I sought out two of DC’s minorities last weekend: the glamorous and the burlesque.
It started with the glamorous, two and a half thousand miles away amongst the real thing. A colleague’s parents were at the unveiling of a freshly fallen star on Hollywood Boulevard when they ran into an old friend who was heading to DC the following day. Why? For the most anticipated event in DC’s social calendar: the opening of the billion dollar Newseum on Pennsylvania Avenue. Yes. Museum. News. Stop the press: Newseum! I hear they toyed with Mews! but thought it sounded like a sequel to Cats.
Unfortunately, this friend of theirs was without an escort for the evening, and likely to run into her ex-husband amongst the canapes. “Not a problem!” they replied, “Our daughter must know someone in the District who can tie a bow tie and walk on his hind legs long enough to make it down a red carpet.”
My name came up.
The good thing about black tie is that it is reasonably difficult to disappoint. You are either in black tie or you are not. There’s a ceiling to how good you can look. It’s the French dictation of dress codes: you can only loose marks. She looks fantastic. You’re in black tie.
But you do need to get the basics right. Otherwise, she looks fantastic, you’re in your underpants. So my Friday night began with a struggle to tie something that didn’t look like it had recently stopped spinning whilst questioning the structural integrity of a tux I have worn - slept and swam in - since my 6th form ball.
I am also more used to arriving at these kinds of things four hours in advance with a corkscrew in my back pocket, not in limos with extraordinarily glamourous women in glittering golden green dresses. I was in the middle of not letting this show when my date had to gracefully reminded me that we should really walk in via the red carpet and not through the side entrance I had been straying towards.
Walk. Stop. Smile. Flash. Flash. Snap. Snap. And into a huge party. Helicopters hanging from the ceiling. Champagne bars in the lifts. Sections of a Berlin wall, possibly The Berlin Wall. Piles of oysters and crabs’ legs and shots of Kettel One. All culminating in a view across the capital from the spotlight swept sixth floor balcony.
But this was glamour DC-style. So pretty low on the actual glamour. I was probably with the most glamourous person there. And she was there with someone who kept looking for empty glasses to clear. Pundits and politicians a party do not make, especially in a city that was recently voted the second least attractive in the country. (I’m not kidding, it’s actually quite depressing.)
And the burlesque? That was the next night at the Palace of Wonders on H St between 12th & 13th, half a block of scruffy bars in DC’s otherwise strictly no go north east.
DC is a small place, and inhabitable DC is even smaller, the rest suffers some of the worst gun crime in the country. Fortunately, the frontiers are being pushed back, hipster bars and boho cafes in the vanguard, gentrification in their wake. The gentry are less likely to shoot one another apparently, preferring to duel with foils or tennis on a Wii. So “Don’t go east of 10th” is now “Don’t go east of 15th”.
I’ve been taking all this with a pinch of salt, but I had to tell my cab driver four times that I wanted H St North East not North West on Saturday night. And when we got there, he wouldn’t let me out of the cab until we had identified the specific bar; and when I’d identified the bar, he wouldn’t let me out until he’d done a U-turn to get me across the street. It was like visiting Sarajevo in ‘96. So when the doorman told me not to cross the street for a cab home I didn’t cross the street.
Inside, the danger was restricted to sword swallowing, fire eating, snake charming, rubber chicken decapitation, beds of nails, inverted straight jacketed escapology and shots with tabasco at the bottom. Well worth a visit.
It started with the glamorous, two and a half thousand miles away amongst the real thing. A colleague’s parents were at the unveiling of a freshly fallen star on Hollywood Boulevard when they ran into an old friend who was heading to DC the following day. Why? For the most anticipated event in DC’s social calendar: the opening of the billion dollar Newseum on Pennsylvania Avenue. Yes. Museum. News. Stop the press: Newseum! I hear they toyed with Mews! but thought it sounded like a sequel to Cats.
Unfortunately, this friend of theirs was without an escort for the evening, and likely to run into her ex-husband amongst the canapes. “Not a problem!” they replied, “Our daughter must know someone in the District who can tie a bow tie and walk on his hind legs long enough to make it down a red carpet.”
My name came up.
The good thing about black tie is that it is reasonably difficult to disappoint. You are either in black tie or you are not. There’s a ceiling to how good you can look. It’s the French dictation of dress codes: you can only loose marks. She looks fantastic. You’re in black tie.
But you do need to get the basics right. Otherwise, she looks fantastic, you’re in your underpants. So my Friday night began with a struggle to tie something that didn’t look like it had recently stopped spinning whilst questioning the structural integrity of a tux I have worn - slept and swam in - since my 6th form ball.
I am also more used to arriving at these kinds of things four hours in advance with a corkscrew in my back pocket, not in limos with extraordinarily glamourous women in glittering golden green dresses. I was in the middle of not letting this show when my date had to gracefully reminded me that we should really walk in via the red carpet and not through the side entrance I had been straying towards.
Walk. Stop. Smile. Flash. Flash. Snap. Snap. And into a huge party. Helicopters hanging from the ceiling. Champagne bars in the lifts. Sections of a Berlin wall, possibly The Berlin Wall. Piles of oysters and crabs’ legs and shots of Kettel One. All culminating in a view across the capital from the spotlight swept sixth floor balcony.
But this was glamour DC-style. So pretty low on the actual glamour. I was probably with the most glamourous person there. And she was there with someone who kept looking for empty glasses to clear. Pundits and politicians a party do not make, especially in a city that was recently voted the second least attractive in the country. (I’m not kidding, it’s actually quite depressing.)
And the burlesque? That was the next night at the Palace of Wonders on H St between 12th & 13th, half a block of scruffy bars in DC’s otherwise strictly no go north east.
DC is a small place, and inhabitable DC is even smaller, the rest suffers some of the worst gun crime in the country. Fortunately, the frontiers are being pushed back, hipster bars and boho cafes in the vanguard, gentrification in their wake. The gentry are less likely to shoot one another apparently, preferring to duel with foils or tennis on a Wii. So “Don’t go east of 10th” is now “Don’t go east of 15th”.
I’ve been taking all this with a pinch of salt, but I had to tell my cab driver four times that I wanted H St North East not North West on Saturday night. And when we got there, he wouldn’t let me out of the cab until we had identified the specific bar; and when I’d identified the bar, he wouldn’t let me out until he’d done a U-turn to get me across the street. It was like visiting Sarajevo in ‘96. So when the doorman told me not to cross the street for a cab home I didn’t cross the street.
Inside, the danger was restricted to sword swallowing, fire eating, snake charming, rubber chicken decapitation, beds of nails, inverted straight jacketed escapology and shots with tabasco at the bottom. Well worth a visit.
3 comments:
Nice fun piece but the link to the dc hotspot does not work.
http://www.herecomeseverybody.org/2008/04/looking-for-the-mouse.html
interesting article and nice point at the end about real time crime maps.
tres bien. but what about some photos please? x
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