I went out Saturday night with Randy and his friend Jason. We were thinking about going to JRs but opted instead for the nightly tragedy that is Omega. I have to admit I have a soft spot in my colon for Omega, as it’s probably the most “New Orleansy” bar in DC. Yes, that is supposed to be a back-handed complement. On a scale of tragicness it’s somewhere between Lafitte’s and Corner Pocket.
Hmmm. Let me re-phrase that.
If Lafitte’s and Corner Pocket conceived a bar on the pool table in the backroom of Rawhide, nine months later Omega would pop out of someone’s ass.
In a good way.
When there’s a good crowd at Omega the first floor is usually filled with the more uppity segment of Omega’s clientèle, standing around a big rectangular bar ogling muscley-fat strippers who wave their banana-hammocks in your face while you try to order a drink (that’s the Corner Pocket part.) Like Rawhide and Corner Pocket, it’s easier to start a conversation at Omega since people there are usually less guarded than at places like JRs or Halo, where the guys are more concerned about how their hair looks than actually meeting anyone new. People seem a little more friendly at Omega (that’s not necessarily a good thing) and I’ve managed to meet a couple guys there and talked for a while.
Of course, I never heard from them again, but you know.. at least I got a name and fake number!
Now, upstairs at Omega is a full-on freak fest. It’s like Lafitte’s but with a nicer bathroom and less leather. There’s porn playing in a weird room that everyone stands around and watches (I haven’t seen anyone getting jiggy with it though… they seem to be genuinely interested in the porn.. go figure.) This is where I saw the Peaches/Miss Piggy “Fuck The Pain Away” video for the first time. It’s how the previous generation remembers exactly where they were when Kennedy was shot except this isn’t the greatest leader of our time being assassinated, it’s footage of pig puppet manipulated to look as if it’s masturbating.
Anyway, I spent 25 minutes upstairs getting yelled at in Italian by some guy who apparently date(d?)s some big-wig food critic for the Post. Actually, he was trying to teach me some “necessary Italian phrases,” but all I remember is him rubbing my nipples and yelling “prego!” at me for a half hour. His insane, drunk friend was from Brazil and was fascinated by Randy’s t-shirt because it was green and had a bird on it. He gave Randy a hug and screamed “You like the Brazil, right!? I FROM BRAZIL! I Love this!”
He did. He loved this. For 40 minutes.
Around 2am after we ditched the Italian linguist and Brazilian envionmentalist, Randy and Jason left and I started talking to this guy who later invited me to Annie’s for a burger with his friends. They wondered home afterwards and I made my way to the Metro. No kiss or anything but I got his number so hopefully I’ll get to see him again. He seemed nice, through my drunken stupor.
Speaking of drunken stupor, I fell asleep on the train on the way home and woke up at 4:30am in Greenbelt.
“Fell asleep” sounds so much nicer than “Passed out,” right?
After getting into a semantics debate with a cab driver, I wound up paying $40 bucks to get home. Honestly, I still don’t even know where Greenbelt is, it could be around the corner from my house.
So, how was your weekend?