"soooooo delicious!"

At the risk of sounding like the metaphorical broken record, I thought about not blogging about my experience last Saturday at 18th Street Lounge. But then I remembered that sounding like a broken record is this blog's charm, right? RIGHT?! And plus, over here at The Anti DC, the record always skips at the best part of any given song (i.e., at minute 2:56 in Radiohead's All I Need, at minute 3:30 in Rush's Tom Sawyer, at minute 1:01 in Corey Hart's Sunglasses at Night, at minute 11:50 in Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, at minute 0:00 in Andrew W.K.'s Party Hard, at minutes 0:53, 1:47 and 2:21 in The Rocky Theme Song, and any other song ever composed).

However, while I was tempted to cut and paste most of my review of Play to write my review of ESL, save for the key insertion of phrases like "but with better music" and "but with a cooler interior," I decided to use my wordjockey (WJ?) skills and spin (LOL!) this a little differently. And with the help of everyone's my favorite procrastination timesuck, Craigslist's Missed Connections, I think I've come up with a little ditty you might enjoy. One, two, keyboard check. OK, here it is:

I Danced with You Last Night (Sat Night) at 18th Street Lounge - m4w

Reply to: pers-658063803@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-27, 10:35AM

I danced with you so intimately last night (Sat night), before your (sister?) came over and pulled you away. You felt soooooo delicious and natural. Can I ever get a second chance, just you and I?

Whoa. Now the effing record just skipped. Did pers-658063803 just say someone "felt soooooo [six o's, really?] delicious?" That is f*cking gnarly. Yet, at the same time, I can't say I'm entirely surprised. I mean, if you were there, you would've seen the shenanigans happening on ESL's poor dance floor that night. It just wasn't right. Look, "dancing so intimately" is to be expected at places like Play with their endless remixes of Color Me Badd's I Want to Sex You Up on loop, but at ESL, which is owned by Thievery Corporation and constantly hosts some of the best DJs on the scene today, I expected the level of dry-humpage to be lower. It wasn't.

It got so bad that, at one point, The Law was sandwiched in between a lumpy blond in a cut-off jean skirt who was making out with a a popped collar (I'm pretty sure there was a person behind the collar) and a bespectacled douche who was gettin' busy dry-humping something, er, I mean someone.

Yeah. It was all just a little too softcore for us. We ended up shifting out to the back patio (which is nice, by the way) and that's when we saw that everyone was wearing the same thing. The jean skirts, the sequined CVS flip-flops, the button-downs with jeans...If there was a country called Doucheistan, these would be its military uniforms.

But speaking of country's ending in -stan and the rest of the Soviet bloc, I would like to propose a system be instated in DC not unlike the Face Control system that persists in Moscow. This system used to irritate the borchsht out of me while I was actually living there because it seemed so ass-backwards. Clubs and lounges would routinely deny paying customers entry because they didn't look wealthy enough, slutty enough, tacky enough. On rare occasions, you may even be turned away for being *gasp* too drunk (in Russia, what?!). Luckily for me, since I apparently rolled like a tacky hussy, I never really experienced Face Control firsthand (um, at least that I remember, whoops!), but I've seen Face Control happen before my eyes on several occasions and it always seemed so arbitrary. However, looking back, I realize that it really wasn't. They wanted to upkeep that tackiness quota and that is exactly what they did! (Hmm...depending on how you look at it, I suppose, it is almost flattering to get turned away...)

So, what if we alter Face Control's Moscow criteria to fit a less golden, glittery Dolce & Gabbana aesthetic and begin utilizing it here? Perhaps this new American version of Face Control is the solution to making DC's nightlife more bearable, perhaps even cool. I mean, clearly, it wouldn't have to be as strict as Moscow Face Control, but at the very least it would require people to wear real shoes to a lounge. I mean, is it so wacky of me to want to be able to walk into a space and not have 50 crotches staring me in the face because every female bridging in from suburban Virginia thought it would be flattering to show off their bits in cut-off jean skirts that turned into belts when they sat down? If my wish not to see strange female ass is wrong, then I must say, I don't want to be right.

And to close this more vitriolic of Anti-DC rants, I'd like to post a video in honor of my home's apparent favorite pastime -- dry-humping. Enjoy!