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. )

[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.

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.

Back in LA! Hate moving! Love alcohol!

I am going to have that put on a bumper sticker.

Anyway, Saturday night was a wonderful reprieve from the mess that is my new apartment, as I met Jen for drinks in the Silverlake area. Our first stop was Mixville at the Edendale Grill, which was [sort of] easily identifable by the fact that it was the only place lit up with Christmas lights on that street. The bar itself was nice - dark woods, dim lighting, awesome ceiling, etcetc. And maybe it was an off night, or perhaps it was because we weren't sitting outside by all the smokers, but it was deader than a doorknob (or however the expression goes) on a Saturday night. Looked to be an early-30s crowd, although I'm none too good with guessing ages. Additionally, it took forever to get service, and heavens to Betsy, they didn't make mint juleps. Okay, while the latter may be forgiveable, the former certainly isn't. Blech.

Isn't it just so frustrating when you pay the valet guy $5 to park the car across the street from you? Sigh.

Since Mixville was just so dead, we decided to zip on over to Good Luck Bar, which I'd been wanting to go to for awhile. Done up to look like a Chinese bordello, there were lots of fruity drinks available. The crowd was interesting - lots of youngish girls, and some just odd guys. For instance - the guy with the muscle tee and the weird armband? As Jen put it, if you can see his pits and manboobs, it's just not good. And what was with the majority of the guys having odd facial hair? Then there was the guy with the puka shell necklace who talked to her about something, but I couldn't really hear, nor did I want in on the conversation, so I focused on my drink which was an interesting combination of coconut rum, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and amaretto. You think it'd be too sweet, but the amaretto does a nice job of not only preventing an overly saccharine drink but also adding a layer of complexity.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find any guys to be mean too - I was just too disinterested in everyone (okay, save the cute tall guy but I kept losing track of him) to even bother. But hey - at least the company I was with, if not the rest - was good! No, better than good!

On my last night out in Boston, we ended up at the Liquor Store, located in that fine part of Boston, the Alley, where holy crap, there were more trashy bachelorette parties than you could shake a stick at. But this isn't so much about the bar itself, which was swelteringly hot and full of people who seemed to think that the floor was their trashcan. No, this is about the fine caliber of Boston men, which mercifully I won't have to deal with anytime in the near future.

The boyfriend? He was on FB's soccer team (yes, I finally got to meet his damn soccer team the day before I left. Good timing on his part. I feel as though this was on purpose, grr.). The reason I put a question mark there is that, well, he had a girlfriend. However, he spent about 95% of his time dancing (or grinding) with other girls. Were I her, I'd have been really mad and would've smacked him upside the head because four hours of beer pong does not make for a good excuse for ignoring one's significant other.

The fishers. There was a small elevated platform in the club, and these guys stood at the edge of it, perusing the crowd all night while attempting sad dance moves. Just as if they were fishing for girls. It was rather amusing watching them. I guess it worked, because later on I saw a couple of them with their fresh catches of the night.

The molester. Otherwise known as the Orange Shirt guy, because that's what he was wearing that night. Initially, he was amusing. Totally balls-to-the-wall, he was this crazy dancing maniac who would grab you for a quick spin. However, as the night wore on, and he got drunker (and ew sweatier, but that's not entirely his fault as it was soooo not climate controlled, the cheapskates), he progressed from being a mere dancing fiend to hello, sketchy grabby guy that I would have smacked or kneed in the groin had he not also been on FB's soccer team. I was fine with the close dancing. I was okay with the proximity to the sweatiness. I, however, was neither fine nor okay with the ass-grabbing, for it wasn't just ass-grabbing but more like ass-massaging in conjunction with a bad case of wandering hands. And I finally left when he full on tried to kiss me, and when that didn't work went for my cheek, and then my neck, and I was scared that he was next going to aim for my cleavage. FB? Not such a good protector, poophead.

The funny guy. Okay, this guy was actually decent and was perhaps the best guy of the night. No, definitely the best part of the night. He was my friend's financial advisor's friend (say that five times fast!). He was amusing and chatty, but the best part? I don't know how this came up, but I dared him to dance with the bouncer who was standing at one corner of the platform. "What's in it for me?" he asked. "You can say a girl dared you to dance with the bouncer and you did it," I replied. "From the back or front?" he inquired. "Front!" I answered, because hello, dancing with the bouncer from the back would have surely earned him a jab to the solar plexus, if not worse. Then the guy walked away, and I was like, hrm, am I that boring? That is so sad - besides, it's my domain to be the walker-awayer. But no, he went over and stood about 8 inches from the bouncer, facing him, and started to dance. The bouncer said nary a word, but instead quickly moved to another part of the platform as if his feet were on fire. I couldn't stop laughing. It was great.