Tantalus

The irregular nightlife column

Since my dominatrix editor will not allow me to write about my summer travels -- Berlin, London, and Buenos Aires ("it would make people jealous and bitter," she reasoned glibly), this month's missive will be a little low on the freaky factor.

So fine. I won't mention my after hours drinking session with a paraplegic dwarf in London (But, alas, I can't help myself: Stumbling home, I ran into him on the sidewalk. The battery had died on his wheelchair so Jesus-like I rolled him to his apartment in a state care facility where he had this weird spacious bathroom with lots of extra rails and strings and thingies. You could prepare for the Olympics in there) or my night out at Gerry's, a dingy private club in Soho where all the beautifully neurotic theatre actresses go to get coked-up after their West End gigs. (When my host, a Russian writer, got drunk as a skunk and left early, I relished cheeky banter with an Irish TV actress -- she looked like the delicious youngest sister of The Corrs, but with breasts).

Okay, okay, I'll stay safely within the limits of our sweltering city on the swamp, and try to find something good to say about it.

Well, it's August, and no race riots yet. The air-con revolution has a lot to do with that, I'm sure. Just returned from a short trip to the Shenandoah. Majestic as always despite our "Martha Stewart on crack" Victorian B&B. Frillows and pillows, china and lace, oh my. Thing with the mountains though, there's nothing to do at night. In total desperation, we ended up at the Days Inn disco where bearded, hollow-eyed geezers bumped and grinded with very big girls in stonewashed denim. Not an attractive sight though I did enjoy the AC/DC line dance.

The Boss is Human

Like the rest of you, I'm happy about Springsteen's post-9/11 revival, bringing the nation together and all that. But the Dominatrix wants more celebrity gossip, so here goes toward a new low. A New York friend, with solid Hollywood connections, recently attended a small private screening and had the rare privilege -- a privilege fans would die for -- of using the small private bathroom immediately after The Boss had just taken a dump. He walked past her with a sheepish grin, and she braced herself for the odor ahead. I'd like to report that it was a little bit country, a little bit turnpike, but she says it was rather mild.

Fortunately, he had flushed. Otherwise, this being America, Boss stool samples would soon be available on Ebay.

The Bad Drink Award

Speaking of private screenings, I recently enjoyed an invitation-only premiere at the very swank downtown DC offices of the Hollywood lobby, the Motion Picture Association. The bartender mixed drinks using the correct proportions (1 to 1), the furnishings were all five star, and the screening room was plush and comfy with wide fold-back chairs. The movie was the much-hyped documentary, "The Kid Stays in the Picture," about Robert Evans, former legendary head of Paramount, producer of hits like "China Town" and "The Godfather," and an incorrigible cad.

After the screening -- I'm going to slip this month's Bad Drink Award here -- my friend and I went for an indifferent dinner at DC Coast (scallops drowned in a cloying dark olive sauce) followed by drinks at the bar. I ordered my staple Absolut and tonic, and my friend went for champagne. Now get this: They wanted $13 for a fucking skinny flute of Laurent Brut. $13! Wake up K Street! It's just wine with bubbles. You can drink it on weeknights like water. Brush your teeth or feet with it. It's not just for weddings and promotions any more. In my book, DC Coast is now DC Toast.

How Does it Feel? Pining for Poseurs

Metro Café's recent release party for "24 Hour Party People," the new British movie about the Manchester scene in the early 80s, was a nice surprise. I have never warmed to Metro -- way too loud and the bands usually suck -- but I was there with a good crowd including my friend Peter visiting from Berlin. He's got it down: he's a society photographer, drives a black 1973 Citroën DS (probably the coolest car ever), and is writing a master's thesis supervised by Brian Eno. Plus, the last time I visited Berlin, he took me for drinks with the 93 year old Godfather of Electronic Music, Oskar Sala -- who composed the creepy score for Hitchcock's "The Birds," and once had to play his homemade synthesizer, the Harmonium Trautonium, for the even creepier Nazi spindoctor Goebbels.

Anyway, the background music brought back a lot of old memories -- Joy Division, New Order, Happy Mondays, The Smiths, and, most of all, Poseurs, the early-80s Georgetown meat market that introduced us all to the morbid Mancunians. Erotically-charged with strobe lights, throbbing syntho-base and, wow, videos on the big screen -- I will always fondly remember it as the site of my first French kiss.

I was 16 -- yes, I know, a late bloomer -- and I met a girl there named Barby. A platinum blonde rich bitch Colonel's daughter from horse country Virginia, she came to the club dressed in her father's Vietnam War uniform, medals and all. When it was time to say goodbye (i.e., make out) I was a little awkward with the deep-action. "Use more saliva," she whispered helpfully.

Full-Frontal Pickup

How many times have you found yourself along a bar where there's a lonely hottie sitting between you and some Loser? Both of you notice her, idly running her finger along the mouth of her glass, fidgeting, waiting to be hit on. But the Loser speaks first. "Are you, like, uh, a model or something?" Groan. Not the way to break the ice. It puts her on a pedestal, embarrassed and weirded out, and makes you look like the slobbering Loser you are. In fact, this, the clumsy full frontal method "What's your name?" also falls into the category "is such a non-starter."

Much better is the side angle method which my friend, Ned, aka Freaky Boy, executes with great panache. The side angle approach allows you to start up a conversation with some absurdist bullshit while pretending to be self-absorbed. It goes something like this.

Ned sees a pretty girl in a bar and lightly pulls her hair. "Hey, do you sell chemical fertilizer? I smell fertilizer."

She wrinkles her nose and ignores him. "Oh, sorry. I grew up on a farm. Fucked up the olfactory. Now I smell fertilizer everywhere" Her brow furrows with concern.

He persists. "But I can't get away from the land. Just bought some down in Virginia. Figuring out what to do with it."

"What do you want to grow?" She finally humors him.

"Genetically modified children." (She suppresses a giggle). "For kidneys mainly, they're in high demand. No, really, alfalfa and beetroot…I don't eat meat, not since the trichinosis…terrible thing, nausea, retching. It also swells the muscles, that's why I look so bulky."

And before she can say, "Go away, sicko" they're up on his 8^th story balcony enjoying a post-coital imperial view.

Bizarre Etiquette

Recently, at the Bar Rouge, a young black man came into the room and approached me. He only wanted a light, and I happily obliged. He said thank you, walked away, and suddenly turned around, and nervously placed a $5 bill in my ashtray. Was it payback for all the panhandling I get in my neighborhood? I would hope not, but you never can tell. I've had people offer to buy a cigarette (which is ridiculous), but never a light. Light's free, brother. If, in order to preserve your dignity, that's what you felt you had to do, then we've got a long way to go.

Next time I'll report on risqué nightlife in our eastern quadrants. Just gotta find me a phat ride. Anybody know where I can rent an Eldorado?

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

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, 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.

Illustrations by Matthew Dawson