21 April 2012

Clubbin' in The District

A few weeks ago I went clubbing. Not cruise ship clubbing, not high school clubbing, but actual, legit DC clubbing. I passed on Madam Organ's, passed on Ultrabar, and instead settled on Josephine. (If  you follow that link and witness debauchery, I apologize.) Now, allow me to explain. I have some nice Mormon friends who don't necessarily participate in the type of activities that go on in nightclubs, but they have nice non-Mormon friends who do. And one of these friends was celebrating a Golden Birthday with her Mormon friends, and requested that they all join her at Josephine for the after party. Said Mormon friends were a little nervous about the whole event, and invited me along for a few reasons (that I can think of). First, they needed a ride. Second, they needed a protective male who had Mormon standards. Third, they told me my blog material has been boring lately, as reflective of my life, and that I needed some excitement. And fourth, they needed someone to tally up the cover charges and keep track of who owed who what. It's rare that my math knowledge comes in handy outside of a school, but at Josephine it did just that. I think that was the reason they went with me instead of the Elder's Quorum president, Fabio, who drives a Chevy suburban.
We arrived at the club about 11:30pm, where we waited in line for a few minutes hoping we were good looking enough to avoid the ridicule of the ridiculously large bouncer with a clipboard and earpiece. I don't know what was on the clipboard, but I'll assume it was hand drawn pictures of Care Bears and Leprechauns. The couple in front of us had an awkward first date moment when the male was denied and the female wasn't. That type of hard evidence that you're dating out of your league is rare, and I don't agree with it. But I am not Josephine.
Luckily no one in our party was rejected by the clipboard wielding behemoth of a man, and in fact some of us (who did our research) got passes to avoid the steep $20 cover charge. That's how you know you're entering a nice club- when you have to show Mr. Andrew Jackson just to enter. (Actually I have no idea, this was my first DC club experience. Maybe $20 was a bargain.)
Once inside the club (and here's where you can start cringing, Mom) it was a sight to behold. So many beautiful women wearing enough clothes to completely swaddle a large tic tac, all dressed to the nines. There were some extremely creative outfits, including a leopard uni-suit (she was on the hunt), and a skirt that made a bikini look like a Burka. The club had two main rooms, and then a raving 'pit.' In the pit there were some professional go-go dancers (if you don't know what those are, please see the Wikipedia article and know that they were not as bad as you may imagine they could be; this was a swanky club, mind you). My group mostly stayed in the other room where the patrons were more tame, the lights less assaulting, and the music slightly less throbbing. My Mormon girl friend taught me how to handle women who come up and start dancing with you in ways that might lead to a lawsuit in any other venue; her strategy was surprisingly clever and it made me wonder if she'd been clubbing a few more times than she had led me on to believe...
In addition to the go-go dancers, the club had hired very attractive girls to stand against the wall in outfits that were apparently very wedgie-proned. I can't blame them.
In the end I made it home. And I still feel I can hold a temple recommend. And I probably won't do it again. Well, maybe... if someone needs a ride.
PS- I was going to post some pictures, but none seemed entirely right for this kid friendly blog about night clubbing.

12 April 2012

My Basketball Crew

I think I've blogged about my basketball crew before but that won't stop me from doing it again. My mother was in town last week for our weekend cabin extravaganza in West Virginia, and she asked me more about the gentlemen I play street ball with a few times a week. It got me thinking about our origins...
Similar to the X-Men, it all started when I had a dog last Summer, Maggie, and ventured to the nethermost regions of my neighborhood in search of a new walking path. I was getting sick of the normal people I passed asking me repeatedly if my dog was pregnant, if I was interested in enrolling my dog in fat camp, or how it felt to be walked by a wholly mammoth, so I ventured off the beaten path and engaged in more adventurous, rugged routes. While walking on streets like 'Gastronomical Way' and 'Stomach Street' I found a basketball court tucked neatly away behind a sign that read "Arlington County Basketball Court. All are welcome. Crews are encouraged. Don't keep it a secret, tell your friends." Thinking the invitation was for boaters (ie a crew team) and not ballers, I returned the next day in my swimming trunks and was sorely disappointed to learn that the closest body of water was the drinking fountain at the corner of the court. I made a paper boat out of my gum wrapper and called it good. However, there in my skivvies, I did notice some basketball players. I remember well the man named Fork who asked me if I wanted to join the email list of available players in this nethermost neighborhood near nowhere. I had no idea the repercussions this acquiescence would have. (For example, when I returned from my three day trip to WV last weekend I had 60 emails- all from ballers.) I began responding to the emails as quickly as my basketball game respawned from its deathly state, and before long I was a regular. I was on a first name basis with all the guys, except that I had them call me "Mama's Window Breaker" because at the time I wanted a cool nickname that sounded tough, and that was the best I could do. It was a step up from my other nickname, "Water Fountain Boat Boy." No one even knew my first name until the fateful day when I opened up my the sack dinner my aunt made me to eat between games, and there fell out the note, "Have a great game, David! We'll be praying for you to be safe! XOXO Aunt Jeanine." That's when I had to confess that truthfully my name wasn't Mama's Window Breaker. I was quite surprised that I hadn't actually been fooling any of them- they all knew it was a nickname. Who would have thought these guys were so smart?
Similar to my autobiography, here we are half way through the allotted page limit and the only people I've mentioned are myself and Fork. You'll just have to wait for the next installment.