January 14, 2002 – I spent the rest of the day with Nicole and her sister and since she is 22 and her sister is 20, it was certainly neither boring nor serious.
We went up to Chevy Chase and I got to watch them try on sweaters I got to visit Williams-Sonoma (nothing) and Sur la Table (score!) — then we went to Adams Morgan, where Nicole lives, and went to a cute little boutique (Daisy) and more cute little tops were tried on.
Dropped them off, went to a really bad art opening at a coffee shop, then off into the night with some Middlebury grads who idolize me (I have no clue why) We tried to attend an activist stroke fest at Cada Vez, but we couldn’t get in. So we stopped into so that I could intro the gang to the owner of Kuna, Mark.
We went next door the to diabolical “Bar Nun” and had some beer and scotch (er, scotch THEN beer), but it was getting creepy and I thought them all vampires — like where the vamps hang out at night… course we danced to African and Caribbean jam. Off to Chief Ike’s and more dancing and apparently all the little 22-year-old grads had “heard of me.” “Oh, you’re Chris! Wow, cool.” Crazy kids. Danced until last call.
My housemate and I ran upstairs to my fave place, Latin Jazz Alley, and danced until they kicked us out. We searched and then found our friend Brian (drunk off his kettle, pissed as a fart) and Kate (sober) drove us to find Red, which we found.
Didn’t go in but talked with some Indy film makers who were using Ron Jeremy as a star. He was stuck in Annapolis. All these guys were not modelizers but all their girlfriends were, are, and apparently, will always be strippers. Some sort of Indy film underground status (I would be always way too jealous and scared for her safety, myself).
Of course it didn’t end there. 4am. Moby Dick’s is open. Go in and order chicken and rice. While waiting, a 250lb muscle-bound Arabic club kid diplobrat gets it under his skin he wants to kill me.
First sign. He walked into me like a bag of bricks, and when I say, “pardon me” he responded with, “you had better watch out.” So I try to get small but it ain’t easy. I always alpha the room, and I don’t know how that works. I am no Elephant seal. So then Kate and Brian come in to see where I am in the order. We are standing and chatting and he looks at my, resplendent in ribbed baby blue tight top and the required black slacks and shiny Kenneth Cole shoes and dippity do enameling his hair.
“I want to kill you.”
. . .
“Yeah you.”
. . .
“Do you know what I mean? Do you know what I am saying?”
. . .
“I just spent 3 years in jail and I am ready to go back over you,” he rumbled every few seconds as I looked at him.
. . .
“I understand,” I said, “I don’t want a problem here.”
Of course Brian is built like a cross country runner — lithe and slender. He starts to lunge at the guy and I grab Brian by the scruff of the neck and strangely enough stop him in his track.
“Cool it,” I whisper, but he is dancing at the end of my arm and the man is laughing at Brian, laughing as to how laughable it is for this joke to be straining at his leash to take on the Bull. There were no cows on the beach for whom to fight. There was no reason here save territory and I am frankly willing to not include Moby Dick amongst my pissing posts.
I go to grab my food. Forget leaving before the food arrives. This alpha play happens all the time when you’re me. His friends and the owner all crowd around me. They whisper apologies. I fight the adrenaline. I fight the desire to end the night with a fight. The desire must be Slavic, it must be Irish. There were always end-of-night fights in Dublin.
I leave with my friends, we get into the car, Kate drives away and I feel the beginning effects of an adrenaline hangover.
Yesterday, woke for Church, attended, then came home, read the Times and then finally crashed until 4.
