I learned an important life lesson last night. Several actually, but the biggest is that just because a place has a bar in it does not make the entire place worthy of the title “bar”. For instance, last night I went to a lounge, which had a bar in it, but it definitely was not a bar.
The entire night was an interesting experience. I had to work late on a Friday and I had to be at work on Saturday, as well. So as soon as I got home around 7 I started drinking. Then I played some Guitar Hero, which happens to be my game of the moment. I noticed that the more that I drank the lower my scores got. Imagine that. It was funny because I could actually feel my coordination leaving me. I would see the note come across the screen. I would know which button to push, I would tell my finger to push that button, but somewhere in between the message was lost.
I was pretty excited about the night. A friend of a friend of a friend worked at this place and was given a night off by her boss, as well as a $100 bar credit and she was told to bring out some friends and have a good time. Well, I was one of those friends. We left my place around 10:30 and got there at about 11:30 because the metro is slow, but it’s easier than drunk driving and trying to find parking, and also much cheaper than a taxi.
I figured that around 11:30 the place would start filling up. That’s the way the bars are in Fairfax, dead until about 11:45 and then they get crazy busy until closing time. But this was not a bar, it was a lounge. So we walk in at about 11:30 after being wanded with a metal detector and then patted down, even though the girl that worked there was escorting us in, and this place is pretty much dead.
I look at my surroundings and I’m not really sure what I think. First there is the house music, I hate house music. It’s loud and you can’t dance to it. I feel like I should have brought some glow sticks with me. There is the bar, and then there is the roped off VIP section, which is just a little raised platform behind a little rope, and in the middle of that was the standing area. It wasn’t the dancing area because nobody was dancing, and you can’t dance to house music without ecstasy anyway.
One thing that I noticed when I got there was how much this seemed like a high school dance. It really had all of the dynamics. You had the attractive girls hanging out, and then there were the unattractive girls hanging out. Their groups were deceivingly close to each other, if you weren’t paying attention you may have even thought that they were together. Then there were all of the guys lining the bar, not actually talking to any girls – just waiting until they could, assumedly, buy an overpriced drink for a girl in order to make her feel obligated to talk to him. I definitely got the feeling that the guys were on one side and the girls on the other, with nobody wanting to cross the center line of the gym.
The guy to girl ratio at this place was also pretty bad. There were a lot more guys than there were girls, and most of the guys looked like douches. In fact, there was one guy that had on a pastel blue polo shirt, with the color popped, of course, and he was wearing those big sunglasses. Apparently wearing sunglasses inside at bars and clubs is the hot thing to do in Europe. But here’s another little tip about Europe, they also go crazy when you play YMCA – do you really want to take nightlife advice from people like that? Let me just reiterate: if you wear sunglasses inside at night, you are a douche. I’m actually surprised that this guy wasn’t wearing a pink shirt. Then I remembered that it was Friday, and he was probably saving his “good” pink shirt for Saturday night.
Another thing that I don’t like about a place like this one is the fact that everybody there is a pretentious prick, and most of the girls are snobs. As my friend Chris said, girls that go out only want one of two things, a guy with money, or dick. At this place all of the girls wanted a guy with money. These girls just gave off that air of superiority. Any place where half of the guys that aren’t wearing popped polo shirts are wearing sports jackets is going to suck, end of story.
The friend of a friend of a friend was actually very cute, but since she worked there, she was all around leaving us to ourselves, which was fine, I don’t need somebody to hold my hand, but I definitely felt like a fish out of water at this place, which is saying a lot, because I was drowning myself in alcohol.
Chris eventually convinces us to go to his bar. I’m glad about this; a real bar with real people would be real nice. I was starting to get to the bitter drunk point, which is what happens when I drink a lot and there isn’t a single prospectin sight.
We head out. I am wasted, Jeff is wasted, Chris is drunk, and our other friend is wiz-asted. Yes, she was that drunk that it requires the use of a “z” and an extra syllable to describe it. Our friend isn’t looking so hot, so I of course offer her to give me a piggy back ride. She declines, but I still want a piggy back ride, though I’m not really sure why. We then start talking about how Chris once carried a keg up to a third floor apartment once by himself. Then the great idea of Chris giving me a piggy back ride hits me. But if it was just me getting a piggy back ride, that would be gay, so I suggest a double piggy back ride: me on Chris’ back, and then Jeff on mine. What could go wrong?
I jump on Chris’ back and then Jeff asks me if I’m ready. Chris points out that it shouldn’t really matter if I’m ready, he should have asked if Chris was ready. I concur. But Jeff comes bounding up nonetheless. He attempts to jump on my back, but instead what he really does is tear me off of Chris’ back. I fall. I land with all of my weight directly between my shoulder blades on my upper back. Did I mention this happened on the sidewalk? Somehow I managed not to hit my head, but I got the wind knocked out of me and my back was spasming like a mofo.
We continue to walk to Chris’ bar. I’m not in quite as good of a mood as I was, mostly because my back hurts and I know if it hurts this much now it’s going to hurt even more the next day. After about a 20 minute walk, we finally get to Play. This is much more of the bar scene that I like to see, although it’s still a little off from my stereotypical bar. By this point my back is killing me. Jeff has begun dancing with the girl in our group, Chris went to get us some drinks, and I just sort of stood there in pain, reflecting. Generally when I reflect by myself after drinking heavily, I turn to a bitter drunk. This was no exception.
Jeff noticed me brooding by myself and so he sent the girl over to dance with me. I hate this kind of pity dance, especially when I am bitter drunk. I feel like it’s charity work being done on me, and that just makes me more pissed off. I send her back to Jeff, I use the excuse that I can’t really dance because my back hurts, which is mostly true.
Chris is still at the bar trying to get drinks. I am surprised it is taking this long to get drinks, especially since he works at this place. I go up and investigate. I don’t actually find out what took so long, but I did find a girl and I struck up a conversation. I didn’t even mean to, I was just at the bar and I was surveying my surroundings when I turned and looked at her. She saw me basically stare directly at her, so I felt obligated to talk, else it be an awkward situation. So I just said “Hi” and then turned away.
Apparently that was enough bait to get the fish on. She then started to talk small talk to me. I wish I could say that the night got better and this girl ended up going home with me, but that was not the case. I will have to keep in mind the “I don’t care” card for future reference. The problem in this case was that I actually didn’t care. She was not that attractive and as soon as I got my drinks I dipped. The only problem with the “I don’t care” card is that you really have to sell it and sometimes that means simply walking away, and you have to be OK with that.
I thought this drink would help me lesson the pain in my back; it didn’t. We then walk away from the bar to where the tables are. Chris explained that to reserve a table you had to buy two $150 bottles of alcohol. He then proceeded to take a bottle of Grey Goose from one of the tables and pour it directly into his mouth. If that was one of the $150 bottles, I would guess that he drank about $20 worth of it.
This was not the place I wanted to be, though. Here was where the girls that wanted the guys with money hang out. I don’t have money, and at this point I don’t have an amicable personality, either. I just sit and brood. I’m upset, I think about leaving several times. It’s about 2:30, and I still have to be at work the next day, and it’s going to be at least an hour to get home.
We finally leave and walk to the metro. The girl in our group is gone. I literally don’t know how she made it back without throwing up. She made the motions a couple of times but somehow still managed to retain control. We got on the metro at a bad stop. It’s bad because we have to transfer trains. So we waited about 15 minutes for the train to come, and then we rode one stop, and then we had to wait another 10 minutes for the other train to come. We could have easily walked to this other stop. I am looking at my watch because now it is 3, which means we probably made the last train of the night, and I still had to be at work the next morning. At about this time I realize that there is not a snowball’s chance in hell of us making it home before four.
This makes me angry, but not as angry as the Mexican guy that decided to sit with us on the metro, or the gay guy that wouldn’t shut up. The train is basically empty. There are four of us in the group, so we take up four sets of seats, and then this Mexican comes and sits with us. There is an entire empty train that he could have sat in, but instead he decides he wants to hang out with us. I wanted to punch him in the face. But, I wanted to punch the gay guy even more. He was there with two girls that, from what I could tell by trying to look around the Mexican, were actually pretty attractive.
You may be wondering how I could tell he was gay, and to that I would say that there are some people that you can just tell, that and the fact that he was complaining about his boyfriend. It should probably be noted that he was on the other side of the train, and he was talking loud enough for me to overhear him complaining about his boyfriend. And then he started complaining about how long the metro ride was taking. Why do gay people complain so much? I felt like walking up to the girls that he was with and telling them that they shouldn’t hang out with a douche like this – he was talking to the girls like they were retarded, which they may have been, they weren’t talking loud enough for me to hear them.
We were planning on taking a taxi home, but somehow somebody calls a friend and he comes to pick us up from the metro station at 3:30 in the morning. He did save us about $25, but I feel kind of bad about him coming out, we could have gotten home just fine.
Tonight I plan on making up for last night.