I know we’ve been warned, but I am an impossible klutz. I was wearing flip-flops (I know, I know) last night when I clipped the edge of a step on the Rosslyn escalator with my big toe. I went home and self-medicated with peroxide and Spaced. My doctor told me today I needed stitches, but it’s too late now. I think I can live with the scar. I just hope my toe doesn’t fall off.

Is it just me or do Metro escalators have bigger teeth than other city’s underground moving staircases? Compare the London Underground’s escalators with ours.  I have a picture of my toe, but no one wants to see that.

Last week, we reported that D.C.’s Best Dance Night would be moving on up to Club Five this Saturday. Now, it looks like the event will by moving across the street to MCCXXIII, at 1223 Connecticut Ave. NW. Club Five had its license suspended earlier this month after a stabbing occured in the club. Five was set to open again June 18th; according to ABRA, that suspension has now been extended indefinitely.

Miami Horror and Gameboy/Gamegirl are still set to play on the Nouveau Riche bill, but the move to MCCXXIII brings some changes in the event’s time, cover charges, and dress code, says DJ Gavin Holland. The details: The show starts at 10 p.m. Entry begins at $10 and jumps to $20 at midnight. The dress code, while relaxed to include sneakers, does stipulate some no-no’s. Writes Holland:

They have relaxed their normal dress code for us, sneakers are okay. However, no shorts, no sandals, and sadly no totally wacky shit. Basically, dress well by your own standards, but you don’t need to wear fancy shoes or any of that silly ‘club’ attire. You should be lookin’ snazzy for Nouveau Riche anyway, so this should be no different. My heart goes out to Life Preserver Dude from the 9:30 Club, you will not be able to wear your life preserver.

Older Woman Wearing Gold Flats, Carrying Cane: Do you think Britney is going to be all right?

Younger Woman in Nikes, Tattoo on Bicep: Would you be if you had all those people following you all the time?

Older Woman, Gold Flats, Cane: I think it’s a tragedy how they treat her.

Younger Woman, Nikes, Tattoo: Me, too. And she’s gotten so fat.

 It’s cold out. Time for orange and red leaves, miniskirts and absurd footwear for women.  

I had the honor of attending the annual Terlingua Two Step last night at the Clarendon Ballroom. It wasn’t a black-tie affair but more of a school dance for local Texans. A few gripes about politics aside, Texans know how to party. The real swans on the dance floor were these stocky dudes with buzz cuts, too-tight jeans, tucked in shirts and black cowboy hats. Guys I’d normally peg as uncoordinated lumps of gun-toting white bread. I, on the other hand, spent the night counting steps and trying not to stare at my shoes.

Also impressive: On loan from Corpus Christi, a Romanian florist in hot pink tassels who told me she loves George Bush because he helped her get her kids away from the Commies. She comes to every Texas State Society event in D.C. just to show her love. She showed me a picture of her and Dick Cheney, whom she also loves. She spent most of the night dancing with girlfriend (also slinky, with tightly stretched skin), doing a dance that looked like a cross between the polka and the two step.

Couple of gripes: I found just two Dems (and I asked around), a cute couple we found hiding in a corner. The only minorities I spotted were serving food. And the food, according to an expert Texan friend, was about as authentic as press-on nails. In addition to so-so ribs, the buffet included a platter of Buffalo wings and a dish of blue cheese dressing. I overheard a lanky redhead ask why in the hell you’d put stinky cheese on fried chicken.

It’s curious that the Web site for Cobalt would be the place (still) promoting the Halloween high-heel race, since the club turns away anyone who’s not wearing sneakers, flats, or flip-flops.

The club’s no-heel rule is nonnegotiable, at least for women, as a friend and I found out this weekend when we tried to take a dance-happy 50-year-old out for his birthday. Turns out this is not a new policy, and is rumored to be rooted in either a lawsuit or a new floor the owners don’t want scratched. The official reason is it’s “simply for safety reasons.” Or here’s another thought: It’s a gay club. They don’t want straight chicks.

I have a message out to them inquiring if drag queens or Halloween racers are allowed to emphasize their calves. I’ll let you know if I hear back…

I’ve been scolded in the past for walking around Petworth in cowboy boots and a short skirt. But I bet my outfits are less criminogenic than iPods. Via the Legal Times blog, a recent Urban Institute study blames the recent spike in robberies on our obsession with maintaining a constant personal soundtrack. iPods cause crime because they’re easy to spot, can be re-sold for a bundle and they have the extra effect of distracting their owners, who stop paying attention to potential threats. My boots might distract the criminals, but they don’t distract me.

In May I started seeing the owner of an intelligent, well-trained Basset mix. The dog and I seemed to have an agreement from the beginning: I would stay out of his way, and he would stay out of mine. Faithful to my end of the bargain, I didn’t cover my girlfriend in kisses when she was throwing a chew toy across the room. Faithful to his end, the dog didn’t force his way between us in bed.

This was how it went, until one night, when all got tense. My girlfriend and I were doing one of those things in which dogs do not generally participate. As I lay afterward in a pleasant exhaustion, she said: “Aw, man. Your shoes are fucked.” Actually, they were masticated. Her dog had chewed the left heel and the right tongue off of my leather Red Wing loafers, which were sent by my grandmother and had become the sole possession on which I always relied.

The dog and I have made amends. I didn’t know—still don’t know—why jealousy took my shoes in its jaws. But I knew I couldn’t go around in those mangled excuses for loafers. So I bought a cheap pair of Mossimo slip-ons. One day I was trying to learn what sort of shoes they were, and a friend thought he had it. “Those are boat shoes,” he said.

“Really?”

“Totally.”

Since he attended Georgetown and should know, I took his opinion. My buddies were trying to get a houseboat at that time, and yes, I could imagine myself on deck, leaning into the dusk wind that sprang off the Potomac.

Then my girlfriend expressed a more sober thought. “Those are prison shoes,” she said.

“No, they’re not!”

But if she said so, they probably were. I walked through the city ashamed, afraid that an inspector was tracking my movements, or that some derelict would remember that I was his comrade in chains. The restlessness continued through this week, when I determined not to play Jean Valjean any longer: I bought new black-and-white Chucks in the middle of the workday.

Good shoes should bring good fortune. For two days, I enjoyed more esteem from my friends, more success in the office, more confidence in bed. But this morning, I’m sad to report, some low-minded cur left a mess in my path, and some snotty owner didn’t scoop it. I tried napkins, I tore paper towels, I covered the sole in heavy-duty cleaner and scrubbed it down hard with a dish pad. The stench remains.

Dear dogs, what did I ever do to you? Why do you have it out for my shoes?