I think we all could agree: sometimes your friends come up with the most inventive ways to explain a situation. These Pep Talks only become keener with the addition of alcohol. The lovely Lauren Dz was in town this weekend from Tallahassee. Lauren luckily comes as part of a two-some: her sister Rachel is just as witty and a blast to hang out with. It was Rachel’s birthday, and since Lauren and I like to spend the Saturdays that she’s in town at the more-bang-for-your-buck establishment Big Belly Brewery on Church Street for Power Hour, it seemed like a win-win. Who doesn’t like 3-4-1’s?
Little did we know that Chillers offered 3-4-1’s until 10:30p, which is when Power Hour starts at Big Belly. I can’t get over how much the bar at Chillers smells like a used diaper. If I could, I’d hand a gold medal to each and every bartender that works there for their enduring efforts. But I don’t, so I opt to hand an extra dollar to my bartender when she brings me the round I’m splitting with Lauren and Rachel. I also couldn’t get over what a sausage fest it seemed to be. We felt badly for the guys, but in our favor the majority of the crowd looked good enough for us to at least entertain the thought of hooking up with some of them.
Scanning the pack, we comment on who we find appealing. “That guy is not your type,” Lauren says when I ask about a fellow propped against the opposite end of the bar from us. Rachel concurs on the basis that he’s not bad-ass enough for me. “You like guys that have facial hair and look like they’d beat the shit out of a guy for ordering anything but Gentleman Jack.” I nod. I do tend to go for colored folk (a.k.a boys with tattoos), and attitude problems. “Hey, if they look like might have just been released from the Pen and won’t call after we sleep together, that pretty much puts him in the Keeper category for me!”
I do find one guy who is standing remarkably close to me to be somewhat of a fox. We’re about 3 inches apart, though there is no need for it, and he has his back only slightly turned to me so he can get a good view of the basketball that is on the TV above. He’s with a disproportionate group of guys to girls, so my chances of talking to him are very good. “If its not the Pistons, I don’t care,” Lauren says while I make glances at the TV, the guy, and back to the TV. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so I can’t see if he’s sporting ink. He looks clean-cut but his build hints at fisticuffs. He looks like a cross between John Cena and a young Brett Favre.
We hear one of the three girls amongst the John Favre group get a birthday shout out, and me being the person who always likes to make situations uncomfortable for others, I get the bright idea to run up to the DJ booth. Obviously, the 2 rounds the girls and I have split by now are kicking in. I’m beaming with delight as I make my way back from upstairs. Oh, sneaky-sneaky… (Not really.)
After numerous attempts to get the cahones to “bump” into him or strike up a conversation about the basketball, I see him chatting with Birthday Girl. I’m reading far too deeply into the body language, and I express my dismay as I interpret that they are getting familiar. Cue the Pep Talk. Rachel kicks things into gear with the standard opener, “You are so much prettier than her!” Lauren, with her unabashed sarcasm, sums up the girl in four words: “She’s hot in Iowa.” Rachel and I nearly spit out our drinks and wait with bated breath for Lauren to elaborate. “I mean, look at her. She’s wearing a jacket that I wore in 8th grade for Christ’s sake! She has Midwest written all over her!” I’m feeling my confidence growing with each and every word and sip from my vodka and tonic. “Besides, they totally are having a conversation about being exes and how it’s not going to be weird for them to hang out with the same group of people at the same bar.”
The MC booms over the Top 40 bar music. “We’ve got another birthday shout out! This one goes out to Lauren, from her two bad ass friends! GIVE IT UP FOR LAUREN!”
I’m excited as the bar erupts with cheers and woos. I have the same look on my face as George Dubya when he heard Saddam was caught. Lauren and Rachel look at me, choking back their laughter. “Heather, did you pregame before we came out,” Rachel giggles. “Seriously, dude, what drugs are you on?!” Realizing what I had done, I scramble for a witty way to twist the situation. “I just got so excited that we were all together! I drew a blank from all of the endorphins!” I didn’t have to wait long before the MC came over and corrected the situation for me. “Free shots for the birthday girl! Which one is it?” Rachel reaches for a shot and explains, “Its mine, but my name is Rachel.”
As my Pep Talk falls flat on its face, the MC pauses with a look of confusion so Lauren can finish up with, “Our friend here told the DJ the wrong name.” I’m turning about at red as the cranberry and vodka in Lauren’s hand and I’m trying to laugh off the situation. Assessing the situation in his head, he then says into the microphone, “Since your friend is a bit of a flake, here’s what we’re gonna do!” He hands me a shot in a test tube, and while still on the mic he instructs me to nestle it down into my cleavage. “Lower. Lower. A little lower. OK! Now Rachel! GO GET THAT SHOT!”
Before I can wipe the look of remorse for not only what I did but also what was about to happen, out of the corner of my eye I see John Favre watch with light amusement as Rachel takes a shot from my cleavage. Lauren snaps a photo, catching my penitence. We head up to Big Belly Brewery, where every round washes down my embarrassment.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Karma
I’m a firm believer in karma. Unfortunately, it always seems to bite you in the ass at the bar. Last night was no exception.
I made it out to BBQ Bar and its crowd of Indie Rock Boys and the Top 40 Girls who love them. It’s also the only place I've been to where you can hear Black Eyed Peas mashed with Rage Against the Machine... And it actually sounds good. Every now and then I feel the need to dance to some mainstream pop. Rather than go to a classy establishment like Tabu and risk getting some tool looking like he’s screwing me from behind on the dance floor, I’ll go where you never know if you’re going to skank to ‘Bro Hymn’ or get low to it.
Although I love the Ke$ha diluted enough for me to enjoy, the real reason we’re here (like many other people) is for the $2 Narragansett tallboys that Ricky Diamond will be double-fisting all night. I'll stick to my gin and tonics, only to be called out by the lone and hapless Jersey Shore lookalike that obviously wound up here as a cruel and tasteless joke. At some point in the night he must have asked the wrong person, “Where's a good bar around here?” Instantly I ask if he's from out of town and he plays it off with the line, “Oh I live here, I…um…Just don't get out too often.” I try to shake him with talk of getting back to my boyfriend on the dance floor. Hopefully he doesn't follow me because my ‘boyfriend’ is wearing a fuschia and turquoise Addidas track jacket, and a turquoise visor with matching faux alligator shoes all the while contorting his torso to a remix of MGMT. Dead give away? Yes, but this Jersey Shore kid looks like he needs to be let down softly. He had such hope in his eyes, and such eagerness in the hand that he place on the small of my back before I deftly stepped to the side 1.3 seconds later.
Perhaps I should have been a little more friendly towards Jersey Shore. Much like Independent Bar is to my gay friends on a Friday night, BBQ Bar is to my previous hookups on a Saturday night: all stored neatly in one location where I'm sure to find them passing by the dance floor. Great for if I'm looking for someone to chat with while looking for my friend that went AWOL, and awkward for the same reasons. Exit Ricky, enter Previous Hookup. We’ve all used the same awkward lines: “Yeah, thought that was you.” “Recognized the tattoo.” Last night’s was, “So how was the tour?” We were having the We-Haven’t-Spoken-In-2-Months conversation where we stood in the same place where we confessed we had mutual attraction a few months prior. And though I’m playing it off well and it went smoothly, I found myself furiously scanning the crowd for Ricky as I heard Previous Hookup say the he was going back to the front bar to meet up with his bandmate.
I end up finding Ricky chatting it up with a friend and we finish off the night dancing while I let my buzz wear off. I tally up the nights wins and losses to see if I at least broke even, and as I leaned against the DJ booth I looked down to see some wasted guy in his Express button down bent over in front of me, fist-pumping with fervor to 2 Live Crew and his rear end sloppily knocking me in the crotch with the bass line. Ricky Diamond looked over at me, two tallboys in hand, and said in for-the-win style, “Look! It’s your chance to f*ck a guy in the ass!”
I made it out to BBQ Bar and its crowd of Indie Rock Boys and the Top 40 Girls who love them. It’s also the only place I've been to where you can hear Black Eyed Peas mashed with Rage Against the Machine... And it actually sounds good. Every now and then I feel the need to dance to some mainstream pop. Rather than go to a classy establishment like Tabu and risk getting some tool looking like he’s screwing me from behind on the dance floor, I’ll go where you never know if you’re going to skank to ‘Bro Hymn’ or get low to it.
Although I love the Ke$ha diluted enough for me to enjoy, the real reason we’re here (like many other people) is for the $2 Narragansett tallboys that Ricky Diamond will be double-fisting all night. I'll stick to my gin and tonics, only to be called out by the lone and hapless Jersey Shore lookalike that obviously wound up here as a cruel and tasteless joke. At some point in the night he must have asked the wrong person, “Where's a good bar around here?” Instantly I ask if he's from out of town and he plays it off with the line, “Oh I live here, I…um…Just don't get out too often.” I try to shake him with talk of getting back to my boyfriend on the dance floor. Hopefully he doesn't follow me because my ‘boyfriend’ is wearing a fuschia and turquoise Addidas track jacket, and a turquoise visor with matching faux alligator shoes all the while contorting his torso to a remix of MGMT. Dead give away? Yes, but this Jersey Shore kid looks like he needs to be let down softly. He had such hope in his eyes, and such eagerness in the hand that he place on the small of my back before I deftly stepped to the side 1.3 seconds later.
Perhaps I should have been a little more friendly towards Jersey Shore. Much like Independent Bar is to my gay friends on a Friday night, BBQ Bar is to my previous hookups on a Saturday night: all stored neatly in one location where I'm sure to find them passing by the dance floor. Great for if I'm looking for someone to chat with while looking for my friend that went AWOL, and awkward for the same reasons. Exit Ricky, enter Previous Hookup. We’ve all used the same awkward lines: “Yeah, thought that was you.” “Recognized the tattoo.” Last night’s was, “So how was the tour?” We were having the We-Haven’t-Spoken-In-2-Months conversation where we stood in the same place where we confessed we had mutual attraction a few months prior. And though I’m playing it off well and it went smoothly, I found myself furiously scanning the crowd for Ricky as I heard Previous Hookup say the he was going back to the front bar to meet up with his bandmate.
I end up finding Ricky chatting it up with a friend and we finish off the night dancing while I let my buzz wear off. I tally up the nights wins and losses to see if I at least broke even, and as I leaned against the DJ booth I looked down to see some wasted guy in his Express button down bent over in front of me, fist-pumping with fervor to 2 Live Crew and his rear end sloppily knocking me in the crotch with the bass line. Ricky Diamond looked over at me, two tallboys in hand, and said in for-the-win style, “Look! It’s your chance to f*ck a guy in the ass!”
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