A Strange Weekend
Im at Ikes house, 10 pm or so. Im the first of the group to arrive, the first of many ill omens to come. Were planning a small bar crawl around the area, local rock and independent places. Hopes, as they always are before hand, are high; why we dont ever learn is beyond me. We always imagine so much good can come of all this; but perhaps thats what makes us pointed after all. Man is blessed, because whatever is, he can see or dream beyond it or something like that. So what if all we can see beyond the blur is a night of drinking.
Ikes house is a blur itself. A large Victorian era house, it has become a pastiche of a life dedicated to partying (Ike is in his mid 40s and has lived the same way for at least 25 years). The house is dark; white lights are not welcome, all is a red or blue cast. Each room is different, but each is the same because they are all created in the same clip art pattern. There is barely an empty space anywhere in the house; everything is plastered over with 25 years of pictures (more are constantly added, beer and bar memorabilia, rock and roll images, items of clothing, bad salvation army art, funny things scrawled on napkins. The front room has a tapped bar; so does the basement. One would think that would be enough, but its not; theres a fridge specifically for beer.
Ikes house is hard to describe, let alone Ike himself the eternal rock and roller-, so Ill leave that be for now. Maybe thatll come through in this narrative. Ike is in the dark on his velvet couch, drinking a beer, music playing, electric fireplace turned on. Ike had a bad vice about our planned DC trip, another reason it was prematurely cancelled, so we talk of planning it for later in the year. Well take the train; we imagine ourselves in the bar car all debonair sophisticated replay of mid-century American travel- but like I said thats how we imagine it. The reality would be a far fouler thing.
The group ends up at Roxxies, a divey go-go bar in Clifton owned by Frankie Cam. We had picked up Frankie Cam at Dish, our first drinking spot, and dragged him along to Dingos den, our second. And here is where the night went down hill. I was already unhappy with the night turning into a run of the mill series of beers and shots, but going to the go-go bar gave the entire night a sense of failure. Go-go seemed like giving up, the ultimate refutation of the night, of the chance to do something. This was throwing in the towel, admitting you can only get the hustle.
Theyve really taken on this air for me recently; a few weeks earlier I was at Roxxies again, and had picked up a girl, leaving with her at the end of her shift. Seemed like a success at the time, and I guess in one way it was, because its always a mark of good game to pick up a stripper at a strip club, but this one depressed me. After a little time with her I wasnt attracted to her in anyway, nothing, nada. Not her personality, her ability to converse (here range of topics extended from herself to her family), her taste in music or tv/movies (perhaps the worst Id ever seen)it was real dead air, and thus for me, nothing could happen physically. It depressed the hell out of me, but now I see I was thinking the wrong way; I was thinking how I could only pick up some girl that was so lame, so not what I was looking for in a person, when really the point was that I took a stripper home after one night. Like the I Ching says throw off the vines.
So that adds to my frustration of being at Roxxies... from a weekend terrorizing DC, to a big night out hitting all the spots to a Friday night with a bunch of hustlers and suckers. So I totally loose my cool; I blow it; Im acting like an asshole, no way around it. And this leads to me almost starting a bar fight with two guys who were trying to buy us shots (kind of odd, when you think of it).
Im at Ikes house, 10 pm or so. Im the first of the group to arrive, the first of many ill omens to come. Were planning a small bar crawl around the area, local rock and independent places. Hopes, as they always are before hand, are high; why we dont ever learn is beyond me. We always imagine so much good can come of all this; but perhaps thats what makes us pointed after all. Man is blessed, because whatever is, he can see or dream beyond it or something like that. So what if all we can see beyond the blur is a night of drinking.
Ikes house is a blur itself. A large Victorian era house, it has become a pastiche of a life dedicated to partying (Ike is in his mid 40s and has lived the same way for at least 25 years). The house is dark; white lights are not welcome, all is a red or blue cast. Each room is different, but each is the same because they are all created in the same clip art pattern. There is barely an empty space anywhere in the house; everything is plastered over with 25 years of pictures (more are constantly added, beer and bar memorabilia, rock and roll images, items of clothing, bad salvation army art, funny things scrawled on napkins. The front room has a tapped bar; so does the basement. One would think that would be enough, but its not; theres a fridge specifically for beer.
Ikes house is hard to describe, let alone Ike himself the eternal rock and roller-, so Ill leave that be for now. Maybe thatll come through in this narrative. Ike is in the dark on his velvet couch, drinking a beer, music playing, electric fireplace turned on. Ike had a bad vice about our planned DC trip, another reason it was prematurely cancelled, so we talk of planning it for later in the year. Well take the train; we imagine ourselves in the bar car all debonair sophisticated replay of mid-century American travel- but like I said thats how we imagine it. The reality would be a far fouler thing.
The group ends up at Roxxies, a divey go-go bar in Clifton owned by Frankie Cam. We had picked up Frankie Cam at Dish, our first drinking spot, and dragged him along to Dingos den, our second. And here is where the night went down hill. I was already unhappy with the night turning into a run of the mill series of beers and shots, but going to the go-go bar gave the entire night a sense of failure. Go-go seemed like giving up, the ultimate refutation of the night, of the chance to do something. This was throwing in the towel, admitting you can only get the hustle.
Theyve really taken on this air for me recently; a few weeks earlier I was at Roxxies again, and had picked up a girl, leaving with her at the end of her shift. Seemed like a success at the time, and I guess in one way it was, because its always a mark of good game to pick up a stripper at a strip club, but this one depressed me. After a little time with her I wasnt attracted to her in anyway, nothing, nada. Not her personality, her ability to converse (here range of topics extended from herself to her family), her taste in music or tv/movies (perhaps the worst Id ever seen)it was real dead air, and thus for me, nothing could happen physically. It depressed the hell out of me, but now I see I was thinking the wrong way; I was thinking how I could only pick up some girl that was so lame, so not what I was looking for in a person, when really the point was that I took a stripper home after one night. Like the I Ching says throw off the vines.
So that adds to my frustration of being at Roxxies... from a weekend terrorizing DC, to a big night out hitting all the spots to a Friday night with a bunch of hustlers and suckers. So I totally loose my cool; I blow it; Im acting like an asshole, no way around it. And this leads to me almost starting a bar fight with two guys who were trying to buy us shots (kind of odd, when you think of it).
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If I'm feeling really motivated, I may try to do a sketch of her later.
PS- Glad that you dug my "godself" journal entry.