You don’t visit or live in DC without at least once wandering past the Camelot show bar, apparently a staple of the night life scene that goes back at least to the Jimmy Carter administration, but not as far back as the JFK years which would be more appropriate.
Still, you know its an institution when I cleverly bring it up in conversation and my mom replies, “that place is still there?”
So at least, we have an opportunity not just for a smashing travel blog entry, the kind I used to do when I lived in another country, but for a cross-generational analysis of what Maxim magazine was paid to label “the best strip club in DC.”
Together, mother and son have all the answers. What did Camelot showbar look like back in the day? How has the venue adapted along with our changing social mores? Are Are any of the girls still there? Why is there an “Angel” on the roster but no “Bambi”? Where is “Bambi”? Unfortunately, none of these questions will be answered below:
Deborah Landau 1872:
Camelot. A place of kings and queens and high morality. Well, not exactly. About forty years ago, while living in a slum of an old YMCA, about two blocks from the White House, where the local university placed us when they ran out of dorm space, my roommate and I wisely befriended the security guards. One was working on his Master’s degree, another longed to be a cop and a third was a career security guard. They liked to hang out at the strip joint a few blocks away, known to this day as Camelot. I can’t think how or why it was named that. It was an average bar with below average strippers doing pole dances. I can’t recall why we ever agreed to go there with them, or why they wanted us to. I felt very bad for the women, who were friendly, kind of regular people, with other jobs and kids and places to go home to. I just thought there had to be a better way to make a buck, as this looked so demeaning. I think I went there at least twice, as an alternative to hanging out alone with Ralph the Roach in my “dorm.” Strangely, with all the bars and restaurants that come and go, Camelot remains.
Dakota McKee 2014:
Camelot. A place of butt and boob and high fidelity. Well, not exactly. About forty weeks ago, while living in a house with people who used to talk to me, about two blocks from the Sibley Hospital, where the local university could send people when they got sick, my housemates and I unwisely befriended the cocktail waitress. She was “working on her bachelor’s degree”; another longed to be a showgirl and a third was a creepy security guard. They liked to work at the strip joint a few bus trips away, known to this day as Camelot. I can’t think how or why it wasn’t named “the black hole in the Golden Triangle” because that’s really what it was. She was an average cocktail waitress who blocked the view of the average strippers doing pole dances (however, I could still see the catatonic man with his tongue out, grasping for his wallet as he stood there in front of the “stage”). I can recall exactly why we agreed to go there–no cover and no line!–and why they wanted us to–it was a trick! They find ways to make you shell out cash anyway! I felt very bad for myself, me being a friendly, regular kind of person, with other jobs and places to go; there just had to be a better way to spend a buck, as this felt so demeaning. I think I had to pay the cocktail waitress at least twice…as an alternative to talking to hanging out alone with Murray the Narwhal in my “fantasy world”. Strangely, with all the embarrassing memories that come and go, telling her “my name’s Dakota and I’m a millionaire” remains.
Culture Time 