On the Town: NIGHTLIFE-RECORDINGS-TURNING TABLES WashPsychSoc: B Thert
FOR EVERY action there is an equal and opposite reaction; and one of the less immediately obvious side effects of the inflationary Ûª80s was a deflation of WashingtonÛªs sense of humorÛÓthe prophesied spiritual malaise. Like the national debt, it was cumulative and disguised by euphemismsÛÓsurely ÛÏparty onÛ will go down in cultural history as one of the great satirical catch phrases of our timeÛÓbut it had clearly reached a crisis point when the same White House back yard where Carter sang ÛÏSalt Peanuts" with Dizzy Gillespie was turned into a horseshoe pit. It should have been funny having all those Alice-in-Wonderland types around the White HouseÛÓthe Cheshire Cat, the White Knight, the Red Queen and the White QueenÛÓbut it was just too scary, WASPs on pork rinds. The only ones who seemed to have tried the mushrooms were Don Regan and William French Smith, running around naked in war paint. (And you see how long they lasted.)</br></br>This peculiar humorlessness spread from the politicians to the philosophers, who are always the second group of theoreticians to formalize oppressiveness. The whole ÛÏIron John" thing sounds like an outhouse fitted with a rack. And then Robert Bly makes millions suggesting we rediscover our sensitivity by screaming at one another. No wonder nobody wants to grow up anymore.</br></br>Fortunately, this creeping miasma is finally fading. Or rather, weÛªre fleeingÛÓ scrambling back in sentimental style to the Fractured Ûª50s, with thrift-shop decor and rumpus room pool tables and neo-boho coffee bars and knee-length shirttails and some of the funniest haircuts since Catholic high school. And witness the student body council Everypersonism of the new White House gang of fourÛÓprone to Big Mac attacks, nerd dancing, hand moshing and bus trips. The next thing you know, theyÛªll discover the Washington Psychotronic Film Society, and weÛªll get "Beyond the Valley of the DullsÛª forever.</br></br>What, you donÛªt know the WashPsychSoc? The defiantly disorganized and only recently not permanently floating exhibition of B-, C- and generally silly films? Well, if youÛªre a Russ Meyer fan, a lifelong creature-feature addict or a connoisseur of those pseudo-psychedelic films where longhairs in bell-bottoms come to a Bad End in Los Angeles (a self-fulfilling prophecy if we ever heard one) that Channel 20 periodically pulls out of its dumb files, youÛªre halfway there. All you need is a little more Adams-Morgan Chaos in your Monday nights.</br></br>Chaos, the upstairs bar at Chief IkeÛªs Mambo Room (informally known as A1 JarakoicÛªs Greater Asmara Empire), has become the weekly site of the Psychotronic SocietyÛªs screenings, which is a highfalutin term for crowding around a bunch of portable televisions in a bar thatÛªs not much bigger than a bathhouse locker room. But thatÛªs part of the fun, since the original giggle fests were bunches of friends falling over themselves in loco parentsÛª rec rooms trying to take those films seriously.