January, 30 years ago....
30 years ago you went into Georgetown because everything in Virginia sucked and closed down by 10:00. It would be Roger and Margaret and Edmund and Beth and me as the odd spoke (of course), and some of you reading this, occasionally. Edmund could always find a parking place within two blocks of Wisconsin and M. The roads would be solid steel and yet he'd always find some abandoned space in some carefully tucked away corner towards the river. The man had The Gift.
It was cold, so damn cold, but half a dozen zombies from Pall Malls would warm you right up. We'd hurry from bar to bar, traipsing down M Street as fast as possible before the buzz wore off. Each establishment had lines of college kids and tourists waiting to get in. The bouncers gave us no hassles, and we always got immediate entrance. We were professionals and they knew it. You can get to a point in decadence and debauchery where you give off an aura of grim hedonistic determination that is not to be messed with - we glowed. You had to go to Gunchers, of course. Oh, the drinks weren't that good, but the antique arcade games were fun, and hell, traditions had to be maintained. Then there was the Crazy Horse and Winstons and Mr. Smiths (before 9 when it turned into a gay bar), and three or four more whose memories have retreated into a mist that smells of rum and bourbon. I personally avoided Clydes (too expensive and too unnecessarily pretentious), but just about everything else was fair game. There were games and they were simple, mostly involving burning napkins with cigarettes. Which reminds me - there was always smoke - pipes with good old Virginia blend tobacco, or Brazilian cigars (which we called Mississippi Gamblers), or pitch black sobrane cigarettes. It would not surprise me in the least to discover a fog still enveloping the lower end of Georgetown from our exhalations).
Timing was important, we had to end up at the Cafe de Paris by 2AM for a line of drinks from Last Call, as well as French onion soup, steak tartar, and the best french fries ever devised by man. These things are important and are missed.
The soundtrack reflected the attitude, some Bowie, some Stones, some funk/disco (Love Rollercoaster always sticks with me from that time), with New Wave and Punk just around the corner, (Patti Smith was starting a black flame with her first album that was already burning some new tunnels in my brain).
But we were still cold, and I don't think it was just the weather. The economy blew and the future was bleak. For a night we could forget our suck-ass jobs (or lack thereof) and a time period hemming us in. It wasn't really escaping - we were burrowing, (and I'm not sure I've ever stopped). But there was also a deep camaraderie, and that may be all one can really gain from any situation.
For those of you who were there - well, we made it another year we never expected to, let's keep going and see what happens. And for those of you who weren't - Happy New Year, may you never have to burrow. As for me, I'm getting another bourbon and dreaming of old friends and french fries at 3AM from Cafe de Paris (with Love Rollercoaster quietly bouncing away in my head). Peace.
It was cold, so damn cold, but half a dozen zombies from Pall Malls would warm you right up. We'd hurry from bar to bar, traipsing down M Street as fast as possible before the buzz wore off. Each establishment had lines of college kids and tourists waiting to get in. The bouncers gave us no hassles, and we always got immediate entrance. We were professionals and they knew it. You can get to a point in decadence and debauchery where you give off an aura of grim hedonistic determination that is not to be messed with - we glowed. You had to go to Gunchers, of course. Oh, the drinks weren't that good, but the antique arcade games were fun, and hell, traditions had to be maintained. Then there was the Crazy Horse and Winstons and Mr. Smiths (before 9 when it turned into a gay bar), and three or four more whose memories have retreated into a mist that smells of rum and bourbon. I personally avoided Clydes (too expensive and too unnecessarily pretentious), but just about everything else was fair game. There were games and they were simple, mostly involving burning napkins with cigarettes. Which reminds me - there was always smoke - pipes with good old Virginia blend tobacco, or Brazilian cigars (which we called Mississippi Gamblers), or pitch black sobrane cigarettes. It would not surprise me in the least to discover a fog still enveloping the lower end of Georgetown from our exhalations).
Timing was important, we had to end up at the Cafe de Paris by 2AM for a line of drinks from Last Call, as well as French onion soup, steak tartar, and the best french fries ever devised by man. These things are important and are missed.
The soundtrack reflected the attitude, some Bowie, some Stones, some funk/disco (Love Rollercoaster always sticks with me from that time), with New Wave and Punk just around the corner, (Patti Smith was starting a black flame with her first album that was already burning some new tunnels in my brain).
But we were still cold, and I don't think it was just the weather. The economy blew and the future was bleak. For a night we could forget our suck-ass jobs (or lack thereof) and a time period hemming us in. It wasn't really escaping - we were burrowing, (and I'm not sure I've ever stopped). But there was also a deep camaraderie, and that may be all one can really gain from any situation.
For those of you who were there - well, we made it another year we never expected to, let's keep going and see what happens. And for those of you who weren't - Happy New Year, may you never have to burrow. As for me, I'm getting another bourbon and dreaming of old friends and french fries at 3AM from Cafe de Paris (with Love Rollercoaster quietly bouncing away in my head). Peace.
posted by mendip at
9:22 PM
2 Comments:
Rob: Never forget the "Green Door" during the farmer's March on D.C. with the Kinker on stage. Now that I live in a community and count numerous cotton, soybean and corn farmers (AKA ROW CROP FARMERS) and aquatic farmers (AKA CATFISH FARMERS) as friends, I understand their perspective. NO!, I am not turning away from Republican roots; it's just that some entitlement programs are better than others.
Edmund could place that blue Ford Fiesta just about anywhere - anytime.
I wonder if the late night fries and all the late night Jack in the Box runs contributed in any way to Edmund's coronary condition.
Things that do make one go "hmmmmm."
I love the blog old friend and "weirdness" is an apt name.
Take care and do not get too wild this evening.
Do you still have the "death roams the highway" sticker on the dash of ytour current automobile?
Cheers !!!!
By
Anonymous, at 10:41 AM
Ah yes, "Death Roams The Highways - And So Do I". The sticker lives! I have it in a little keepsake box. It's not been in a car since the halcyon days of the Olds Omega. I removed it from there after the poor old car got totalled. My folks were using it in D.C. A drunken illegal hit them from behind while they waited at a red light, (he was apparently going about 35 mph). The car was a friend to the end, the rear bumper moved back, but never broke, and the frame held - my folks only suffered some whiplash. The son of Quetzalquatal disappeared, hopefully to die a slow and horrible end through misadventure by chalupa. The sticker is all that remains...
By
mendip, at 11:36 AM
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