Our options for neighborhood bars are: A room full of Pete Wentz look-alikes yodeling outside of their vocal range; a room full of Moose Lodge hopefuls line dancing while someone in mom jeans goes belches out 70s pop songs; out-of-season rec softball players sitting around watching Animal Planet and dishing on how to handle dating a woman with children. It's all very anti-Cosmo magazine.
I love this neighborhood, where you can always find a meat raffle.
My friend Hank was on his way to town. God bless him, he's a BMW-driving Blues fan and half of the stuff that comes out of his mouth would a) offend your mom; b) should be cataloged and preserved at Library of Congress.
He ordered a Summit from our booze-pushing bar keep, and she laughed like he had just ordered Foie Gras. He went backward down the beer chain, getting denied denied denied. Finally she climbed deep into the refrigeration system and dusted off a Fat Tire. She had some choice phraseology for the kind of person who wouldn't lay down his life at the altar of Bud Light.
I ingested enough beer to beg the question: "Why, Christa. Why didn't you just position yourself open mouthed beneath a leaky keg?"
Obviously TiVo has a breathalizer attached to it, and rewarded us by recording "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."
JCrew manhandled me into going to Pizza Luce tonight for more QT with Hank. With this particular friend, sometimes it requires less effort to take a shower and smear contacts into one's face holes than to try to fit the words "No I'm not going out" into the ellipses of her hard sell. Whatever. I needed a reason to wash my hair anyway. I was starting to smell like a bacon cheeseburger and feet.
On this night, she was a one-woman cleavage parade, allowing me to refer to her as The Real Housewife of Duluth behind her back. It made it all worth while.
JCrew asks me to go to the bathroom with her for reasons that remain unclear. I stand there awkwardly in the coed space, looking at my phone, looking in the mirror, studying the big round sink similar to the one at Harriet Bishop Elementary School, where I had my lone year of public schooling.
A woman totters in on high high heals. She's like a toddler in her mom's shoes, kinda running, kinda tumbling. She breaks for a stall, and a tall dude and I crack up at the sight. The she starts barfing. It sounds like a one-woman sorority formal coming from Stall 3. Barf, gag, barf some more.
Bulimia or common drunkeness. The verdict is still out.
Confession: I wear what JCrew (affectionately?, Nay, violently) refers to as "jeggings." These are leggings in a material that looks like denim, down to the seams, but really are just leggings. I make no apologies for this particular fashion decision. I like wearing leggings. Tonight my friend Cork1 looked at these feats of science and said:
"ARE THOSE LEGGINGS MADE OUT OF DENIM!"
I gave him an affirmative. He told me this wasn't working for him. He's not a fan of the leggings and tall boots thing. And he knows what he's talking about because one time he dated a girl who was really into fashion and so he used to read Harper's Bazarre. "And wasn't Ozzy Osbourne wearing those boots on the cover of one of his albums?"
Sigh. Tough town.
Anyway, the night ended with break dancing hippies in the bar and a band of DFL conventioners singing The Star Spangled Banner in the middle of Superior St.
"I wonder if they'll feel social shame tomorrow?" I asked, as they sang and swayed in a massive wave and a woman provided a the cymbal crashes with a Rockettes brand of flare.
"I think they'll feel more like patriotic pride," Frenchie answered.