Dating and Drinking

You know a bar is good, if a bit annoying, when the bartender won't make you a mint julep because they don't have a tin cup.

Such is the case at The Bowery.

That's right. No tin cup, no mint julep.

I would rather have no mint julep than a bad one, so I guess that it's okay even though I really really really wanted a mint julep, which, as I had pointed out to me by the friend I was drinking with, is a limeless mojito made with bourbon. How clever! Wait, and without club soda too. I am going to use that the next time I want one. Except then I will be annoying and ask for a tin cup.

Cocktail nerds.

In any case, the waiter was very nice and well-informed (and easy on the eyes), and the dirty martinis and Manhattans we had instead were quite good.

And apparently, I can still get drunk - the trick is to not eat dinner beforehand.

So Jen already wrote about her interactions with the idiot I shall call The Old Sketchball. I have to admit, I didn't really hear that conversation she had with him, because 1) I do not choose to talk to strangers in bars unless there are extenuating circumstances and 2) I was busy trying to flag down the bartender for a drink because it had been a whole car drive since I had last had alcohol. But I did see him, and he was totally that older vaguely sketchy guy. Ergh. Bad news.

After she finally got rid of him, we did observe him leering at some girls who were dancing and well, just leering at any female in the bar in general. Icky! Skeezy old leery guy! Go away!

Then, most unfortunately, later in the night, the Old Sketchball interrupted a very fine conversation that ScarlettAce and I were having, as Jen was talking to his friend and so that meant that we had to talk to him? I failed to see the logic there, especially as ScarlettAce and I were having oodles of fun making fun of other people. Wasn't there some other group of girls he could go harrass?

No.

Dammit.

And he is a sterling example of why I don't talk to guys in bars: because the conversation SUCKS, and I am one who needs good conversation. And I am at my punchiest in bars when I am annoyed. Especially when the guy in question has been earlier spotted being an ogler and on top of it, was rude to a friend. Here is an example of the idiocy ScarlettAce and I had to go through. I am withholding the majority of my internal commentary because it will be more fun for you to groan and roll your eyes without my prompting. (Obviously, this is not verbatim, but it does give you a general idea.)

Me: So, where are you from?
The Old Sketchball: Oh, that's such a hard question to answer.
Me: ??????
ScarlettAce: So then, what do you do?
TOS: Oh, I don't really want to talk about it.
Me: What. Do. You. Do?
TOS: I work in The Industry.*
ScarlettAce: What do you do in The Industry?
TOS: Oh, well, I'm a producer.
ScarlettAce: What have you worked on recently?
TOS: Well, just too many projects to name.
Me: So, where did you say you were from?
TOS: Well, I guess Prague.
Me: Hm. How long did you live there?
TOS: Oh, about three years.
Me: Huh. Three years. Where did you live before that?
TOS: Paris.
Me: Oh! How long did you live there?
TOS: Two months, and I hated it.
Me: Where in Paris did you live?
TOS: Do you know Paris?
Me: Yes, I lived there for six months.
TOS: Well, I lived off of Rue Mouffetard, which is in the Latin Quarter, you know.
Me: I. Said. I. Know. Paris. So, before Paris was...?
TOS: Denver.
ScarlettAce: So, what brings you to this bar?
TOS: That is such a good question! My friend over there.
ScarlettAce: How did you meet him?
TOS: We're working on one of the same projects.
ScarlettAce: What project?
TOS: I can't really talk about it.
Me: So where are you from originally?
TOS: Cleveland, Ohio.

So the conversation continues in this vein, with The Old Sketchball being all vague and evasive and boooooring and about as stimulating as a burnt out light bulb. I think I am being too nice to him in my portrayal of him. The conversation was Much Worse.

*When a guy says he works in The Industry but can't back up his claim with any concrete details, it's like a big fat red flag is waved. Such a poseur. Go away, asswipe.

And HOW HARD is it to answer the question, "Where are you from?" Even if you're an army brat, you have an easy answer: "I was an army brat". There is no reason to beat around the bush like that. And you don't get to claim you're from a city when you've lived there for only three years!

Incidentally, The Bar? Such a cute place - no attitude, and great music. I'll go back in a heartbeat, as long as the Old Sketchball isn't there. But this is LA. And if they're not old sketchballs, they'll be wannabe Industry people. Sigh.

(For some reason, I can't make that blank space at the top of this post go away. Okay, I guess you don't see it in IE, but I use Firefox, and it's there, grr. )

This one should have been up a while ago, but I had to get over the incedent so I could write objectively.

So... the guy from Eastern Standard, a month later:

I get an email asking for me to give him a chance and go out with him... so I agree and we set a date. He says he will get back to me about everything in terms of when exactly and where.

Day of:
noon: nothing
four: I email (because you know he has his Blackberry on him) and say nicely that he needs to let me know what is going on.
five: I give up and watch TV for the rest of the night.

Thats the whole story. I thought I would give him time to write to me and produce someone's death certificate to validate his behavior, but no.

Bottom line... once again... follow through. If you say you are going to do something do it, and if plans change... any form of blow-off communication is acceptable.

Now I am off on a date... must go! This is bound to be a much better story....

[scene: extreme speed dating]

There’s the siren again. “Hi,” he says and shakes my hand. “I’m Carl, I’m thirty-five, and I work in advertising. I like the basic things in life like long walks and Sunday lunches, and I hate pretentious foreign films. What about you?”

Taken aback by this bonsai approach, I widen my eyes slightly and take a deep breath, preparing to rise to the challenge. “I’m Jess.” I tap my badge. “I’m thirty-four, work in television, hate long walks, and love foreign films. But I’m with you on the Sunday lunches.” He laughs and I find myself feeling quite attracted to him. My spirits rise slightly, heartened that maybe this speed=dating business isn’t going to be such a damp squib after all.

With a sudden bolt of courage I didn’t know I could muster, I reach into my pocket and take out one of my calling cards. “So if you fancy sharing a roast one Sunday, here’s my card.” I hand it over and feel encouraged when he quickly accepts it, stuffing it into his shirt pocket.

He places his elbows on the table and leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “So…” His voice is low. “What’s your favorite sexual position?”

At first, I’m not sure if I have heard him correctly above the din. But his leering expression suggests I have.

Both appalled and angry in equal measures, with one swift flick of m hand I reach into his shirt pocket and retrieve my card. “Forget it,” I snap. “You’re not my kind of guy.”

Excerpted from Love @ First Site, by Jane Monroe.

There are precious few places to go drinking in Pasadena. Correction: there are precious few places to go drinking in Pasadena that aren't pubs. I don't know why, but there is a large preponderance of pubs. And really, pubs aren't quite my scene.

Which is why I was so so happy when awine bar opened up in the area. While I initially didn't like it too much (I mean, I used to go to Bar Veloce in New York all the time - I was a hard sell), I became a quick convert.

From its inception in early 2003, I have beelined it to Bodega every time I went home on vacation. Last summer, I spent almost too much time there, getting to know the bartenders almost too well (and they were amazing, putting up with my hazy questions about what I wanted to drink), to the point that yeah, my last night there before I returned to Boston, I got wasted off an "unlimited" glass of wine that ended up costing me $5.

It's too too bad that that bartender isn't there anymore. Sigh. Although I didn't fancy him so much as the other one. Isn't that always the case?

It's a curious scene. Pasadena's just an odd social scene. It's not as trendy as LA, obviously, as it's far more suburby. And who would drive out to Pasadena just for a wine bar? Thus, you get a mix of locals, many of whom are kids home from college who don't want to head to the pubs, the occassional uber-intellectual from CalTech, and then.. well, it's just so hard to describe it. The best thing I can say is that it's just not that happening a scene, but it's enjoyable nonetheless because precisely because it's not a scene.

Which is not to say I haven't met my fair share of guys there. They're generally harmless and innocuous, good for some light conversation but nothing more. And the bartenders - well, I feel that I've already expressed my feelings regarding them, n'est-ce pas?

Unfortunately, they don't change the wine list as often as I'd like, which really is a pity because as a wine bar, I feel that it's their duty to have a list that rotates just a little more quickly as to keep the tastebuds of their clientele perked and interested. That's my only real quibble with the place. But it's such a cozy bar/lounge, that I can't help but return there time and time again.

I have two very different Boston scenes to share...

1. Avalon

Location: Fenway, Cover: $15 (Saturday), Attire: slutty (yes, even the men), Bar: Full

So... Avalon... massive dance floor with platforms along the side, Euro dance music and three bars. There is an upstairs, but not going on much up there. I can't say it wasn't fun... dancing is great, as long as you are there with friends so you don't have to mingle with the clientelle. Let me put it this way: there was a woman with hair like dolly parton, wearing less than Christina Aguilera in any of her videos, and clear platform heels! I almost died when I saw her... then the bar started to fill up and I started to understand that those of us not wearing micro-minis were in the minority. The men were aggressive, wearing tight shirts, and wearing A LOT of cologne to cover up the BO from all the "dance moves".

2. Swing City

Location: VFW of Cambridge, Cover: $10 (Fridays only), Attire: casual, Bar: sufficient

Ok... so it is a pain to get to, and I definitely wouldn't call this the "in-crowd", but it was fun, and I was not at any point that there was a man in the room I couldn't beat-up if I really needed to. Another rule: never say no to a dance... this is a tough one, as not all of the men are... well, dry. There is a lot of sweating, but it is worth it. Most of the men are a lot of fun and want nothing more than a dance. My favorite were the really old, short, fat men that didn't speak any English. I have to admit that I laughed the whole night, and even the worst of these men would have held a door open for you.

Thursday night before I flew to Oakland, I met up with Jen for dinner and drinks. Dinner! Yum! We went to Father's Office, which I had been dying to go to for forever because they apparently have Very Good Burgers. These are not your classic hamburgers, but rather burgers with caramelised onions, gruyere, Maytag blue cheese, arugula, and an applewood bacon compote. Scrumptious. Fries are served in a cute little grocery cart! And this amazing white sage beer, and I hate beer!

But we're not here to talk about food (Jen has pictures. Bug her for them. I want them too.) You see, at this place you order at the bar and then hover around tables in order to snatch one up. I generally hate this, as I far prefer making reservations for a guaranteed seat. Jen said that this way, you get to meet people. Sure, just like people keep claiming that they can meet people on planes. And no, there were no cute guys to be had (although there was this mean old couple that Jen took pictures of because they were mean!). There were, however, rude guys. This one guy walked in, and I totally recognised him! And I so rarely randomly run into people! Where I knew him from, however, was a bit trickier. From college? No. Grad school? No. Did I meet him at some industry party? No. Shit, did I go out with him once? Thankfully no. No, it turns out he sat next to FB at the wedding we went to over the summer and was in town on business. Small world. He was very nice, and said, "Hey, this is my friend I told you about who lives in LA, you should exhange emails or phone numbers and hang out sometime." See? Nice. His friend, however, came over and said, "I'll never call you and you'll never call me, so why don't we just not exchange numbers?" RUDE. RUDE RUDE RUDE. Obviously he is not in a business where he needs to know how to network, because that's just not kosher. Even if you don't have any intention of calling, you at least go through the motions. Plus, it wasn't like he was all that. No, he was not cute, short, balding, and wearing sneakers with his white athletic socks pulled up to mid-calf and shorts in a bar. Bad form all around. Bad bad form.

After that we zipped across town to Jones for more drinks. (And this is why I only got 2.5 hours of sleep before I flew up to Oakland). Jones is a cute swanky place, with lots of dark wood, dim lighting, couches, and booths. A nice touch are the mirrors angled so that from the bar, you can see any canoodling going on in the booths. Okay, maybe instead of "nice" I should say "voyeuristic". Jen says that George Clooney loves this place, and ah, I would have loved to have seen him. He is so hot for an older man. I would totally sleep with him. Unfortunately, there were no George Clooney sightings but there was this random Israeli guy who grabbed Jen and basically forced her [because I was having no part of this, obviously] to talk to him. Booooooring. Not cute. Looked sort of like Goofy. Drinks were decent, but the crowd was rather dull for a Thursday night. And so we left.

We'll figure out yet where the non-industry cute guys are or die trying.