Maybe I am a sad case Paul, maybe I am. I remember smoke rising, slashed by beams of red and blue light. Lights streaming across thousands of sweaty, dancing bodies. The bass beat pounded as my heart raced in time. I remember staring, with rapt attention as a kid swung glow sticks on long wires, leaving trails of neon green in the air. Oh yeah, I guess there was music too, spun by the UK's premiere disc jockey, Mr. Paul Oakenfold.
Draped across a plush leather couch, I feel awkward, not because it's an interview, but because I not used to this sort of thing. I'm in a bar, with two fairly attractive young women, and they're talking to me. "What's your sign?" won't work on these two. They're battle worn music veterans. Sure they're cute and about my age, but they're also possessed with a maturity I can't hope to match.
The smooth slur of a soft British accent sweeps over me, and for a minute I'm convinced. Forget friends, forget school, forget everything. I'm going out on the road. The moment passes and, I shake my head. "Sorry guys. I can't be a roadie. I don't have the muscle for it." They all laugh. I laugh too and the conversation continues. It's only later, at home that I realize, I just missed my chance. I could have called people "wankers" and stayed up half the night "drinking with me' mates." As it is I'm stuck in my room drinking alone and the only mates around are the 2-D figures on the BBC.
Black is a Color is a three-gallery exhibit featuring the work of black artists drawn from the Corcoran's permanent collection. Black is a Color shows the viewer that African-American art and identity are inextricably entwined.
Who could have guessed? The reigning diva of off-Broadway fare like "Vampire Lesbians of Sodom" and "Psycho Beach Party" is actually a man. Charles Busch, the cross-dressing grand dame of transsexual satire is trying his hand at writing conventional situational comedy with the touring production of his Broadway play "The Tale of the Allergist's Wife," which is playing at the National Theatre through March 23.
"Can you stop trying to repeat what I say?" "Why?" "Cause it's getting annoying." "How do you think I feel?" "Huh?"
There are certain things you expect from an Irish bar. Frankly, Fado fails to deliver. 1) A fine imported beer collection, including Guinness, Bodagers and Caffrey's. Check on the Guinness and Bodagers at five bucks a sodding pop for crying out loud. No check on the Caffery's. Apparently you can't get it in the States anymore. I doubt that's true. 2) I expect Gaelic music, something of the variety that inspires an immediate jig. What did I hear? Two Princes. Not so jiggy. Plus, the music is louder outside the bar than inside. 3) I expect regulars with a brogue. Who did I sit next to? Some sloppy moron straight from Capitol Hill trying to make it with this over-the-hill slut with bad hair.
A fine-featured woman throws her head back laughing uproariously. She chatters enthusiastically in indecipherable gibberish to another woman, who sits tied to a single chair on the stage. The theater blacks out and a blast of tango music bursts from the house speakers.
With an unlikely duo like Steve Martin and Queen Latifah, both respected actors in their own right, you are bound for success, right?
Vol. 106
An Independent Student Newspaper
Serving The George Washington University Community Since 1904
