Photos — Lofty Love

October 15, 2008 by Sexy Fitsum  Send to a Friend

Around 2 AM. Or maybe 3
… and about a half minute after saying g’nite to some folks who were cabbing back to NW, just as I’m walking back to the loft party where Brandon Black was finally getting to throw his party, my attention got split between the couple sitting on the sidewalk to my right whispering, “Yeah, let’s smoke it now”, and the sound of someone’s plastic cup getting shmacked the fuck out of their hand, to my left. When I turned to look, the cup and its contents were awesomely slo-mo’ing in mid-air, the smackinest door guy in NE DC was already strolling away from the point of contact, and the fauxhawked owner of a lonely heart was stuck to the spot with his mouth wide open and his hand still out cupping a phantom drink. The door guy turned to the kid and said “I told you to take your drink inside, but you don’t want to listen. If the cops see you …” while the poor kid meowed back something about how uncool it was to get his drink smacked out of his hand just for being too drunk to care what the door guy was telling him about not drinking outside the building where the cops could see him and maybe shut the party down because tools like him are skipping around the fucking venue’s perimeter drinking alcohol. Then, the toolster started doing the ol’ hold-me-back dance: you know, where you’re all fired up and ready to kick some one’s ass, but your boys are holding you back, telling you don’t hurt em Hammer, etc. As this is happening, one of his friends, this tall slim chick — I shit no one — sporting clown makeup and a beer belly looking like she’s part of some this-is-Borat’s-sister joke, started pulling her phone out while rhetorically, snidely, punch-me-in-my-facedly asking the door guy, “Uuuuuummm, do you even know who I work for? Have you heard of Vor-nay-do?”, with her phone pressed against her clownface like she’s totally speed dialing her dad who’s gonna come Rambo-bursting through a brick wall in a Hummer with delta force motherfuckers riding shotgun. Except she wasn’t calling her dad. She was calling her employer — for the time being, anyway — waking him up actually, overreaching and oversharing some piss ant story about how her friend with the dumb haircut fucked up and got owned. That was my read, which I shared with door guy, who later confirmed, describing how she spent almost five clowny clown minutes on that phone call with her very own damn-just-got-the-cup-smacked-outta-my-hand oh-face.

My night could have been made right there and then, except …











… for all the bona fide heat from the actual party, delivered by the good host Brandan Black & and his people Axiom, Jay Raggs, Version Sound scientists with man like Blaze One, plus this one. There was youngs, there was olds, some tough lovins and signs of what’s to come.

Then there were the next morning’s facebook profile titles hollering “No more whiskey!” and making profuse apologies for last night’s bad behavior. Priceless. But you know it was worth it, right? Well done, Mr. Black.

» Complete photoset

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