The Pink Door

Having had to pee for the last 40 minutes on the bus, I am bordering on desperation. Cursing my bladder with twisted facial expressions, my friend and I hurry toward the rosy glow burning in the black alley. I open the pink door and descend the steps, asking first and foremost for the bathroom which requires a code for security purposes. Then I ask for a drink.

I order a cosmopolitan for good measure, it being pink, as my friend Rebecca orders "Angelica's kiss," Prosecco fused with raspberries. The place is packed and hot. I take off my jacket and expose my black bra beneath my backless shirt. We sit on the stage and talk about Frotteurism, a sexual disorder where one rubs against strangers without their knowledge to achieve an orgasm, often on trains. Frotteurs, they are called. Real creeps. There are no such people at The Pink Door.

No, this is where the cool 30-somethings go. They wear black because they know black is slimming. They order quality, expensive drinks and they've learned to sip slowly. These people look like they've never thrown up [HTML_REMOVED] and if they have ever dizzily prayed to the porcelain gods, blushing in the recollection of amateur nights, they certainly wouldn't talk about it here.

A woman enters wearing a fur coat and pink butterflies in her hair. She has a suitcase on wheels but this place is too crowded for a suitcase on wheels. One man looks like a Q-tip. With his white skin, white hair and a silly white beret, he stands by the bar, unsmiling. He wears tight black pants, a black turtleneck, and black sunglasses inside. There is absolutely nothing hip-hop about him.

This Italian restaurant doesn't smell like Rome, but it certainly has mastered the Baroque abuse of cherubs, as these chubby sculptured angels hang from the sky. Grapevine prints creep up the walls along the ceiling, low-lit by dusty chandeliers radiating a blush throughout the room. Christmas lights cast shadows on the silenced beaks of stuffed pheasants and chickens. Oh, how I love the warmth of pink on my skin and the presence of taxidermy as I dine.

Once a table clears, our host leads us towards our seats. Passing a mini-statue of Michelangelo's David, he adjusts the top-hat strapped to David's head. We get the best spot in the house with a direct view of the stage, where soon we will be confronted by entertainers, exhibitionists, banjos and breasts in The Pink Door's weekly burlesque show.

I read "Fifteen minutes of satisfaction" on the menu beneath the housemade pappardelle al ragu bolognese. Rebecca orders the gnocchi with mushrooms in a cream sauce, which I plan on splitting with her. Often, however, these ideas don't materialize, especially in an Italian restaurant where the portions aren't large and the food is hog-worthy.

10:30 p.m. strikes and a buzz hums through the room. Our hostess emerges from behind a curtain in what looks like a polyester bathrobe. She tells us she is slightly under the weather, nursing her sniffles dramatically, yet still capable of starting conversation with strangers. She loves the sound of her own voice. She's bossy. She's aggressive. She annoys me. I could be her.

She introduces a performer dressed as Marilyn Monroe who saunters across the stage in a red dress. Q-tip walks on too, carrying a fan with him. He plugs in the fan, and holds it beneath Marilyn's dress. Her eyes roll back as she holds her dress down.

Another performer takes the stage to sing adult songs with her banjo, encouraging listeners to "try a piece of the Princess Papulla's papaya." But my favorite piece is her stimulating sing-along "I'm Gonna Tie You Up, and Do Stuff to Your Wiener."

Next was a dancer in a full-body suit made of fleece. She is dressed like a big baby, her two braided pig tails framing her face perfectly to show off her thumb-sucking skills. She unzips the onesie, stripping down to a huge green diaper, using her arm to cover her chest. The green diaper comes off, unveiling yet another diaper. She sucks on a pacifier as though it was a penis, and removes her arms to expose pacifier pasties over her nipples, which she proceeds to squeeze, squirting milk into the audience. This is totally and utterly disturbing. But I secretly like it. We all do.

I think that's their pull. The Pink Door offers the type of entertainment where as an audience member you're a little embarrassed to be there yourself. The food and drinks can stand alone, and the atmospheric d[HTML_REMOVED]cor is brilliant as well. But it's this ridiculous burlesque show, this offensive and inappropriate behavior, this nudity, this human pleasure seated in sex and sin that makes the trip to Post Alley worth the uncomfortable bus ride, the potential bladder infection and the hole burned in your wallet.

[HTML_REMOVED] Riley Rant

arts@thedaily.washington.edu