LNS Didn't Bring It

Travel Buddy: There are going to be a lot of douchebags at this party.
Belle: This is D.C. I'll show you 10 guys, and if you can point to five of them who aren't douchebags, I'll give you a hundred bucks.
Travel Buddy: Good point.

The driver stopped in front of the white brick house. That's it. With the exception of a few shadows visible in the window, the house seemed somewhat lifeless.

BB: It looks shady.
Belle: It does not look shady.
Travel Buddy: Look, there are people in there.
Belle: Let's just go in. If it's terrible, we can leave.
BB: We're not staying long.

We paid the man, piled out of the taxi, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A lone figure in the shadows of the half-dark confirmed we'd found the right place. You're here. The booze is to the left, and it's going fast. Help yourself.

We stepped through the door, and I felt immediately like I'd been transported back to college days. The walls were absolutely bare. The furniture was nearly nonexistent. Natty Lite and Budweiser abounded, but most of the girls carried Solo cups filled to brimming with lots of alcohol and a splash of soda by chivalrous young men. It was just like a sweaty frat party in the 'Sip, except this one had crown molding and minorities.

Earlier in the night, as we sipped champagne and shared strawberry shortcake, BB laid out our options. We can stay here, go to another bar, or go to a house party in Georgetown. The house party didn't seem nearly so interesting until she informed me it was an LNS shindig.

I've been reading this and that about this crew for months, and I wanted to see what they were all about. To be perfectly honest, I was kind of disappointed; there was very little fodder for this here blog, friends. Perhaps not being a Smith Point threw the LNS game off a bit.

Guys in (un-popped) collared shirts and girls in sun dresses were crammed into the main rooms downstairs, chatting in small groups. I was sorely out of place in jeans, but what the hell did I care? Nowhere close to meeting the size 4 mandate, I would have stood out no matter my ensemble. And, anyway, I wasn't the most out of place.

I'm glad to see I'm not the only one who's under-dressed. I turned to face the only female present wearing shorts. I feel like I should give you a hug or something, she said. I complied just a moment before her J. Crew-clad friend looked me up and down and told me she was going to have to ask me to leave. I laughed at what I assumed was her jest and went back to talking to Travel Buddy.

Our conversation focused primarily on the party. On the fact that it wasn't as terrible as we'd expected. That we'd been to worse. Much, much worse.

The party was decidedly frat-tastic, but there was nothing incredibly remarkable about it. You had your garden-variety homophobia on display from the guy yelling something about a "homo" when we first walked in the door. You had your insecure cattiness from the bitch waiting in line for the bathroom behind BB. You had your spilled drinks and your drunken breaking of household goods.

We were still trying to choke down our huge glasses of gin (soda splashes optional) when everyone was herded out of the house to the enclosed patio area. We stood around postulating about what was going to happen. Travel Buddy suggested that we were to be burned alive. We plotted our escape route should things get out of hand.

I'd been hearing girls buzzing about champagne for a while, and some of them seemed excited that it was time for that. Apparently, they were right. The guy who'd rounded everyone up positioned himself a bit above the crowd and commanded our attention for his little speech. Which was promptly followed by a spray of champagne into the crowd. People scattered like ants then reassembled just in time for him to shower the crowd again. That's when we made our exit.