Damn, DC, you wore me out
“Who listens to ‘Beat It’? I mean, are we going in to step on lights” The stylish woman looked confused, couldn’t figure out why she was standing in line to get into 1223 Saturday night.
E. and I were standing not far, trying to get comp’d in, admitting “we listen to Beat It,” and you’ve got your videos confused. Mike danced on lights in “Billy Jean” video. More importantly, hearing those strains from 1223 was a much better sign than the snobby sorority girls standing outside.
One of the more interesting comments and sights from the end of a string of nights out this week. Started at Felix on Tuesday with Grassrootz Tuesday. Still no dancing, but a great conversation with a fellow Pablo Neruda lover, a lovely raspberry martini with my neighbor and sister, and musings about blame for Hurricane Katrina and Seattle’s status as the “Austin” of Washington state. That’s cool, though. No need to dance every night. Chill out Tuesday, but…
Thursday night, it was on. If homegirl couldn’t fathom dancing to Beat It, she definitely shouldn’t spend her Thursday night at Blue Room, where Uncle Q was spinning a fabulous string of hits that took me from my junior high school dance at Deal Jr. High (shout out DT for rocking the running man with me), to college days in the Faculty House with AMB, JNK, DRM, and SNB burning thousands of calories quickly replenished by a greasy piece of Koronet’s or pancakes at Tom’s. Hanging out with sister P. and friend J., who found themselves in a time warp. J. quickly set an age standard: “Anybody in a white tee,” pulling at his own, “shouldn’t be here.” They skedaddled to Tryst, and the party kept going with Black Rob, Pharcyde, Tribe, and on and on and ya don’t stop…
Friday night. Kept it going at Kolumbia for another Stockholm Joint. “My best one yet,” R. told me later. Folks were styling, profiling, raising money to support Hurricane Kat victims. Best thing about Stockholm is that folks really get their groove on, and you can always count on one group to definitely be working it out. This time, organic soul train line. Oh yeah! In my three-inch heels, I could only watch and two-step. Ended the night with a quick visit to Ben’s. Keep in mind they don’t fix hamburgers after 3 am, but the hotdogs are just as juicy.
And then Saturday. Now, I’d never thought to chill on Connecticut, except for a movie at the Uptown, or sushi at Spices. But, my girl put me onto another spot on to with a $2 cover and a wicked DJ. This dude is NICE on the tables. Great song selection, good momentum, and he can just scratch records like Jigga rhymes: with clarity, intensity, and variation. Loved it. Danced to it. Knew it. But the crowd moved on to 1223, and heard the aforementioned question.
Actually, she was on to something. After getting in, they cut the MJ cycle, blasted the techno, and we just had to bounce immediately. The music just wasn’t working. Interesting scene, though. 'Cause I mainly stick to straight hip-hop/urban (i.e. black) clubs, I got a sight at how the rest of DC parties. Definitely more diverse than the usual Dream oops Love crowd, equal attitude (especially from a tribe of blondes getting into the VIP section) lots of fist-pumping dancing, but all in the same spirit of hip-shaking stress relief.
Shot up Connecticut to Adams Morgan, where, under a full moon, every hipster under 50 lost their minds in the electricity running through the sidewalk and street. I really don’t have to describe it, cause I’m sure you were in line getting a slice of grease and cheese at the jumbo pizza club (humongous speakers at the door blasting reggeaton, folks grooving in line, and underpaid cashiers working for tips), or standing outside Fasika’s who was taking go-go to the motherland. For real? Word. Never scene Adams Morgan like that. That block almost passed for the West Village, or 14 Street between 9th and 12th Avenues. Sleepy li’l Adams Morgan, baby, look at you now.
(Sidebar: Hardly a single cop to be found, or any sort of law enforcement except for a lone tow truck. Real weird since a fight was as a given with so much booty walking around).
Scooted off to down the slice on a quiet Connecticut Ave where we left my car, chased it with Sprite and call it a night. If I was ever skeptical about whether DC could hang night after night, I’ve definitely been put on to the truth. I couldn’t open my eyes before noon on Sunday.
E. and I were standing not far, trying to get comp’d in, admitting “we listen to Beat It,” and you’ve got your videos confused. Mike danced on lights in “Billy Jean” video. More importantly, hearing those strains from 1223 was a much better sign than the snobby sorority girls standing outside.
One of the more interesting comments and sights from the end of a string of nights out this week. Started at Felix on Tuesday with Grassrootz Tuesday. Still no dancing, but a great conversation with a fellow Pablo Neruda lover, a lovely raspberry martini with my neighbor and sister, and musings about blame for Hurricane Katrina and Seattle’s status as the “Austin” of Washington state. That’s cool, though. No need to dance every night. Chill out Tuesday, but…
Thursday night, it was on. If homegirl couldn’t fathom dancing to Beat It, she definitely shouldn’t spend her Thursday night at Blue Room, where Uncle Q was spinning a fabulous string of hits that took me from my junior high school dance at Deal Jr. High (shout out DT for rocking the running man with me), to college days in the Faculty House with AMB, JNK, DRM, and SNB burning thousands of calories quickly replenished by a greasy piece of Koronet’s or pancakes at Tom’s. Hanging out with sister P. and friend J., who found themselves in a time warp. J. quickly set an age standard: “Anybody in a white tee,” pulling at his own, “shouldn’t be here.” They skedaddled to Tryst, and the party kept going with Black Rob, Pharcyde, Tribe, and on and on and ya don’t stop…
Friday night. Kept it going at Kolumbia for another Stockholm Joint. “My best one yet,” R. told me later. Folks were styling, profiling, raising money to support Hurricane Kat victims. Best thing about Stockholm is that folks really get their groove on, and you can always count on one group to definitely be working it out. This time, organic soul train line. Oh yeah! In my three-inch heels, I could only watch and two-step. Ended the night with a quick visit to Ben’s. Keep in mind they don’t fix hamburgers after 3 am, but the hotdogs are just as juicy.
And then Saturday. Now, I’d never thought to chill on Connecticut, except for a movie at the Uptown, or sushi at Spices. But, my girl put me onto another spot on to with a $2 cover and a wicked DJ. This dude is NICE on the tables. Great song selection, good momentum, and he can just scratch records like Jigga rhymes: with clarity, intensity, and variation. Loved it. Danced to it. Knew it. But the crowd moved on to 1223, and heard the aforementioned question.
Actually, she was on to something. After getting in, they cut the MJ cycle, blasted the techno, and we just had to bounce immediately. The music just wasn’t working. Interesting scene, though. 'Cause I mainly stick to straight hip-hop/urban (i.e. black) clubs, I got a sight at how the rest of DC parties. Definitely more diverse than the usual Dream oops Love crowd, equal attitude (especially from a tribe of blondes getting into the VIP section) lots of fist-pumping dancing, but all in the same spirit of hip-shaking stress relief.
Shot up Connecticut to Adams Morgan, where, under a full moon, every hipster under 50 lost their minds in the electricity running through the sidewalk and street. I really don’t have to describe it, cause I’m sure you were in line getting a slice of grease and cheese at the jumbo pizza club (humongous speakers at the door blasting reggeaton, folks grooving in line, and underpaid cashiers working for tips), or standing outside Fasika’s who was taking go-go to the motherland. For real? Word. Never scene Adams Morgan like that. That block almost passed for the West Village, or 14 Street between 9th and 12th Avenues. Sleepy li’l Adams Morgan, baby, look at you now.
(Sidebar: Hardly a single cop to be found, or any sort of law enforcement except for a lone tow truck. Real weird since a fight was as a given with so much booty walking around).
Scooted off to down the slice on a quiet Connecticut Ave where we left my car, chased it with Sprite and call it a night. If I was ever skeptical about whether DC could hang night after night, I’ve definitely been put on to the truth. I couldn’t open my eyes before noon on Sunday.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 1:11 PM
1 Comments:
Where the hell am I girl? I experienced some of these things too.
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