One thing in particular stands out about the absolute absurdity of Saturday night. As I was walking around Wild West in my traditional Texan wear....we'll pause a moment to let that set it.... I could not help but smell the tangy, piquant, peppery flavor of my recently consumed Ethiopian food whose frangrance still blessed my senses with an occasional reminder of its presence. My Saturday nights have officially strangled banality, four weeks in a row.
There's no better place to start than at the beginning.
One thing is clear about the Ethiopian tradition (as so wisely asserted by our ambassador Ribka); Ethiopia and her people are what we refer euphemistically as 'event oriented' versus 'time oriented.' Me, of course, also of the brown persuasion am no stanger to a relatively optimistic "8ish" or even "late afternoon." But even I was amusingly startled by "Yeah, I don't know what time people should come to eat, just later. I'll let you know."
I went with 7.
After some fairly fruitless academic pursuits that afternoon I arrive in an apartment bursting with the frangrant air of Addis Abba (not the diesel particulate air of modernity but of yummy, finger-drenching, frangrant food). Growing up in the DC Metro Ethiopian food is as available as the lobbyists. Its no surprise, and quite frankly you forget that its not, say, normal. In any case, Ribka with the tireless efforts of our medical friends visiting from Monterrey, created a spread that would make even the most venerable DC Ethiopian restaurant envious. It would make any Marylander familiar and desirous of East Africa's finest weak in the knees. The thing about these knees currently was that they were adorned with lightly starched, crispy blue jeans.
We were going kicker dancing and two-stepping subsequent to the meal and thus dressed in the manner of those frequenting big red barns to do traditional Texan dances. We were countrified. The likes of Dolly Parton and her compatriots were on the stereo, conversation revolved around the Cotton Eyed Joe, and the unfortunate and frequent use of my first name followed swiftly by my monosyllabic middle name (as is common in the more bucolic areas of this fine sate) filled the heterogeneous setting as we scooped furiously with the injera bread, the delicious fruits of the evenings labor. The strangeness of it all is "obvious to even the most casual of observers" as my old organic chemistry professor used to say of the nebulous nature of the elements.
At Wild West, however, I was in MY element. Its probably been a full year since my last visit, but I'm proud to say that I am no stranger to the place:
- Instead of a disco ball there is a saddle adorned with hundreds of tiny mirrors that sparkle relentlessly the smooth ale colored floor boards.
- Instead of slick Kenneth Cole shoes and man-blouses there are cowboy boots and plaid shirts starched with an obvious zealous effort.
- Instead drunk, wonton, bachelorette party goers there are....oh, wait. Nope. They're there...in full force.
This is all in addition to a beer girl (whose naughty bits are at eye level given the non-coincidental height of the bar, unabashedly reflected in the full length mirror behind her).
Unrelated to this, I assure you, I had an amazing time. I attempted to teach Ribka, Lidia, and Desirée basic two-stepping technique, but they needed little assistance on my part. Salsa and Ethiopian dancing dancing I guess translates pretty well. I also had the honor of honing what has been called 'quite the strong lead' with the oh-so skilled Amy. Her and her husband are quite the country dancing aficionados as made quite obvious by their fluid turns and elegant transitions, which is most impressive given that country dancing and elegance are nearly...nearly mutually exclusive. So I dusted off some old skills garnered from my South Asian, Saudi-born, Tennessean friend (also pretty random) and hit the floor twirling, turning, switching, and scooting feeling the same euphoria I feel after chicken butter masala, snow days of yore, and DeLay's indictment. It should be noted that most of the crowd at Wild West do not share in my enthusiasm over the indictment of DeLay, but rather feel quite passionately enraged by it; this should give you a feel for the environment for our motley crew.
Every 45 minutes are so there was what Amy so adroitly referred to as "white girl time." This was an especially dedicated 20 minutes or so where the music changed from "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy" to late 80s rock and more modern hip-hop. "Whew! Ow!" shreiking from the corner would be immediately followed by a train of 6 slightly tipsy, slightly aggressive blondes in tight jeans and high heels with one of the following:
1. Two drinks in hand
2. A wedding train garnished with extra-large condoms
3. A massive dildo
Then back to kicker dancing.
In short, a Black Marylander, three Mexicans, a New Orleans evacuee, and East Asian, and ex-actress, and a lawyer walk into a bar.....
No punch line, honest.
