Tantalus:

Pornographic war imagery, a brush with Joe Millionaire, Mantis, Free Masons, and much, much more in this month's nightlife extravaganza.

Shock and Ahhh Given the ongoing war (as this goes to press), it feels twisted, at best, to chatter on about nightlife. Then again, the beer talk down at my local pub has been all Iraq, all the time -- gung-ho patriotism, rightwing theologizing, leftwing “I told you it'd be ugly,” or, for those who wear D&G a little too often, “Who gives a shit?” Dog-walkers, sous chefs, Middle East experts, Vietnam vets all weigh in. I won't enter the fray here. Instead, I'll just pan

Watching the cable play-by-play, we're apparently always “hammering” and “pounding” Baghdad; we're “thrusting” and “driving deeper” into Iraq. Yet, there's also been, hmmm, “stiffening resistance.” Soon, the Republican Guard will be “moaning and groaning.” If not, we will bring them “to their knees.” War is Hell, not Emmanuelle. So -- for Christ's sake -- think less locker room and more BBC. (I'm allowed to say that because the Brits are on our side.)

Being Joe Millionaire

On a much, much lighter note... Oh Lord -- here it comes. Platinum's 3rd Anniversary Party with special guest, Joe Millionaire. So, my friend D -- star society columnist at a local paper -- calls me up and says, “Well, there's really nothing going on Oscar night, but Joe Millionaire's coming to Platinum on Saturday. I've got passes to the VIP room. Are you with me or against me?” “With! With!” I cried, overcome with dizziness

Now, what people don't realize about the hard job of nightlife reporting is that there's a lot of downtime in low-lit lounges. You chat with old pros like D's photographer -- a bearded dead ringer for Andy Warhol, and a stoic veteran of downtime -- or cub reporters from the Post (she showed up around 10, notebook out like a lancet, professional and witty and all, but coyly refusing my offer of a drink -- somehow convinced that booze would blur the judgment she needed for this momentous event).

Soon, we were joined by some of D's friends. Clad in formal gear, they were fresh from a Cancer Charity ball -- an attractive blonde chaperoned by a high–ranking Pentagon official. Observing VIP decorum, I couldn't get all fractious and in his face about the war. So, thank God I had some riding anecdotes because both were really, really into polo.

Around midnight, the tension mounted. Full VIP lounge, House Diva Crystal Waters live downstairs sexing up her hit single, “La da dee, la da da,” and then Joe suddenly appeared, minders paving the way, weaving slowly through the crowd to make his (so it was rumored) 10-grand appearance.

What else can I say? He's tall and beefy. He settled in a corner. He drank some juice. The girl next to me complained about his oily hair. “Way too Banderas.” But hair, shmair. He's on a 15-minute gravy train, and he seems to be enjoying the ride. Next stop?

Mantis

You'd think by now, DC would have enough minimalist groove lounges serving up Asian fusion and $8 cocktails, but apparently we haven't hit the ceiling yet.

On the corner of Columbia and Mintwood, the new arrival wins you over with its mood lighting, big Buddha behind the bar, and neighborhood feel. It's like Cheers redecorated by Thievery Corporation -- a talk place for beautiful young things, yet a little aloof from the flotsam and jetsam of the 18th St. drag.

On weekends, it should compete with Blue Room, Bossa, and the Felix extension (which has yet to find an identity). And the aspiring actor/barman Rafael serves up some mean negronis.

360 Seconds with the Cult

I looked forward to a Free Mason cocktail party the other night, particularly because of the advertised setting: the spooky Scottish Rite Temple on 16th St. -- the one that looks like an Emperor's tomb.

Gleefully, I imagined a human sacrifice or two, candelabra galore, and distinguished people milling about in hats that say, “Supreme Inspector,” “Guardian of the Guild,” “Celestial Prefect of the Order,” and other such nonsense. So, as requested, I donned my “dark business attire“ and made my way over.

Oh, Weeping Madonna of Fallen Hope! It was just not to be. Down in a brightly lit basement conference room, an elderly crowd sat around plastic tables gorging on free food. A barman in black tie didn't serve alcohol. And a man in “white tie” sat on one of the folding chairs. White tie on a folding chair! You should really only wear it when you win the Nobel, but you can never, ever wear it sitting on a folding chair in a brightly lit basement conference room. It's like smoking a Cohiba while dressed in sneakers and Bermuda shorts.

The ordeal, as gripping as a Lutheran pancake breakfast, lasted one ginger ale, or six minutes. But I may still join... when I'm 64.

In Defense of the Madam

If you're a cynical trendmeister, it's obligatory to dis Madam's Organ as a collegiate meatmarket that has outlived its shelf life. Did success go to its head after Playboy voted it one of the 20 best bars in America? With the door-staff in matching T-shirts and the democratic crowd, Madam's Organ can sometimes feel like a happening TGI Fridays. But there are still hidden and not-so-hidden pearls: the most eccentric décor in town (hanging animal specimen and bicycles), rootsy

So, if you're turned off by its popularity, don't be. The Madam may have stretch marks, but she can still deliver, including the most untame, outta control Mardi Gras party in town. Look for a Madam II opening soon by the Georgetown waterfront.

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