Bar None

One of the guys in my office had a going away party thrown for him at a local bar this past Friday. The bar isn't actually a bar, to be exact. It's one of those multi-purpose thingamajigs that has a proper bar, dance floor, private club, arcade and deck where bands like REO Speedwagon, Loverboy and the remaining members of Blue Oyster Cult play to crusted-over baby boomers with ponytails, earrings and at least one NASCAR sticker on their vehicle (the men) or winners with acid-washed jeans, tobacco-stained fingers and cheap whore-shoes (the "women"). Anyway, it was a nice little get together. People letting their hair down just a little, talking about work and then turning around and complaining that all anyone does outside of work is talk about work.

We were out on the deck. It is done up in some sort of fake-me-out Polynesian motif with thatched roofs over the island bars, dime-store surfboards and loads of beer posters and advertisements with sun-blasted blondes in bikinis. It went well with the hard cement we were standing on and stools that look like they came from your parents' basement decades after they stopped throwing "cool" adult parties. It gave a nice view of the river - an unobstructed view of the wildlife, majestic marsh grass and weekend mafia hits floating downstream. It was a bit warm and the humidity brought the alcohol flush right to the surface of your skin.

I'm not much of a drinker, but I did find the constitution to power down a couple of White Russians (shut up!). I don't drink beer, wine or hard liquor. I used to, but I lost my taste for them - kind of like my Summer of the Peppers. I told you about that in an earlier story and if I didn't, you can wrestle with the uneasy shifting of feet that comes with feeling like an outsider. The drinks weren't bad, but they tasted a little weak. I basically paid an arm and a leg for what amounted to a melted coffee milkshake. But, since I go out drinking about as often as the spaceships from Mars land on the Harvest Moon (what, didn't get the memo?), I figure what the hell. It's either this or spend my money on food, gas or Internet porn.

There is a phenomenon out there in the world of bars and nightclubs. I never understood it, even though I, personally, experienced it firsthand. For some reason, people - mostly females - oh hell, almost all of them are female - look at bartenders like they are rock stars. I blame the movie "Cocktail" for creating these ridiculous images. Actually, there are probably a thousand things to blame on that movie. Googly-eyed idiot women fawning all over bartenders, flirting with them and then actually having the low self-esteem to BRAG to their friends that they have a date with one! Hey, I'm not saying this out of jealousy - I used to be a bartender! And what's more, I used to be the one with all the easy leg being thrown my way. It was easier than spotting zits on a teenager.

Now, this next part you are not going to like, ladies: Bartenders talk. If you are looked at as a cheap, easy woman by a bartender (and all it takes is sleeping with one), you are looked at as a cheap, easy woman not only by every bartender in that establishment and other nearby establishment, but by every guy and most girls who frequent those places. Why? Because bartenders talk. Go on one date with a bartender and you might as well break out the glittery "I'm a Whore" shirt. Sad but true. Bartenders are NOT rock stars, they are not noble, and there is nothing sexy about being one or dating one. I had been one for years, I've dated female bartenders. Unless you can take being looked at like a slut by everyone in the bar or club, find yourself someone else to flirt with.

Anyway, back to the fun. There was a knock-off reggae band opening up for the main act. They played all the reggae songs you know. Know how I know that? Because EVERY knock-off reggae band plays the same damned songs. Sure, it works for the bloated businesswomen and the khaki-slacked businessmen, both of whom wouldn't dare introduce anything slightly different to their musical palates, but for people who have even a slightly remedial love of music, you'd rather go bobbing for urinal cakes in a public toilet than have to hear yet another reggae version of "Hot, Hot, Hot!" The main act was a local band that has been around for a handful of years and has its own loyal fan base. You know the type of "band" I'm talking about - a bunch of tousle-haired post-college grads who imitate the annoying formulaic styles of the day, adding as much whiny vocal as humanly possible and dress so non-trendy that they actually are uber-trendy. They do lame covers of lame bands like Third Eye Blind, Matchbox 20, or other identical-sounding lame bands and have groupies who are both hotter than anyone in the band deserves and also about 15 years older than the oldest member of the band. Reflected glory is a mental disease, good citizen. Fling them into the Twinkie van and behind the bars of the nuthouse for a decade or so.

I'm not against drinking or going to bars - I just don't do it very much anymore. To each his (or her) own. I would have hoped that things might have changed since I was a regular customer. Maybe you feel the same way. Maybe you don't. And yet, in every bar that you go to, you are bound to find about a dozen examples of everything I just explained above.

Bar none.