The customer is always right

All I wanted was to hear "Laid," by James. Does that make me so lame? Yes, I thought the song was by the Gin Blossoms, and I may have drunkenly tripped on my way up to make my request, but I don't think that means I deserve to be insulted. Just say you don't play that song. Don't roll your eyes and complain that you ALWAYS get that request and you are SO SICK of that song. You know why people ask you to play that song all the time? BECAUSE IT IS AWESOME.

So I got into a little tiff with the guitar player dude last night at the bar...

When I overheard him reject someone else's request after me, I decided I needed to say something: "Maybe you should play music people want to hear!" He responded by telling me maybe I should play the song if I want to hear it so badly, and he started to take off his stupid guitar. I happened to have polished off my own bottle of wine at dinner (I take BYOB dining seriously), so my brain failed to produce a comeback. "Uh, I don't know how to play music." That's what I said. And the jerkface responded, "That's what I thought." Jerk. Face.

I understand jerkface probably dreams of being a real musician, not one who plays covers for a half-empty bar every Thursday night. But you know what? I have dreams too. Do you think I want to write Google AdWords about new accounting standards? No, I do not. But that's what pays the bills. I don't roll my eyes at my manager and tell him I'm sooo over Sarbanes Oxley - I do what I'm asked to do. Then I can complain about it, and anything else I feel like, on my blog, if I'm so inclined. So, jerkface, sing what you like in the shower, play what you want on Guitar Hero, but when you're performing FOR an audience, try not to be such a d-bag.

Guinness IS good for you!

Because my boyfriend just sent me this link, I thought it was "news," but upon further investigation, it appears the BBC officially deemed Guinness "good for you" in 2003... nevertheless, the story inspired me to post.

According to the article, University of Wisconsin (naturally) researchers "tested the health-giving properties of stout against lager by giving it to KK patrons dogs who had narrowed arteries similar to those in heart disease," and found that a pint a day "may work as well as a low dose aspirin to prevent heart clots that raise the risk of heart attacks."

Wonderful news for Guinness drinkers! I'm afraid, though, that you'll still have to endure random comments at (American) bars (unless it's St. Patrick's Day), such as:

• "Guinnes, ay?!" [accompanied by mouth-gaping confusion/surprise]
  
• "Looks like you're chewing your drink tonight!"
• "I've never seen a girl drink Guinness before!!"
• "That just looks so HEAVY."
  

Although, instead of rolling your eyes, perhaps you can respond to these comments with a bit of Guinness trivia: Apparently the 1920s "Guinness is good for you" ad campaign "stemmed from market research - when people told the company that they felt good after their pint, the slogan was born."

Well, who can argue with that?

(Photo Source: news.bbc.co.uk)

Heard on the Strip…or at the Hard Rock

“Whose is this? I’m gonna drink it.”

A: “She’s fatter than me.” B: “REALLY??”

“I wanna be your daughter’s daddy.”

“He’s getting his ass juice all over the place!”

“Why didn’t you guys wake me up??”

“I’m not hungry, but I could eat.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to complain about?”

“I don’t really want to sit by you—I’m seriously sick of you guys.”

I’ll take my Vegas without a side of butt floss, thanks.

Although Vegas pretty much represents everything I think is wrong with the world… I. Love. It. (Just one example of the hypocrisy that permeates my existence.) When I go, I usually manage to empty everything from my brain except the pursuit of fun, and can even find the very best in things that would normally send me over the familiar edge: silicone (duck lips and underboob provide hours of entertainment), bachelor parties (shift the conversation from last night's strip club to the proposal story), seizure-inducing casino atmospheres (slot machine zombies make me feel more alive), etc.

But on the long weekend I just got back from, two idiots broke through my pleasant oblivion, sending me on more than one tirade that had no place in The Land of Fun. We first encountered them when we checked into the Hard Rock and went to the pool on Saturday. It wasn’t packed, as the big day to go to the Hard Rock pool is for Rehab on Sunday, but there were a decent amount of people nodding to music that was quiet enough that you could talk, rather than shout, when making conversation.

So my point here is that it wasn’t a crazy party; yet, as soon as we made our way to the main pool area, we couldn’t help but notice two men, sporting thongs, mullet wigs and 70s sunglasses, doing a ridiculous kind of monkey dance. They hopped and gyrated around the pool, back and forth, up and down different levels, grinding up against any group of women they crossed paths with, some of whom seemed amused, most of whom seemed annoyed and/or disgusted. And one of the mullet men had a dollar bill tucked into his butt floss. (Didn't his mother ever tell him how filthy money is?? Ew.)

It was like a never-ending train wreck—except I could definitely look away. One of my friends wondered aloud if the duo would be back for Rehab on Sunday, and you better believe they were. (Saturday was probably a dress rehearsal.) Even though their appearance the next day was a bit more understandable, as everyone puts on their Sunday best for Rehab (high heels and bikinis that look more like underwear than swimsuits, teeny tiny spandex swim trunks, etc.), I found them even more annoying the second time around—even before one of them rubbed his bare backside up against my leg while I was trying to order a drink.

It’s my belief that silly outfits are just plain lazy substitutes for personalities. Instead of learning how to strike up a conversation, these two thought all they needed to do was throw on a couple of thongs and mullets and dance around like buffoons. Nonstop. I can’t decide if they were trying too hard or not enough, but jeez—it’s Vegas, REHAB in Vegas—a place where this feminist makes BFFs with bachelor parties. Please, leave the costumes at home next time. We were all having enough fun, more, in fact, before your bouncing banana hammocks entered the picture.

Singlism

Last Friday was enlightening. I was sitting at the bar, turned toward a few friends on my left, when a rando on my right tapped my shoulder and quite politely, actually, apologized for bothering me, but said he’d seen me walk in, blahdy blah, etc… and then ended his opener with, “So, how is a girl like you single?” UGH. That is maybe my absolute MOST HATED LINE.

I do believe it’s usually intended to be a compliment… but it is, in actuality, an insult. The underlying assumption is that singleness is an unfortunate condition everyone should avoid at all costs. It’s also a rather personal question to ask someone you hardly know. What kind of answer do people expect? “Well, I have daddy issues,” or “Under this makeup I look like a troll”??

But as my eyes began to roll up and I took a deep breath, preparing to launch into my usual speech (actually I find that question rather offensive, perhaps I choose to be single because I quite like dictating my own schedule, I’d rather not be in a bland or dysfunctional relationship, etc.), I realized something. For the first time in over a year, when asked why I was single, I simply answered with an expression that quickly turned from annoyance to befuddlement: “I’m not.” Accompanying an uncomfortable silence, my expression was then reflected back to me in the face of my new friend.

It had never occurred to me before that moment what’s perhaps most infuriating about that dreaded question: the ASSumption that someone is single. Was it because I was sitting at a bar with a group of girls? Was it because I turned toward a stranger when he tapped me on the shoulder? Was it because I was at a $15 all-you-can-drink-and-eat special at Durkins? Oh, maybe that did have something to do with it…

A night to remember

My friend and I had a chatty cab driver on the way home from the bar Saturday night. The first thing he said was, “Did you have fun tonight? Did you get hit on by a lot of guys?” I think it was his bluntness that bothered me most. Usually people ask things like, “Were there a lot of people out?” or “Did you meet any cute boys?” They usually don’t plop that direct correlation out there so obtusely: Did you have a good night, i.e. did boys pay attention to you, and/or hump your rear somewhat rhythmically to a Rihanna song, and/or invite you back to the frat house?

Whether delicately verbalized or not, this singular idea of what constitutes a successful night appears to be widespread. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been catching up with a (female) friend I don’t see very often when we’re interrupted by some rando who says something like, “Boy you girls are just chatting away!” or “You guys just been sittin’ here chatting all night?” or “You ladies look like you’re having a heated debate!” What about those observations compels these men to cut in? Must be the ASSumption that even though we appear to be having a good time, our situation could only be improved by a representative of the male gender.

Even worse, when having drinks with two or three friends, I’ve been stopped mid-sentence by randos who just waltz up to our table and stand there, staring. “Well, hello there,” one of us is eventually forced to say in an attempt to squelch the awkwardness. But of course it only gets worse because the rando really has nothing to contribute. He apparently expects us to be so grateful to him for saving us from our heinously female night that we will be more than happy to entertain him with spontaneous conversation.

Now, I’m not saying I never go out to perhaps meet a new boy, or maybe run into an old one… but the funny thing about that is when I’m sitting on a barstool, eyes wandering, only sporadically exchanging bits of celebrity gossip with a friend I see all the time, randos seem less likely to physically approach, but instead—if anything—do strange things like send over tap water and kiddie cocktails. It’s as if they feel more comfortable interrupting conversation than boredom.

My point, though, is that there are numerous ways to have a fun night, and they certainly don’t all revolve around getting “hit on.” Why must that be the main measure of success? And why, while we're on the subject, is that phrase so unpleasant? A smattering of events I consider to be equally, if not more indicative of a successful night out:

• Karaokeing “Manic Monday” with a friend of a friend you randomly ran into.

• Winning a dance-off with your shopping cart skillz and lifeless robot stare.

• Hustling a gaggle of Orange County ingrates in beer pong.

• Making it through a night of multi-level bars without falling down any stairs.

• Discovering that Ian’s is serving up BBQ chicken pineapple AND tomato pesto pizza. And eating both without guilt.

Plus, you know what they say: You’re more likely to stumble across The One while you’re busy doing the robot, or something like that… actually perfecting the robot and attracting men are usually more of an either/or sort of deal… but nevertheless a choice every woman must have the right to make for herself and her own night.

Blue Light Special

I know we’re all familiar with drinking games—Flip Cup, Beer Pong, Hockey, Circle of Death, etc.—so I’d like to share with you a new favorite after-drinking game of mine: Blue Light Special. You might be wondering: What’s an after-drinking game, and why would you want to play one?

Well… at the end of a summer week spent celebrating at the pool, beach, bar and bar at the beach (God Bless Corporate America and PTO), there may come an afternoon when some of your friends are hungover, some of your friends are drunk from breakfast at Stanley’s and some of your friends are new and happen to have fantastic ideas of how to pass the time—and you all magically come together and decide to do something different—a magical activity called Blue Light Special. Important: this is not to be confused with Red Light Special—the former has quite the opposite effect as the fantastic TLC song and video. Here are the rules:

1. Everyone in the group puts their name and clothing size in a hat.
2. Everyone pulls out a name. If someone chooses their own name, they have to pick again.
3. Find the nearest Kmart.
4. Players have 15 minutes and $29.99 to buy the person they picked an outfit to wear out that night.

Some special items to look out for: mom jeans/capris/shorts, muumuus, slip-on canvas shoes, bejeweled belts, visors, and long pajama shirts and baby t’s that say things like “Not Listening!” and “I’m No Angel.” Another tip: Stay focused. Some players might be tempted to use part of their 15 minutes to go to a nearby grocery store and pick up cases of Old Style and Busch Light, hastily purchasing clothes that are actually attractive. This would be a mistake. And finally, my most important tip would be to head out, after an amateur fashion show, to an establishment with outside seating—so everyone in the neighborhood can admire your new threads. My favorite comment of the day: “Hey, I think my grandma has that shirt!” Priceless.

How do you determine the winner? Well, like the aforementioned drinking games, “winning” is pretty inconsequential (and kind of defeats the purpose). But if you have to choose one—would be un-American not to—I guess it would be the person who picks out the most unattractive outfit, although I think the person who has to wear the most unattractive outfit should get some sort of consolation prize. So… I’ll keep checkin’ my mailbox.

Paint-by-numbers pickup art

Last Friday was another interesting night at the bar. A guy who approached my friend and me managed to give me two odd insults in a matter of minutes. First he told me he was sure I was a teacher because I looked “homely.” After I asked him what that was supposed to mean, he said, “You know, you look like you stay at home and read a lot of books.” Hm. Were the rest of his pickup skills as lame as his vocabulary? For some reason I stuck around to find out. Next he asked me if I was Jewish. I said no, but people ask me that all the time. A lot of people think I’m either Jewish or Italian, I told him, but I’m actually neither. And he responded, “Oh I’m just trying to say you’re ordinary looking.” Huh? That was when I decided to put the unfortunate conversation out of its misery.

I was telling the story to a male friend the next day, and he said maybe the guy at the bar had been reading The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. In the book, Neil Strauss, formerly “a self-described chick repellent,” apparently tells the story of how he was assigned to “investigate a community of pickup artists,” through which he learned and successfully used techniques he shares with readers. According to my friend, one of these techniques is to give women backhanded compliments. Another is to approach the less attractive woman in a group. According to Amazon, another is to "intrigue a beautiful woman by pretending to be unaffected by her charm."

My friend really got a kick out of the ordinary looking comment. “Maybe I should take it a step further,” he said, “and just go up to girls and punch them in the head.” (I know I should probably know better, but I thought that was hilarious.) When we were out later, I decided we should just fully embrace this gradeschool approach and suggested to my friend that he go up to a random girl and give her a wet willy. (I didn’t really think he’d do it…) She did not react positively at first (shocker), but I did notice she hung around where we were standing for a while afterward. Maybe her interest was sparked… or more likely she was waiting for an explanation.

So might some men actually experience success using some sort of reverse psychology to pick up women? I’m afraid that might be the case, now that I’m thinking about it. About a month ago, a guy discarded his empty beer bottle right in front of me, which I thought was rude, but I did end up talking to him when he approached me again and actually spoke. And I ended up going out with him… a few times… I think it might be a tactic that’s hard to pull off though, and maybe not the best option for the socially awkward, who are probably the ones taking advice from books like The Game, unfortunately.

WTF? Part 3

I have a new "drink" to add to the list of dumb crap guys send over at bars: Shirley Temples! Last night I was sitting at a table with two friends, and the waitress brought over three drinks and said they were "on the guy at the end of the bar." We asked what they were, and she just said we would like them... but they were tall, pink and fizzy, and topped with cherries... my friend asked her if they were Shirley Temples, and promptly sent them back after the waitress uncomfortably answered in the affirmative.

So... is that an insult? Was he saying we look too young to be in a bar? I do look like I'm 16... Or did he think it would be funny if we thought the kiddie cocktails contained alcohol? Or was it an idiotic attempt to hit on us? WTF?

WTF? Part 2

So I've come to the conclusion that "buying" girls water must have been in some Maxim article or something. It happened again Friday night! After two extremely drunk guys incoherently chatted up my friend and me—and bought us actual drinks—another set offered to buy us ice water with lemon. (I have to admit this is a step up from the room-temperature tap water, however.) I asked one of them what the deal was, and he said we looked like we could use something tart after talking to the other guys... or something like that... I couldn't understand much of what he was saying, beyond that he was in town for some kind of military convention, and he's originally from Idaho. Does the military have conventions? Are all people from Idaho hard to understand? WTF?

New Orleans drinklog

I just got back from a long weekend in New Orleans, and I have to say that above the food, music and history, I was most impressed with the outstanding bar service. I was looking forward to the freedom to legally drink on the street, but I was not aware of the extent to which the people of New Orleans embrace and encourage their visitors to drink up.

I went for my cousin’s wedding, and her ceremony and reception were at a gorgeous restaurant in Jackson Square. When the party was ending and people were being shuffled outside, I had a glass of wine in my hand. I was contemplating how inappropriate it would be to chug it in front of my extended family when a friendly waiter asked me if I wanted a to-go cup. A to-go cup! I’ve been asking bartenders and servers for to-go cups since college – and always receive negative responses. And this gentleman actually offered one up! Fantastic.

The next day, I traded my wine glass in for the plastic grenade yard, perhaps not as classy, but even more transportable. The melon-flavored drinks are tastier than hurricanes, and you can refill them at a number of bars and receive a $1 discount – for the economically AND environmentally responsible drinker. I purchased my third refill after a short break for a shower and nap at my hotel, so what was left in the yard resembled a Hi-C Ecto Cooler. Nevertheless, my friendly bartender poured the tepid liquid into a small plastic cup and set it on the bar with my fresh grenade. I didn’t drink it, but wow. Chicago bartenders have an annoying habit of prematurely snatching my drink away. The new drink order is not a replacement – it’s thinking ahead to ensure uninterrupted fun. New Orleans bartenders understand this concept.

And as if I didn't have enough fun drinking grenades, I got to hang out with one too. Similar to how you can meet and take pictures with Mickey and Minnie in Disneyland, in New Orleans you can make friends with a life-sized grenade. He lives outside of the Tropical Isle, which was our favorite filling station.

My liver and I are happy to be back home, but New Orleans will always hold a special place in my heart. I know I’ll be missing that to-go cup this weekend when I’m celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.

Heard on my street

I don't know if it's a testament to how fantastic the section is or how crass my taste is, but the first thing I go to when I get Time Out Chicago every week is the "Heard on the Street" page. I'm such a huge fan that I've been compiling my own list:

“Yep, he’s crazy as a soup sandwich.”

“I just slept with you – I’m not gonna go on a date with you!”

“Did you go spray tanning today?”

“I just want to blow my brains out.”

“So that’s cool that your dad’s an ass.”

“I hope I black out tonight. It’s been awhile.”

“It’s not about lookin’ pretty. It’s about keepin’ all your digits.”

“Are your shoes on the wrong feet?”

“This isn’t about practicing. It’s about psychological warfare.”

“Let me tell you what your ideas are going to be.”

WTF?

At a happy hour last night, the bartender set a tumbler of cloudy liquid in front of me, and said the guy across the bar had asked her to send over a glass of tap water, no ice. What does that mean? Is it an insult? I would understand if he saw me take a tumble down the stairs, but that didn't happen until hours later...(It was the shoes!)

On the bus

I had my first groupie experience Friday night, and it was pretty interesting. I’m not a big country fan, but a band that’s apparently popular was playing a free show, so I went with a couple of country-loving friends. We met the band after, and I made friends with one of the guitar players (I don’t really know anything about music, and I don’t remember any of their names). I was fascinated by this man’s hair. It was so country-gone-pop. I’m guessing he’s a natural blond, but someone thought it would be a good idea to give him low lights and subject him to a flat iron. They invited us back to their bus, and I was too curious to say no. My observations:

• It smelled like feet. After I said this out loud, one of the guys quickly assured me it was just the stack of pizza boxes I was smelling—and offered me a slice—and for some reason I ate it.
• My new friend’s hair had indeed been flat-ironed. After I asked him about it, I lied and told him I liked it. He seemed a little self conscious and is probably a very nice person.
• Although these guys were not particularly good looking, they lassoed in quite a lot of ladies. The most attractive of the bunch walked a girl out of a back room shortly after we got on, escorted her off, and proceeded to proposition my friend (unsuccessfully) for a round two—or for all I know, round three or four, or more! Note to self: Never date a musician. Well, I could make an exception for G. Love…