After celebrating my mother’s birthday last Saturday night with a number of the neighbors, I headed to Adams Morgan with Caitlin. Upon her request, we waited in the absurdly long line at Chloe so that we too could join hundreds of our closest companions in enjoying pounding music, flowing alcohol, and numerous violations of personal space. In the end, Chloe turned out to be awesome. By awesome, I mean it was as fun as swallowing a live penguin whole.
In all fairness, I was not in a wild and crazy “let’s have fun!” kind of mood, which may have affected my experience. I didn’t realize that I was so sullen and crabby until the third person commented that I should smile, because I apparently looked so angry. [To which I cheerfully snarled, “Why? I don’t feel like fucking smiling. Who am I smiling for? You?”] The crappiness of the night, however, extended beyond my sour mood.
For example, there was The Dancing Neanderthal. After being at Chloe for close to an hour, Caitlin spotted an attractive man across the dance floor and ventured over to strike up a conversation. Ever the loyal wingman, I begrudgingly tried to make small talk with his unattractive, stumpy friend who insisted on flailing about drunkenly to the blaring Kelly Clarkson song. I was finally so put off by his disgusting attempts to hump my leg that I leaned over to Caitlin’s quarry and quietly screamed, “Can we have him neutered? Is he really drunk or something?” It was then that I was told that The Dancing Neanderthal was not this guy’s friend at all, but rather just a random loser who just happened to be standing uncomfortably close. I immediately turned my back to him and after repeated attempts to regain my attention, he drifted away.
Not for long, however. I was already fed up with the overly loud music, the tightly-packed crowd, the constant spilling of drinks on my anatomy, and the repeated gropings by strangers. After being asked for the hundredth time why I looked so miserable and did I happen to want to dance my misery away, I went storming towards the stairs to leave. As I plowed through the crowds, I felt an arm grab me inappropriately and I turned to see The Dancing Neanderthal still thinking I might possibly want to dance/procreate. I forcibly shoved him a solid five or six feet with what Caitlin described as “absolute fury and rage”.
I realized when I reached the door that Caitlin had my ID in her purse, so I rejoined her in the crowd and stood wearily by her side for another thirty minutes while she chatted up her attractive new friend. When I could take no more, I told her to call me when she was ready to go home and I left. I then proceeded to sit in a virtually empty bar and sip Diet Cokes for an hour, while talking to my newfound middle-aged companions.
The highlight of the night came when it was time to leave my bar. Caitlin, having finally had enough of Chloe, met me at the bar to let me know that she was ready to go home. We reached the front door and were told quite seriously by the two large bouncers that, as part of a new DC policy, we would need to show him our IDs and pay a $10 cover charge each in order to leave. I apologetically explained that I did not have any cash, and then proceeded to present one of the men with my debit card, my ID, my cell phone, my engagement and wedding rings, my diamond earrings (which the other bouncer called “bl” because the studs were far too small to deserve the name “bling”), my shoe, and my belt, all of which he juggled precariously in his massive arms. I figured that he’d stop me when I handed him my sticky, beer-stained shoe, but he accepted it good-naturedly and waited for my next gift. And that made my otherwise shitastic night.