Our irrepressible nightlife spy is at it again… and this one’s a killer. Tantalus confesses he can be scared. But he always scares back.

By Tantalus

Phew. Finally, those crosshairs scratching the back of my neck are gone. I didn’t freak out or anything, but I improvised a strange walk in open areas -- a buckled-knee spastic weave that, if just for comic effect alone, went over well with my out of town guests…

But seriously, even though we Adams Morganites couldn’t help feeling a little smug about terror in the ’burbs -- that fucking long commute AND no safety! -- the initial hunting ground, all around my own scruffy former suburb of Wheaton, brought back rather unpleasant memories.

In March of 1975, when my only worry was whether my third grade teacher, Mrs. Rigby, would return my intense love and devotion, sisters Kate and Sheila (ages 10 and 12) suddenly disappeared during an afternoon shopping trip to Wheaton Plaza. It’s still one of the biggest missing persons cases for Maryland state police, and I remember the fear well. We couldn’t go to the plaza terrified, as we were, by all the lurid speculation about their fate.

Shortly thereafter, little Tantalus had a terrorizing encounter of his own: Walking home from school, I was approached by a man in the car. It was maybe 3:30 p.m. There was no one around. He claimed to be lost and asked for direction through the window. When I told him what I knew, he said, “I don’t quite understand,” and, opening the passenger door, “could you maybe come inside and show me on the map here in my glove compartment?”

It was all very calm, but there was something intense and wrong about the guy. Kids aren’t trained to detect sick pedophiles, but they feel danger. I bolted home. Shortly thereafter, my German mother, who never, ever warmed to subdivisions, malls, Wonderbread, or to the fact that one particular pituitaraly overgrown local boy was always trying to dry hump my sister, urged us all to get the hell out of there and move to Illinois.

Psycho Killer Qu’est Que C’est

It’s relatively easy to write off Halloween as a greed-driven conspiracy of cheap witch hats, glow-in-the-dark Skywalker sabers, and candy corn. But, for adults -- I haven’t eaten candy in years -- there’s probably nothing sexier than a good Halloween party.

The reason is simple. Nothing you do that night will have any moral consequences because, hey -- if you’re gigolo, caveman, pirate or tramp, you’re only acting in character. Therefore, Rule No. 1, let the costume flatter your libido. Do NOT, boys and girls, go as a Teletubby.

Perhaps I took things to the extreme when during my sophomore year, I went as Norman Bates from Psycho. I first stole a shower curtain; then I brought the curtain into my room, cut my lip with a razor blade, and then spread handprints of my own blood all along it. Then I put on Khaki pants, a light blue Oxford, and some docksiders, and wrapped the curtain around me. Finally, I borrowed a massive Bowie knife from a Southern boy down the hall, and was raring to go.

My dorm that year was the Chateau, a sex-charged mock-Loire castle with unisex bathrooms, and we threw the best Halloween party on campus. The evening was idyllic. Volunteering my services in the Massage Parlour, I gave our preppy ice maidens (who really did have names like Missy, Trish, and Taylor) cause for suitable alarm. “Oh my God, is that a knife tickling my back?”

Then, as Norman Mailer’s youngest son Stephen crawled on all fours, pretending to be a child raised by she-wolves, I chased the beautifully elusive Betsy -- who lived across the hall -- into the unisex shower, turned on the faucet, and started to do that Psycho Rrree! Rrree! Rrree! thing. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Size Doesn’t Matter on Halloween

Walter Mondale’s son, Tad, used to throw the best Halloween party in town, a typical Mount Pleasant frat party mixed with bohemian abandon and live Dixieland jazz. But alas, he’s moved down to New Orleans. Should he return, a possibility if Fritz wins Minnesota, he’ll find he has a rival here.

This year, a Danish cameraman in Woodley Park, with the childlike enthusiasm that only a foreigner can bring, pulled out all the stops. A haunted house entrance, spooky lighting, spider webs, hanging man-sized skeletons and ghouls, a full-service bar, and an assembled crowd of Arab sheiks, terrorists, gangsters, cheerleaders, drag queens, and sky-high Afro wigs. True to the 21st century, the host, fully painted in the red and white of a Danish soccer fanatic, mingled with a digital video cam that projected it all on a giant video screen. It all looked very magical through my Mack Daddy shades with attached sideburns.

It terms of Rule No. 1 and libidinous extremes, the winner is a guy I ran into in the kitchen whose only costume accessory was an authentic-looking 10-inch plastic penis. I immediately bet him that my real penis was older than his real penis and narrowly won by five months. The 20 bucks I pocketed provided the nightcaps when we ended the evening close to home.

Local 16

A big thanks to readers for your mail. I’ve managed to please a number and seriously piss off a few, the latter mainly offended by my cosmopolitan snubs of the City on the Swamp. But they have it all wrong. I, for one, do not pine for New York.

In the early 1970s, H.S. Thompson wrote that nightlife in DC is basically discussing foreign aid over cheap bourbon and chicken wings. But we have come a long way. Now, we discuss foreign aid over Tanqueray 10 Gibsons and moules marinieres. And, the key thing is, I don’t mind at all.

In New York, dinner party conversation usually revolves around new clubs, new galleries, and rent hikes, an incestuous banter that can’t accommodate anything but New York. Instead, DC, at its best, brings together professionals, idealists, and slackers, all with some interest in the outside world.

For example, last week at Local 16*, the swank new U Street restaurant/bar, we were joined by a business journalist, a reproductive health worker moving to Rwanda, a criminal lawyer, two ex-Lautenberg staffers (just coming from a fundraiser), and an Adams Morgan barman. The result: free trade with Brazil, the New Jersey Senate race, vaginal condoms, and Hutu war crimes.

Someone on the Wash Post message board wrote that Local 16 is all Eurotrash and surly waiters, but he/she should probably leave that college sweater home more often because the restaurant has done pretty much everything right. The owners -- the groove lounge Thievery Corporation boys of 18th Street Lounge -- bypassed dreary New York minimalism and LA cool in favor of Berlin, currently boasting some of the best restaurant design in the world.

With blood red walls and that austere, Biedermaier, dark wood thing going on, it’s elegant but not over-styled. You could dine here with a casual date or an elderly ambassador. The menu is not that adventurous, but it’s good. I had a perfect Angus Burger with a side order of fashionably undercooked green beans. So three thumbs up for the place. Chicha’s certainly could use the competition, and the pizza at Julios -- where Local 16 now resides -- always gave me heartburn.

Georgetown’s Little Pearl

Though this is not quite nocturnal, you may have been wondering what’s the best place in town to nurse a hangover.

If your Sunday ritual, like mine, usually consists of rising very late, and then going somewhere to watch football, I can only say good things about The Guard on M Street. It’s far away from the generic airport lounge feel of many of our local sports bars. The crusty old barmen, who can wax lyrically on the Nickle Defense, Billy Kilmer’s wobble, and the old days at RFK, are key, plus the honest pub interior, eccentric regulars, and, for Georgetown, just a lot of old school, down home warmth.

My favorite barman is Ray, a retired DC Irish cop who claims to hold the department record for the highest number of kills with a gun AND a squad car. That dubious achievement aside, his bar-side banter is how it should be -- football trivia, detective duty in the ’70s, and Vietnam combat anecdotes. Plus, he serves some great bloody marys.

Finally, staying on a slightly morbid note of this month’s missive, you must check out www.dcdarkside.com. I have no idea who put this strange site together, but his dedication to depravity and weirdness here in the DC area certainly puts Tantalus to shame. Each tale, narrated in an austere, matter-of-fact way, could be a movie.

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Half dog/half brain, Tantalus has written a few books and features for The Baltimore Sun, Newsweek, and The Washington City Paper. Email Tantalus@cultureflux.com with comments.

* Cultureflux’s December issue will feature a full review of Local 16 by Alex Walker.

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 (www.fevertown.com)