Tantalus

The irregular nightlife column.

Igby Goes Down

But hold on.

Before our warriors-in-chief took to Diet Coke and jogging, we did have a vaguely Caligulian period in the form of Camelot. JFK lolling on his bad back, high on speed from Dr. Feelgood, hoisting and dipping every female specimen in his celestial orbit — the Hollywood A-list, Mafia molls, East German spies, his sister-in-law (while Jackie O was in the hospital!), even two interns code-named Fiddle and Faddle. Fortunately, for our entertainment's sake, the pill-popping infidelity of the Bouvier/Kennedy/Auchincloss clan has not gone away. It's just been dormant for a while.

Recently, it inspired one of its own to put it all in a movie, Igby Goes Down, that was celebrated last week with a private party at Café Milano in Georgetown. The writer and director, Burr Steers (DC native son and a St. Albans grad), is the son of Nina Auchincloss Straight (Jackie's step-sister) and the nephew of Gore Vidal (who wrote the screenplay for "Caligula" — imagine that); and the Medusa-like Mom, admirably performed by Susan Sarandon, drew heavily on, so they whispered at the party, Jackie's mom, Janet Lee Bouvier. Given the film's darkly comic collage of family secrets, it was nice to see so many of the clan turn out.

I can't say the gilded crowd intimidated — real celebrities were scarce, more like being at a boozy blueblood Newport yacht party: lockjaws in blazers and women with summer hats, sensible floral dresses, and large pearl necklaces). Nonetheless, one thing about this family matrix is that it's almost gleefully immune to criticism. As long as appearances are kept up, decadence is almost a birthright (and offers ample material for the family's bohemian strands).

J.J.'s in My Living Room

In my last missive, I promised a phat ride into the ghetto, but, alas, my Italian wife vetoed the idea. She hardly minds nursing my devilish hangovers (in fact, I think she secretly enjoys it). But bullet wounds to the head? She's simply not medically qualified. So, I reasoned, if I can't go to the ghetto, it will come to me.

Returning home around 2 a.m., I run into Stoney and his cousin Ricky Dick, two familiar neighborhood panhandling heavy drinkers. After they hit me up for a cigarette, I, still being restless and all, invited them back for nightcaps. I don't normally bring strangers into my home at odd hours (well, actually I do), but this seemed the right call for my clouded mind, and I can't say I regret it. Against the background groove of hard bop hammond meister Jimmy Smith, the three of us attacked my liquor stash and started some serious loud-mouthed pontificatin'. For a few hours, it was all good — 1960s DC, girl trouble, rising rents, and Chucky Brown — but after stiff drink No. 4, things got quite heated.

While Ricky Dick, with three teeth to his name, quietly nursed gin pur, Stoney, dressed in a white straw hat, Bermuda shirt and Sunday suit pants, started some contorted high-attitude street preaching like J.J. from Good Times.

"I'm fucking Stoney Brook. The friction in my diction is my conviction, Nixon. And what I wanna say. What I wanna say. What I wanna to say izzzzz…You're in my house, right? You're not in my house?! Yes you are. And as shor as rivers flow and airplanes fly and Ricky Dick got at least one tooth in his mouth, DC is a black town. Don't ever forget dat. This street used to be all black. You're in my house."

I had some plan of sleeping indoors that night, so I decided to defuse rather than provoke.

"Damn, gentlemen. I kid you not. It is 5 a.m. I see the sun rising. And mah home is wherever I lay my head." With that, Stoney, who I genuinely believe to be a good man, broke into a broad smile and wandered out into the night.

Vegas on the Potomac?

Believe it or not, DC attracts a young, horny, out-of-town crowd who aren't particularly interested in monuments and museums. Sure, we're used to our weekend guests from Maryland and Virginia, but Jersey, Colorado, and Pittsburgh?! Damned straight.

Our problem is that the crowds at individual bars are increasingly interchangeable. How can out-of-town guests differentiate? I, for one, always try to give a helping hand.

We're walking up the 18th Strip, and there are these three girls idling in the middle of the sidewalk, tipsy and confused. The prettiest one (she looked sort of like an Indonesian MTV host) called out, "Hey, do you know a good place around here for dancing."

"What sort of place are you looking for?"

"I dunno. But not like that place across the street, Crush. It's got like all these stupid guys. We want to meet some intellectuals. We're from Denver."

Naïve and forthright. How refreshing. The overly educated Tantalus and his friend, a local law professor, really couldn't believe their luck. While the White House constantly persecutes us intellectuals as commie pinko smart asses, here she was speaking the truth: Women do want a man with a brain. We chivalrously led them to Rendezvous' intimate upstairs lounge just down the street.

Their thirst for knowledge was almost inexhaustible.

The Bad Drinks Awards

Haven't had any bad drinks lately, but I have had a problem with door Nazis. Last weekend, The Reef, the latest meatmarket on the 18th St. strip, would not accept my wife's Italian drivers license. Only passports or American licenses would do.

Now the anal ABC board is as guilty as The Reef, the intimidated newcomers, but do they really expect all foreign tourists to walk around with their passports in the evening? I have never been carded in Europe, but if I were, they'd surely accept a U.S. license. So, how 'bout some reciprocity, here? We have enough problems with coalition building already.

Make Love Not War

The anti-globalization people were back to rage against the machine but I heard mainly peeps and whines. Understandably, when you're on the brink of Armageddon, it's a little hard to get worked up about water privatization in Cochabamba. It was all a far cry from a Friday night in April 2000 when indy camera crews, tie-died idealists, shaved-headed vegans, and other rebellious hair-dos packed the Raven in Mount Pleasant and toasted against the World Bank/IMF double-headed hydra.

I later brought some choice activists back to my friend Brad's regular afterhour's toxic freakshow on nearby Lamont Street. One girl named Bernadette — in the spirit of the evening, we took to calling her Burn the Debt — got hungry for Brad's nephew, joined him on the upper tier of the bunk bed in the room, and began some noisy intercourse. We all found this mildly amusing until, in the heat of passion, she went into free-fall, tumbling eight feet and landing on her back. Fortunately, she was not seriously injured, but the arrival of an ambulance always dampens the mood.

Anyway, this time around, I thought I would visit with the Enemy and see how they celebrate protest week. Now, many protesters are confused by the difference between the IMF and the World Bank, but it's really quite simple. The IMF is mainly filled with male number-crunchers with an often pale and worried look on their faces. The World Bank is filled with gorgeous ambassador's daughters who have nary a care in the world. IMF staff rarely party or, if they do, it's dinner for six out in Potomac. World Bank staff party all the time and usually in Globotrash (and I use the term fondly) venues like Café Citron (http//:www.cafe-citron.com) or in downtown brownstones all tastefully scattered with indigenous artifacts from their many trips abroad.

Last Saturday, just off the 18th Street strip, a huge mix of patrician Continental beauties, media types, and some White House staffers gathered in one such home and diplomatically rubbed loins, and lounged on large sofas and poured mixed drinks till the ice ran out. The Protesters hardly were mentioned - and then, due to their threats of disruption — only as unknowing benefactors of a Friday off. The party was good enough that I did something rare and unusual: Normally, around 2 am we should anxiously look at our watch: Does the party have legs, or should I bolt? Otherwise, you're strung out to dry. In this case, I let last call at the nearby bars come and go, and stayed till the very end. After all, how can you resist petite and perfumed French economists who flash their almond eyes and purr, "What I do, yes? Hmmm. My main projet, yes? Eeez zee preevahtizah-syon uv wahturrr eeen Cochabamba, yes?" Yes.

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Tantalus has authored a few books and features for Newsweek, The Baltimore Sun and The Washington City Paper. Half dog/half brain, he's allergic to daylight, day jobs, suburbs, small towns, and environmental lawyers.

Editor's note: The comments and opinions expressed in the Tantalus column are solely those of the author and are not necessarily those of Cultureflux.com.

Send comments to tantalus@cultureflux.com, and i'll try to incorporate them in my next missive.

Illustrations by Matthew Dawson (www.fevertown.com)