Wow, what an interesting experience I had this evening. I went to a club called Wet in DC’s Ghe-Toe. It is down in Anacostia. But it’s actually about two blocks from the Navy Yard station, which I believe is not too far from Eastern Market, so I’m thinking that it may not be as bad as it once was…not that I would be frequenting such an establishment.

Well, to bring the less informed up to speed, Wet is a gay nudie bar…boys dancing on the bar with nothing but their tube socks (to collect tips—sort of the gay male stripper’s garter). Actually, some had more than that on: a flak jacket, a policeman’s utility belt (complete with cuffs and billy club), the top half of a marine’s uniform. At the far end of the bar is a large shower stall with several jets of water spewing in every direction—all the better to ensure that every inch of the body will become, well, Wet. Meanwhile, as the live show is going on upon the three-quarter thrust stage that is the bar, and drama is occurring behind the proscenium of the shower stall, there is another stage along the length-wise wall, which supports at one point in the evening the Cowboy (sans chaps), the Marine, some random dancer and the Child (we shall come back to the Child anon). Across the room, by the door is a lone solo stage, with its own spotlight and stripper pole. To complete the mise-en-scène, arranged in banks of 4 in opposite corners of the joint are televisions showing hardcore gay porn.

I did not go alone. Shining Starr9, Lady Godiva, and the Lady’s gay roommate all went. The girls had never been to a gay nudie bar, and the roomie, I guess, just wanted to see some naked boys.

So, while we were sitting at the table, watching the myriad entertainment, I spy the Child lounging on the solo stage without his shirt on. (Actually, we met him when we first walked in; he almost knocked over the guy who was checking our IDs with a big bear hug. Then he attacked Shining Starr9’s jacket that he thought was so wonderful and amazing (it was a nice jacket, I mean no disrespect on the apparel, but it was a GIRL’s jacket). Anyway, so we watch him run (literally) around the club chatting with the patrons (us included). There is no doubt in any of our minds that he is on something and higher than a kite. So, he’s lounging on the stage and then he gets up and starts, um, well, I wouldn’t call it dancing, it was more a fevered, coked-up frenzy. I turn away and when I look again, he is naked and dancing his little, overworked, 19-year-old heart out. He looks like he should be hanging 10 on a surfboard in Hawaii, not stripping in a dive in DC. The very first thing that strikes me about this boy is that he is hired not for his dancing abilities, but for his pre-pubescent look (and sure enough, it is the older, lonelier men who pay him the most attention--and money). He still has baby fat around his tummy and no hair on his body, save pubes. Unlike his older co-workers, I don’t think he is shaving yet…chin or chest. Few are paying attention to him, but he doesn’t seem to care: he’s a maniac, maniac on the floor and he's dancing like he's never danced before. He has three moves: 1) gyrate his hips to get his penis and testicles (and he had some long, dangling, pendulous balls) flopping up to hit his stomach over and over ad nauseam; 2) wiggle himself around, then shimmy his way to a squat, grab the back of his head with his left hand and shimmy on up again; and 3) really a variation of 1, he would put both hands behind his head and gyrate his hips to get his penis and testicles (and he had some long, dangling, pendulous balls) flopping up to hit his stomach over and over ad nauseam. God bless him for being so damn impassioned with what he was doing.

So, it was “Wet Underwear Night” this evening, and before your sick little minds go too far, I shall reassure you that Jo Cose remained dry and his tighty-whities stayed well hidden. The roomie, on the other hand, did enter the contest. At the risk of offending Lady Godiva, I will leave the description of the roomie at this: he was not the most attractive man in the joint. Ne’ertheless, he had some big balls (figuratively, I mean). He and 4 other strapping lads stripped to their unmentionables and pranced and danced around the bar for about 10 minutes (9 too long if you ask me). Then the second part of the contest was individual shower scenes, each lasting 5 minutes (again, 4 too long). In the end, all 5 contestants got naked in the showers. I found it interesting that I was more disturbed to see the roomie naked than the rest of the boys; not because he was less attractive or anything like that, but I guess because I had only met him several hours earlier and I didn’t know the rest of the amateurs at all, I didn’t have to share a ride home with them. Anyway, so 15 minutes of humiliation for the chance to win $250. I don’t think it was really worth it. Sadly, the roommate did not win. But I give him big kudos for entering.

Anyway, it’s almost 4 am and I need to go to sleep…peace out y’all.

I saw this on Evl Redhead's website. her's was more interesting than mine

1.Go into your LJ's archives.
2.Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3.Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4.Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

"But again, do I really want to live in Manchester?"

I apologize for being remiss on keeping up with my blog. So, I shall bring you up-to-date rather quickly.

Nothing really happened this past week.

The most exciting thing was when SugarDaddy and I went to a restaurant on Capital Hill (actually, it may have been Eastern Market, I’m not sure). Anyway, we get in and try to order, but I ask for fries instead of the tortilla chips that everything on the menu came with. This was supposed to be an English-themed pub, and they are serving tortilla chips instead of fries. The waitress tells me that they don’t do exchanges. Now, I’m not one to quibble over a few dollars to get fries instead, but she absolutely ended the conversation with “we don’t do exchanges.” So, I looked at SugarDaddy and suggested that we go elsewhere. The waitress was not happy, and when she brought our bill for SugarDaddy’s beer, she threw it on the table and returned immediately to the bar to complain to the bartender about us.

We went to another bar/restaurant that gave us fries. It ended up being a very nice dinner

In other news, I got word that my Scottish Lassie is engaged. While I’m very happy for her, I was a little weirded out. I suppose that it’s just that she is younger than me, and we had had a great time at sea. Oh, well… I wish her a hearty mazol tov and all the best. I hope I get an invitation…it would be great to see her and Glasgow. I do wonder if her new hubby will still let us tour the Highlands together.

So, I need to give a little background as I did not write a blog entry.

About a month or so ago, a dreadful event occurred. It has since become known as Black Saturday. I was playing on my G4 iBook trying to figure out how to use the multiple users feature. In my ignorance, I seem to have named the temporary user the same as the permanent account. As such, when I went to delete the temp account, the stupid computer in its 1s and 0s logic deleted not only the temp account, but the permanent one as well. Thus, Black Saturday. After many attempts by Simple Geek to retrieve my lost data, I finally reformatted the computer and started all over. I was sure that all the important stuff was still safely on the old PC.

I emailed my dad yesterday and asked him to buy me a copy of FileMaker Pro 7. The retail price is $299, the government discount price is $287, and the student discount price is $149. Seems like a no-brainer to me. So, last night I made the trip all the way to Baltimore to pick up the copy my dad bought me. (I also got a turkey meatloaf dinner and vanilla pudding.) I turn around and come straight back home, flopped down on the bed, and load the software. Then I decided, even though it was a little late, that I would fire up the PC and move the FileMaker files to my Mac.

To my horror, I discovered that none of the files were on the PC. It seems that I had moved them over to the Mac intending to burn them onto CD, and didn’t get to it before Black Saturday. So the database that I have spent 3 years building is gone forever. I am very, very angry about this. What makes me even more angry is that there is 1 copy out there, but alas, the person who has it has decided that he never wants to speak to me again, so I will never get my database back.

I just wish I could get that disk back. Oh, well, I guess I should have thought of that before I tried to be a friend. See what I get for caring about people? Well, it seems that there is only 1 thing to do. Build a new one. And make it better than the old one. I just don’t know if I have the strength or wherewithal to do that.

MO first introduced me to Philip Larkin when I was in graduate school (the first time). As he (MO) will attest, I can never remember Larkin’s name. So, imagine my surprise when I was skimming Evl Redhead’s blog and came across one of Mr. Larkin’s poems.

Because I can never remember it, and because it’s a great poem that everyone should know, I have reproduced it in its entirety.

As I stare at the screen in front of me, all of the little lines that form the letters that form the words that form the sentences that form the web page all begin to blur and blend and realign and I get dizzy and confused.

My browser is pointed to Sallie Mae in one window and FAFSA in another. I am beginning to think that robbing a bank for money for my education is a better, faster, and simpler way to go.

Then it hits me.

Both of my sisters are getting married, one in September and the other in March. As they are girls, tradition firmly states that my parents need to pay for the wedding. They are figuring that they will spend an unimportant king’s ransom for each wedding (in fact, as they are putting everything they can on their American Express card to build up their points, they figure that by the time the wedding is over, they will have enough points for 2 free tickets to Japan and probably at least a few free nights at the hotel).

Now, as tradition also states that groom’s parents don’t pay for the wedding (OK, I know they are supposed to pay for the rehearsal dinner and the bar, I think), I figure that my parents should give me the equivalent of how much they are spending on my sisters’ weddings (OK, minus the rehearsal dinner and bar), and then I can enjoy my 3 years in grad school.

It makes complete sense to me! I think I will suggest that at dinner this evening.

Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm Windstorm

I have now officially mentioned you 100 times on my blog, which means I have mentioned you more than anyone else, and now you have no excuse not to read my blog regularly!

I went out again last night with SugarDaddy. We started the rain-soaked evening at Chipotle in Dupont Circle, and retired to the DIK Bar, which seems to be quickly becoming the “usual spot.” Anyhow, we had a very nice time, even if the soft tacos were a little too spicy for SugarDaddy. We pretty much chatted about nothing, so that was nice. All in all it was a enjoyable, relaxing evening.

So, why is Jo Cose boring you with such a trivial evening, and how exactly does this entry apply to the subject heading? Good question, and I shall not keep you in suspense any further:

We left the bar pretty late (time just sort of slipped away from us as we sat and talked). We got the Dupont Circle Metro Station after 1 in the morning. SugarDaddy transferred two stations later, and I was resigned to my long journey home as the Red Line is single tracking between Judiciary Square and Rhode Island Ave. Now, when I say long, I mean that in the truest sense. I didn’t get home until after 2, close to 3 in the morning. I understand that some of the folk on the train were on their way home from the bars, pubs, and restaurants in the city. Likewise, I understand that no one expects the delays to be as long as they are. Nevertheless, I think that no matter how drunk you are, there are certain things that everyone should do to prepare themselves for the journey. For instance, if you were driving, and you knew that there would be delays on the highway, you would make sure your gas tank was full. It seems to me that when you are traveling on a train that you know will be delayed, instead of ensuring that you tank is full, you should ensure that your bladder is empty. If for some reason you forgot to check this before you left the bar, and you find that you need to expel the excess liquid in you system, you should get off the train and ask the station manager if you can use the station’s facilities.

But this beefy Asian guy (who didn’t really look all that drunk), just leaned forward in his seat, unzipped his fly, and let loose with a torrential downpour of urine that seemed to last a good 2 minutes.

Gotta love city living!!

We had a big event at the National Air and Space Museum that was sponsored by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. I worked the tables that held people’s nametags. Although I didn’t get to meet him, I saw James Cameron walk past my table, and had the guy working the table with me not said, “oh, look, there goes James Cameron,” I doubt seriously that I would have known who the heck he was. But it was still cool. There were some other Senators and Congressmen, but no one I recognized.

As is always true with these events, the food was de-lish, the wine wasn’t bad, and the beer was drinkable. They had pierogies, steak, corn, rice, salad, salmon, crab cakes, marinated chicken on a stick, veggies and fruit, and an open bar. They had really cool glasses, and I really wanted service for four, but it didn’t work out that way. I do live in a 1-bedroom apartment, and it’s usually only me drinking wine, so it’s all good.

The evening’s presentation began at 8 pm, so I left shortly after 8, as my job working the table was over. I was told to put in 3.5 hours of overtime. Now I know that I’m going to get reprimanded for this from the office I officially work for, but what can I do when my immediate supervisor tells me to do it? The last event I worked I got yelled at for doing overtime, but in the end I still got my money. So, if they want to yell at me, I figure it’s fine as long as they pay me my OT.

I got about halfway to the L’Enfant Plaza station when I decided that I really just didn’t want to go home. So, I called the SugarDaddy, as I haven’t seen him in ages, and because of the holidays, I won’t see him until next week. He was out at the DIK Bar supposedly reading the paper and having a drink. So, I decided to join him for a drink before I headed home.

I got down to the L’Enfant Plaza station, and I knew that something was wrong with me…I just chalked it up to the 2 glasses of wine, 1 glass of beer, and 1 glass of sprite. By the time I got to Metro Center, I was sweating profusely, and my stomach started churning. Somehow, I have no idea how, I made it to 17^th Street. About a block before the bar, my stomach lurched and the situation went all pear shaped. I knew that there was no time to get back to the Metro and head home, so I needed to face my fears, and hope for the best (for a better understanding of what was going through my mind at this moment, see Desecration). Fortunately, the Dupont Italian Kitchen has a private bathroom downstairs, right when you walk in. I bolted straight for it. Even in my pain and fear of the repercussions if I was too slow, I was able to appreciate the relative cleanliness of this public facility. The biggest problem was the puddle around the base of the commode.

I will not venture into too gory of details, so let’s just say that I did make it in time. There were some lingering effects, however. My ass felt dirty from sitting on a public toilet, and thanks to the aforementioned puddle, I decided to put my pants right into the dry clean pile. I have no idea if they touched the puddle or not, but I’m not taking any chances. So, even though I had just clipped the tag off them that morning, right back into the dry cleaning pile they went.

Once I had washed my hands, tucked in my shirt, and straightened my tie, I headed upstairs to find the SugarDaddy. I found him at the bar, drunk and flirting (good for him—I would have been right there with him, but alas, I was still having some residual effects from the trauma). I drank copious amounts of water that evening, and in the end had a great time. It turned out to be Karaoke night, and we had a great time singing: Jo Cose off-key, SugarDaddy hoarse, and the one being flirted to off beat. It was great.

On the way back to the Metro, SugarDaddy and I argued whether or not it was acceptable to Google someone to find out more info about them. He is adamantly opposed to this practice. He believes in face-to-face communication and feels that if you want to know something about a person, you should just ask them. I told him that I had done it, and used a blind date that I went on as an example. His rebuttal was to ask the point of the date if I was going to learn things from the internet instead of asking the girl. Then I asked him what he thought about my Googling the two profs I’m looking at in the UK? He said that was different since I was looking for their ranking in academia: publications, conferences, etc. I think he made a strong and valid argument. And, I figure if his reaction to be freaked out, offended, and angry over it is normal, then I don’t think I will ever do it again. Fortunately, I really only do it for one reason: to try to find an email address or phone number of friends I have lost track of…not to pry into other people’s lives or to try to “get to know them” without having to do the work of being their friend.

Unfortunately, due to single tracking on the Red Line (and the fact that we didn’t leave until 11:15), I didn’t get home until after midnight, and I am completely knackered!

I have the next two days off of work so that is good, but I don’t think I will be getting any sleep.

Errrgggg. I wasn’t out late Saturday night, and I must have been in bed around midnight, but 7 am arrived too darn early. But, isn’t it truly amazing how you can drag your ass out of bed and be raring to go on relatively little sleep when it’s something you want to be doing? Why don’t I have that kind of energy to get up and go to the best damn space agency in the world?

Anyway, before I digress too much.

Yes, I had places to be. The True Renaissance Woman got me some tickets to the Maryland Renaissance Festival (ahh, I can see the little light bulbs going off—the nickname actually makes sense now), and I was supposed to meet Shining Starr9 at 10 am by the Will Call booth. We met up with Uncle Skeleton, the Burnt Wrestler, Lady Godiva, and the Lady’s brother. I was at the Renaissance Festival from the beginning to almost the end. I’ve never actually stayed that long before, and I actually had a great time. I love watching the freaks who attend and dress up and take it way more seriously than the people who work there.

There was this one chick with short hair and elf’s ears (you know, the pointy kind like Mr. Spock). She was wearing some rustic brown outfit that had that torn look at the bottom. And when I say bottom, I mean well above the knee. The top was equally as rustic and was as low cut in the front as the skirt was high. Needless to say, she was way, way hot, and I shamelessly stared at her. Alas, as I stared, I saw her rubbing her boyfriend’s arm and holding his hand. Too bad for me :(

We went to see a play on the fate of Catherine, a show called Fight Club, and the Chess match. The True Renaissance Woman was mad that we didn’t see anything that she was in, and rightfully so. I’m sorry for that. I wanted to see her perform, but for some reason (it could have been Mead induced) we never made it. We spent a goodly amount of time at the pubs, and ended the day at the White Hart Tavern for Pub Sing.

I left shortly before the Pub Sing was over, but Lady Godiva and her brother were leaving so I walked out with them.