After begging and pleading, my Jewish friend, Rachel, convinced me to attend the Felafel Frenzy Party (named after the yummy, fried chick pea, Middle Eastern delicacy) on Christmas Eve in D.C. A work colleague was also going, so I decided, why the hell not? It’s better than sitting in my PJ’s watching reruns of Forensic Files. Or was it…?
I donned my Little Black Dress, gladiator heels and called an Uber. We arrived late, around 11:45pm, paying the crazy $35 cover charge. As a disclaimer (you know I love my disclaimers), I was raised Jewish, so all the statements below are not stereotypes, just the facts.
Inside Howard Theater, our senses were assaulted by two-year-old dance tracks and a wave of drunk Jews. It was reminiscent of BBYO (Jewish Youth Group) only everyone was sadly in their late twenties – mid thirties, drinking, grinding on the dance floor and wagging tongues in their partner’s mouth.
I saw my work colleague, gave him a brief hug and met his Jewish and non-Jewish friend (who later told me he grew up in Florida, so this sight was par for the course).
His non-Jewish friend, I can’t even remember his name (not because I was drunk but because the music was concert-level loud) took a liking to me. Sensing (erroneously) that Jews might be easy, he immediately began pawing at me, trying to hold my hand, slapping my back like we were buddies, and asking for my number every other sentence.
Rachel and I dislodged from the group to grab a drink. The male-female ratio was 3:1, so we couldn’t order a drink without three or four guys stalking us like prey. After an hour, I was ready to go. Rachel, about three years younger, wanted to get her money’s worth on the dance floor. Fuck.
A Rastafarian, dreads and all, was house-dancing with his drunk, goofy friends next to an unattractive couple dry humping and covered in booze. Shit-show.
After I had my fill of creepy couples and nonsensical, drunk pick-up lines, we went back to the bar for our second and final drink.
“Samantha!” a guy about five feet exclaimed, grabbing my friend’s shoulders as if to shake her.
“Um…no,” Rachel said and carefully maneuvered away from his vice-like grip.
“Dude,” I said in words only an ogre could understand. “Didn’t your mom tell you not to grab a woman like that?”
Drunk pause. “Geez, bitchy much?” he shot back and left.
Oh, I’m sorry! Did my feminist protest offend your oafish sensibilities?
Another gem, I believe Ben (?, though, I might actually be stereotyping here) caught Rachel’s eye and paused for some less-than-witty banter. Screaming over blaring music he asked us where we lived about five times. I answered four out of the five.
“I have a New Year’s party of like, 600 people. You guys totally should come,” he said. He sounded about 23.
Ben then produced two amateurish business cards. Business cards! Cue Patrick Bateman in American Psycho. Where is the watermark?!! Is this embossed Egyptian parchment or fine, opaque linen? Alas, Batman would be rolling in his proverbial grave, as it was cheap and flimsy card stock.
“Rachel,” I said at around 12:45pm. “This is horrific. Please. Can we leave now?”
“Oh, come on. It’s not THAT bad.”
But it was THAT bad. People were leaving and only the super inebriated remained, leaving huge, vacant pockets on the dance floor – enough room so that drunk couples could rabidly grind and dry-hump without knocking into each other. What’s more, some sadistic asshole with a vodka and sweat-filled Super Soaker must have strategically drenched each dancer.
It all was a sweltering, sticky and smelly mess.
Thankfully, Rachel saw the light after 15 minutes. We huddled outside waiting for our Uber amid melodic sounds of alleyway puking and crying, consciously uncoupled women.
Fa-la-la-lafel Frenzy Fail.