Don't Leave Home Without [Her]

If you're a woman heading out on the town this weekend, no doubt you'll think to remember to bring along many essential items. In addition to throwing on that ideal outfit, the one that is as cute and sexy as it is comfortable, you may also think to stock your purse with a cell phone (think twice about those late-night drunk text messages, ladies), lip gloss, money and your keys. Those items are all well and good but you'd be remiss to forget the most essential one of them all: Your wingwoman.

I was reminded of the importance of the wingwoman several weekends ago while at the Capitol Lounge with a group of friends, among them a frighteningly clever fellow blogger. Now, you all know how often I frequent the Lounge and how I pretty much feel inclined to do whatever I please while I am there. Lord knows I have. But in the past year or so my confidence level in approaching strange young men has declined. I chalk this up to a new-found sense of protection of my personal space, most likely caused by being a bit too, um...trusting of strangers. Whereas I used to regard the gentleman at DC bars as brave new territory awaiting conquest, my experience doing so has clued me into the fact that there are a LOT of douche bags in this city. Cue the "duhs" right now, folks. I was young and naive. So many in fact, that my interactions with a handful of them was enough to quash my desire to meet their cronies. Anyhoo. No longer relying on the kindness of strangers, I eventually fell out of the habit of chatting them up when drunk.

But that weekend was different, probably because it was the first warm weekend of the year and everyone seemed to be supercharged with the motivation to get friendly. I was chatting with my clever blogger friend and a mutual friend when a gentleman of my exact and total type wandered by us on his way back to his friends. I didn't notice at the time because I was too busy talking to my friends, but apparently a rather obvious check-out happened on his part. My friends caught it and encouraged me to go talk to him.

Oh, before I go on, I will explain what my exact and total type is, as I don't think I've ever shared that with you all before and you might be curious. It is: tall (6 feet or taller), lanky, boyishly handsome, messy-haired, and indie-rock-ish in personal style.

Anyway. Cue protests and a modicum of meek, girlish giggling on my part.

Tee, hee, I can't do that. I don't pick up men at bars.

Well, I don't, but my friends apparently do. She walked right over to him and exclaimed "Dave? Is that you?" And used that line as an entrance into a conversation with him, eventually summoning me to come over. Her eyes told me to play along with the charade. I did.

"Doesn't he look exactly like Dave?"

"Oh, yeah, totally."

From there she gracefully slipped away, leaving me to work the Kate charm. Which I did for a while until I grew bored for some reason or another. I think it was because he was from out of town and I didn't feel like dealing with the logistical ramifications of that particular challenge. But my friend's little ploy totally worked and I totally could have gotten some if I had chosen.

You all are welcome to borrow that little trick. I'm sure my friend wouldn't mind.

So, to summarize: all you really need for a successful night out is a killer outfit, a fistful of cash, and a supremely clever female friend.


Off topic, but also of note. Sometimes my ipod behaves so beautifully when I put it on shuffle that I feel compelled to share with you all the total genius of the songs it selects. Here is a sample of what it selected for me to hear today:

Going Against Your Mind: Built to Spill
Boys in the Band: The Libertines
Come Back Margaret: Camera Obscura
Free: Kitty in the Tree
You Talk Way Too Much: The Strokes
I Need You: The Rationals
Washer: Slint
Drown: Son Volt
Talk Talk: Music Machine
Girl in the War: Josh Ritter
Call Me: Blondie
God Only Knows: The Beach Boys

Peace out, my loves. Happy weekend.

An Equal and Opposite Reaction

Dear Women Who Are Bat-Shit Crazy,

Stop. You're ruining it for the rest of us.

Signed, only semi-bat-shit crazy.



Sometimes, the closest route between point A and point B is a straight line. So that's the route I've chosen to take. Sometimes, it is also better when you want something, to flat out ask for it. Although popular logic tells us to be coy, mask our feelings with well placed words, there comes a point and time when a girl just has to lay her cards on the table and tell a boy what's what. If they can't deal with it, then whatever to them.

And on a seperate note, the contents of the bag I carried into the office from 7-11 totally illustrates that today is Friday: Gatorade, Tab Energy drink, cigarettes and a turkey sandwich that I ate for breakfast. Because I had beer for dinner last night. Quite a lot of it.

Why 30 Year Olds Should Not Frequent College Bars

I was excited to receive an invitation from Val to attend a happy hour at McFadden's last Saturday. I've recently been drawn into her excellent circle of wonderful friends, and was delighted at the prospect of spending time with a few of these fab men and women. I had been to McFadden's before for various kickball events, but never on a weekend. I knew its rep as a college bar, due to its proximity to GW and Georgetown, but had yet to experience the establishment in its full raucous glory.

Those who know me are familiar with my ability to get down. Despite 10 years of ballet & jazz training I'm not much of a dancer. But I do know how to drink, and always relish the opportunity to let off some steam by kicking back a few adult beverages on a weekend. Problem is, I can't drink as much as I used to. Over the past several years my tolerance has taken a nose-dive, and now several beverages leave me feeling sluggish and looking tired and worn out. But that never seems to keep me from trying. Normally, I limit such activity to dives and the occasional upscale hotel bar. Atmospheres that are relatively chill, where you can hold a conversation with the person standing next to you without have to talk directly into their ear. Places where there is room to stand and a bouncer isn't constantly chasing you away from the only patch of open space. And most notably, places where people do not dance on the bar and offer their fellow patrons the opportunity to vote on their hotness.

This my friends, was a truly terrifying spectacle. At some point into the night, a dozen or so young ladies climbed up on to the bar and starting shaking their stuff for the crowd. Ho, hum, I thought. Nothing special here. But then came the judging process where the crowd seemed to be voting on which of the specimens before them was the "best" or "hottest" or whatever. To be honest, it was extremely loud in there, so it was hard to understand exactly what was going on. But young ladies were bumping and grinding with invisible partners for all to see, while drunk 20-something men ogled and cat-called.

Now, if that makes them happy, it's their business and not mine. But my maternal, sensible side was aghast and sadden by what it saw. Where's the line between liberated self-acceptance/pride over one's body and shameless exploitation? The topic is debated every time a new pop tartlet climbs the charts or some aspect of stripper culture seeps into the mainstream. If men have long gotten off by seeing young ladies flaunt their nubile young bodies, does dancing on a bar for the honor of being the hottest lady in McFadden's conform to that sexist dynamic? Or are the women the ones in control? Are they calling the shots, inverting centuries-old paradigms of gender politics? These are not new questions, and sadly, the confluence of pop culture and the way people live their every day lives continues to obscure the answer. I do know that when I saw one woman in particular, she of an extremely hot little body, writhing on the bar with her tube top dangerously close to sliding off her body, I wanted to reach up and wrap my sweater around her.

Again, bumping and grinding on a bar is a personal choice, and I do not begrudge these women the opportunity to do whatever makes them happy. Just because it's not for me, doesn't mean it's wrong or bad. But it certainly raises quite a few questions. More so than one's typical Saturday night activities, that's for sure.

So anyway. Between the hot lady contest, the 20 minute long wait for drinks (which included watching the bartenders pound Miller Lights), the pounding sound system, and being stepped on repeatedly, it was time to call it a night. I found an ATM in the lobby of a chic hotel nearby, hailed a cab, and found my way home. In short, I was happy to have spent time with the crew, but I don't know how much longer I can go on frequenting such establishments

Not Punk Rock Enough For This?

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

There was a time in my life, before most of you knew me, when I solidly identified with certain counter-cultural, anti-establishment communities. I loathed "The Man", couldn't ever fathom having an office job, looked down on those poor saps confined to a cubicle all day, dyed my hair alarming colors, and listened to dissonant music. Then I graduated from college and realized that reality looks a lot different when you're faced with the challenge of applying your considerable intellect and skills to earning enough money to pay rent. I also realized that I look a lot better with brown hair.

As much as I appreciate the punk ethos and even admire people who have managed to create happy productive lives fighting the establishment, that lifestyle just isn't for me. But I doff my hat to those who live it, and continue to believe that societal change depends on the presence of certain radical forces that exist to create dialectical tensions.
All of this is leads in to reporting on my date with punk-rock banjo guy. It was pretty much your typical first date. Lots of getting to know you chit-chat, some awkward silences, some flirting. What was atypical was the diatribe I listened to about the origins of punk philosophy. I felt like I was receiving a lecture, an unnecessary one at that, because having read Lipstick Traces when I was 21, I am already down with the history of the French Situationists. But whatever, it's obscure cultural history, so I'll give him a pass on that one because one rarely goes into a situation assuming your date has a handle on that stuff.

Atypical as well was how mainstream this guy made me feel. Normally men in DC make me feel like an alterna-chick freak. I've never claimed to be a preppy. My family's background is mixed, my own parents are somewhat anachronistic in many ways, I've experienced a diversity of lifestyles and have traveled through many of my own puzzling incarnations. This guy seemed a little confused that my parents could be liberals who raised their child in a small rural New England town while maintaining a semi-affluent lifestyle. He wanted to assign them a "back to nature" hippy identity, which I couldn't let him do. As much as the punks I've known in my day have tried to avoid being identified by mainstream notions of "normalness", he seemed just as apt to filter the information that I provided him with through his own biased set of assumptions.
So it ironic that a date with Mr.-Punk-Rock-counter-culture sparked a debate about identity-politics, or is it simply par for the course? I can't decide. Nor can I decide how hot I am to recreate the experience. When the date was good, it was good. But I don't like it when people try to label me as a certain "type" of person. I guess we're all guilty of it, and I strive to remember daily that everyone, including Mr. Punk-Rock-counter-culture can't be neatly assigned to pre-assigned cultural identities, no matter how many niche-specific signifiers they decorate their bodies with.

I know labels are comforting. Calling somebody "indie rock" for example, gives you some clue about their personality, but not the whole picture, as I explained to Mr. Punk Rock when trying to explain to him why I don't think I care for online dating. But it's such a convenient and ultimately empty way of experiencing your fellow man. That was the final great lesson I learned in my 20's, and of course it came about after dating two guys back-to-back who I had little in common with.

Mr. Punk Rock expressed concern that I am too young for him, which again was weird because most of the guys I date tend to be younger. Truth be told, I've been looking for an older man for some time. Now I'm not certain if age has anything to do with anything.
The date ended with me explaining that it was late and that I should go, while he opted to order another beer for himself. After a brief drunk driving lecture, I have him a kiss on the cheek and he pulled me in for a hug. It was good as far as hugs go. More intimate than the ones I've experienced with TT.

The verdict: I'm not sure I care for his personality, and although he isn't all that good-looking, there's something about him that's attractive. He appeals to my inner-rebel in a way that I can't yet identify. Or maybe it was just nice to have a man flirt with me and buy me Anchor Steams.