wind chill brought temperatures down to the twenties and I felt like I was walking in a cloud of ice.
Later I would reach Adams morgan, stopping by Adams Mill for the first time. Even though I consider myself an open-minded equal opportunist, this bar seemed much whiter than any bar i've been to in a while. This had to do with the song selection more than the makeup of the patrons. As i've stated in a few blogs before, most bars I go to are 98% white. Tonight that statistic was 99.9% until seven or eight black guys walked in, (adding on to me being the 0.1%) and then became the 2%.
Regardless of the math, for about an hour, about 80% of the songs played I didn't know. When I heard the songs, I immediately thought of wheat field and people in large Suburban houses singing along to these songs as they played through a large, black radio. When the songs played I no longer felt like I was in the confines of a major city, I was out in Connecticut in the boonies, where anywhere to your left or right you were liable to run into a deer, get touched by poison ivy, or get bitten by a tick. I recognized a few key tracks, which populate what I call the "white DJ" list. I'm saying this with no bias. There are certain songs that are played in certain bars that are never played in other bars.
Songs with choruses like:
"Pour some sugar on me!"
"Oooooh! Living on a prayer!"
"I'm not here for your independennnnce!"
And the list goes on. Those are the ones I recognized. For a few minutes, I had a spirited conversation with two friends about not knowing that the last song was not sung by Kelly Clarkson, but by formerly hip-hop-ish punk starlet Pink.
I didn't mind the music either way. If I was in a bar with 99% black people, I'm sure i'd hear:
"...my drink and my two step"
"this is why we hot"
"i'm a upgrade yah!"
and the list goes on an on. Quite like a broken record. Broken yet functional.
It was Chrissie's birthday, and she was learning a hot pink shirt with the word "DANGER" emblazoned above the right breast. There was text on the back, but I never took the time to read it. I didn't feel like dancing, and spent most of my time watching three LCD screens flash
"Tom Brady's mystery injury continues." I like watching people drink themselves into supreme states of confidence. A short guy with an interesting haircut had been walking around with a smile all night. I nearly fell down laughing when he literally accosted two blondes.
"Why are you ladies so FUCKING tall??" he said in perfect pitch.
The girls laughed and they started talking.
I sighed. Only in a white bar. No, only in a bar this white.
I'm sure if I was to walk up to random girls and say that I'd be liable to get slapped. Especially since i'm not a short person that can use such profane declarations to my advantage. Eventually some Justin Timberlake started playing and I felt like doing my pop-n-lock routine, but alas, I had no energy.
After Adams mill, I took a quick run to Dupont circle. At this point I really loved my bike. Dupont always sounds like Africa distance wise when I think of walking there on foot, but on my bike it was only five minutes away. I went to Cafe Citron. I was a tad intimidated at first. I was the only black person in line, and everyone had tell tale Latino features. Jet black hair, off-white skin and spanish accents.
Inside, there was a mixture of latin-pop and latin-club music. It was a lot of fun. the place was packed, lots of people were dancing and I had a eight dollar margarita that tasted like a cup of salt water. Even though the DJ was playing remixed latin songs, I heard at least three popular songs remixed to latin beats:
"....I like to move it move it."
I can't remember the others, but they were there! Playing like a broken record. Broken yet... you get the idea.
Cafe Citron exposed more of the segregation of DC clubs. It seems everyone can find a place to group up everyone that resembles them, and sweat together as they walk past people that look a lot like them. I need to go to more latin clubs. I felt unnaturally tall in there, as the average person seemed to be no more than five foot six. At six one, I towered over almost everyone. I stood at the bar and beamed a smile at ladies dancing near to me. In my mind I was saying:
Come with me if you want to live.
In my best Arnie voice.
After Cafe Citron, I rode home, listening to FutureSexyLove for what seems like the tenth time in the last four days. I ride, navigating traffic lights, crazy cab drivers and the occasional pedestrian, singing words to high-pitched songs. Its too late to draw any stares from any passersby. Its too cold for people to be on the street gawking at this Jamaican guy riding a bike and singing along to "Sexyback".
I received at text when I was in Cafe Citroon, a Serbian girl I know told me to come to last call at Bossa--In Adams Morgan--which was a nice 18 blocks away. I shoot a reply.
After party?
She tells me there is something on 18th and Belmont, but then she says not to come. The party is wack. I pop into my room and feel a wave of heat cover my face. I toss my clothes onto my bed, flop into my computer chair and stare at the screen. Maybe I'm not broken and functional.
Maybe i'm just functional.
Sometimes I walk around myself, feeling like a sad, emotionally broken creature, who still has use. I sometimes meet an attractive girl, smile with her and spend moments worthy of any number of Dawson's Creek episodes, then she might flake, and act strange. In moments like these, we broken individuals realize that even though we are emotionally winded and a bit jaded, we still have some use. We pick ourselves up, head out into icy winds and go to bars. We drink and entertain idle conversation, sometimes we don't mind when strangers look at us with lascivious expressions, lecherous gazes and leering eyes. So in a way, we are broken, yet functional.
Like my bike.
A few days ago I almost crashed my bike. It was a dangerous affair, with me almost falling face first on the street going at thirty miles per hour. The back wheel was bent out of shape and I was pissed. I was heading to the Giant to get some ice cream for an achy stomach and I almost ended up breaking a collarbone. Long story short, the bike still works. Its broken, yet functional. As I ride through the city I realize the bike isn't in such bad shape. It creaks and groans like Tony Soprano's mother, but it gets me from point A to B.
Broken yet functional.
I wonder sometimes if this is a theme for a lot of people I know. They are injured through circumstance, edgy from limited expecations and a bit frazzled by fortune. They are effectively wading through the marshes of daily life with their nose out of the murky water praying that a Crocodile doesn't make mincemeat of them.
Today was a day of traipsing. First I traipsed around Chinatown regretting my Alfie-isms. My thin French connection pants, sports jacket and scarf couldn't save me today. The wind chill brought temperatures down to the twenties and I felt like I was walking in a cloud of ice.
Later I would reach Adams morgan, stopping by Adams Mill for the first time. Even though I consider myself an open-minded equal opportunist, this bar seemed much whiter than any bar i've been to in a while. This had to do with the song selection more than the makeup of the patrons. As i've stated in a few blogs before, most bars I go to are 98% white. Tonight that statistic was 99.9% until seven or eight black guys walked in, (adding on to me being the 0.1%) and then became the 2%.
Regardless of the math, for about an hour, about 80% of the songs played I didn't know. When I heard the songs, I immediately thought of wheat field and people in large Suburban houses singing along to these songs as they played through a large, black radio. When the songs played I no longer felt like I was in the confines of a major city, I was out in Connecticut in the boonies, where anywhere to your left or right you were liable to run into a deer, get touched by poison ivy, or get bitten by a tick. I recognized a few key tracks, which populate what I call the "white DJ" list. I'm saying this with no bias. There are certain songs that are played in certain bars that are never played in other bars.
Songs with choruses like:
"Pour some sugar on me!"
"Oooooh! Living on a prayer!"
"I'm not here for your independennnnce!"
And the list goes on. Those are the ones I recognized. For a few minutes, I had a spirited conversation with two friends about not knowing that the last song was not sung by Kelly Clarkson, but by formerly hip-hop-ish punk starlet Pink.
I didn't mind the music either way. If I was in a bar with 99% black people, I'm sure i'd hear:
"...my drink and my two step"
"this is why we hot"
"i'm a upgrade yah!"
and the list goes on an on. Quite like a broken record. Broken yet functional.
It was Chrissie's birthday, and she was learning a hot pink shirt with the word "DANGER" emblazoned above the right breast. There was text on the back, but I never took the time to read it. I didn't feel like dancing, and spent most of my time watching three LCD screens flash
"Tom Brady's mystery injury continues." I like watching people drink themselves into supreme states of confidence. A short guy with an interesting haircut had been walking around with a smile all night. I nearly fell down laughing when he literally accosted two blondes.
"Why are you ladies so FUCKING tall??" he said in perfect pitch.
The girls laughed and they started talking.
I sighed. Only in a white bar. No, only in a bar this white.
I'm sure if I was to walk up to random girls and say that I'd be liable to get slapped. Especially since i'm not a short person that can use such profane declarations to my advantage. Eventually some Justin Timberlake started playing and I felt like doing my pop-n-lock routine, but alas, I had no energy.
After Adams mill, I took a quick run to Dupont circle. At this point I really loved my bike. Dupont always sounds like Africa distance wise when I think of walking there on foot, but on my bike it was only five minutes away. I went to Cafe Citron. I was a tad intimidated at first. I was the only black person in line, and everyone had tell tale Latino features. Jet black hair, off-white skin and spanish accents.
Inside, there was a mixture of latin-pop and latin-club music. It was a lot of fun. the place was packed, lots of people were dancing and I had a eight dollar margarita that tasted like a cup of salt water. Even though the DJ was playing remixed latin songs, I heard at least three popular songs remixed to latin beats:
"....I like to move it move it."
I can't remember the others, but they were there! Playing like a broken record. Broken yet... you get the idea.
Cafe Citron exposed more of the segregation of DC clubs. It seems everyone can find a place to group up everyone that resembles them, and sweat together as they walk past people that look a lot like them. I need to go to more latin clubs. I felt unnaturally tall in there, as the average person seemed to be no more than five foot six. At six one, I towered over almost everyone. I stood at the bar and beamed a smile at ladies dancing near to me. In my mind I was saying:
Come with me if you want to live.
In my best Arnie voice.
After Cafe Citron, I rode home, listening to FutureSexyLove for what seems like the tenth time in the last four days. I ride, navigating traffic lights, crazy cab drivers and the occasional pedestrian, singing words to high-pitched songs. Its too late to draw any stares from any passersby. Its too cold for people to be on the street gawking at this Jamaican guy riding a bike and singing along to "Sexyback".
I received at text when I was in Cafe Citroon, a Serbian girl I know told me to come to last call at Bossa--In Adams Morgan--which was a nice 18 blocks away. I shoot a reply.
After party?
She tells me there is something on 18th and Belmont, but then she says not to come. The party is wack. I pop into my room and feel a wave of heat cover my face. I toss my clothes onto my bed, flop into my computer chair and stare at the screen. Maybe I'm not broken and functional.
Maybe i'm just functional.
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