Jere-Rigged

Hittin' The Bars...But Not Drinkin'

I've spent an inordinate amount of time in bars this week and it's only Tuesday. Well, actually, as I write this, it's early on Wednesday. And nary a drop of alcohol was consumed during my adventures.

Now get this straight...I'm just a mean green mother from outer space, and...no, nevermind, that's not me at all. That's someone entirely different.

What I meant to say was that it's not that I'm not drinking because I'm in the program (not that there's anything wrong with that; I know a bunch of awesome guys in Chicago who are in it) or because I vomited all over the steps at a party or because I got plastered and embarrassed my friends or simply because I just don't like the taste of alcohol. Mercy, no.

I'm not drinking at the moment because I just don't have the money to pay for the liquor. In the past, I would just stay away from the bars, but I began to realize that most of my friends hang out in bars and staying away simply because I's po' was seriously inhibiting my social life.

It's not as awful as it might sound. The worst part of it is not the lack of alcohol, but rather the lack of a prop. As many actors will tell you, it's sometimes difficult to figure out what to do with one's hands and I've often envied non-actors for their unstudied, unself-conscious way of just doing any old thing with these sometimes-awkward instruments and not caring how they look when they do it. I'm usually looking about at everyone else's posture and position in order to counter for some unseen audience as if my life was a Neil Simon play and one amongst my group of friends could, at any moment, turn to address those little people out there in the dark with a monologue.

But I digress...

What I mean to say is that, while hanging about in a bar, it can be very useful to have a glass in front of you. It gives you an excuse to divert your attention elsewhere for a moment if necessary and take a breather from the conversation. Or it gives you something to concentrate on if you're suddenly left out of the conversation or if the couple(s) next to you start making out.

Sometimes, when I'm not drinking, I will have someone heading to the bar also get me a glass of water. This solves my props issue, but the thing is that I dislike simply going to the bar and requesting water on my own, because it always makes me feel slightly awkward to be requesting something that doesn't cost anything. I'm much more comfortable if someone who can afford to drink also happens to pick up the water for me when buying his or her own beverage. At least something's going in the till.

Also, I know what you're thinking and no. In general, my friends do not buy me drinks, nor would I expect them to do so. My friends are, in general, not all that well off themselves and, while they may be able to afford their own liquor, can't really support me in a similar endeavour. So they don't offer and I don't expect it. Which is perfectly fine, believe me.

But I do accept drinks from strangers, in the rare instances when they are offered. I don't turn down free liquor. And don't think I'm going home with you just for buying me a drink either. If that's what you're looking for, then keep that tequila coming, darlin', and we'll see. And if the bar serves food, it wouldn't hurt your case if some wings or mozzerella sticks or nachos or even a burger suddenly appeared along with that margarita or shot or whatever. You never know if I've eaten that day or not and I never turn down food either. I still might not go home with you, but I will definitely thank my lucky stars for the benevolent angel who crossed my path that night. And that would be you. Aren't YOU lucky?

On Sunday, David was in town from one of those red states out in the middle somewhere and I was so happy that he called me to come hang out. I met him in a West Village bar on Christopher Street called Pieces, to which I'd never been. I was happy to see that Matt and Jeff were also there because it's always fun to see them too.

The men at Pieces were all over David like yellowjackets on an open can of Mountain Dew. These guys were (literally) tripping over me to get to him and after the fourth or fifth time this happened, I think I was declared officially invisible. Not that there was anyone there that I would have been interested in (my table excluded, of course), but it would have been nice if the guys had even spared me enough of a glance to verify my position and not trip over my size 12 Sketchers, thank you very much.

After Matt and Jeff left us, David and I adjourned to The Duplex, not my favorite bar ever, but David was in from out of town and I wasn't going to argue the point (too much). We were soon joined by Mike, but the highlight of that stop on the West Village Gay Bar Tour started before he even arrived.

David and I found a table upstairs and, almost immediately, I was targeted for flirting by a really cute, really drunk guy named Joe, who was wearing the popular "New Jersey: Only The Strong Survive" tee shirt. In addition to my new boyfriend, Poor Drunk Joe, David started a flirtation with Rafael, the Minature Puerto Rican.

Poor Drunk Joe proceeded to tell me how cute I was, how adorable, blah blah blah. (I wonder why it's only the really drunk guys who say these things?) He started feeling me up a little bit, which is usually fine. I don't mind a little touchy-feely in a bar, as long as pain isn't being inflicted and I don't feel threatened or repelled by the person's presence. We kissed at some point and my response to this was, "Hmmm...scotch."

PDJ then came right out with it and asked me if I wanted to have sex. I said that I'd love to have sex, but that I was there with my friend (David was watching this exchange with amusement) and, besides, I didn't think he was in any shape to be having sex.

But, let's be clear here...Had PDJ even been slightly lucid or if I had been there alone, it might have happened. He really was cute. Although, chances are that he would have passed out the moment we got horizontal anyway.

And David discovered at some point that Rafael, the Minature Puerto Rican, was faking it. It seems that the guy was from the Bronx or somewhere and didn't even speak Spanish, which would make him Nuyorican at best. David, a real-life Puerto Rican from Puerto Rico, didn't care for that.

Oh, and there was also the "straight" guy (or so he kept insisting) who was also quite hammered, but who kept coming to talk to us. I never did get his name. The Green Lantern, who was tending bar in a kilt, had to intervene with this guy several times and almost threw him out. He was pretty amusing though.

Anyhow, Mike did eventually join us and we went downstairs and grabbed a table there where we enjoyed the deafening sounds of the staff singing pop and the occasional show tune with a microphone turned up high, even though the room is only slightly bigger than my apartment.

Then it was off to Marie's Crisis, which was not hosting a particularly exciting crowd that evening. There were a lot of people taking solos and way too much Frank Wildhorn coming from the piano player. Though the place is usually a really good time, we didn't last long before heading next door to Rose's Turn, where, as we entered, a waitress was screeching something from Les Miserables, I think.

And that was it for me. Put a fork in me, I was done. And it was 2.30 in the fucking morning on a work night. But I was so happy to spend a little time with David, who doesn't come to town often, that I didn't care.

Tonight, I made the trek to the Lower East Side to the monthly WYSIWYG Talent Show at P.S. 122. It was a terrific program, as usual, and I must particularly laud the talents of MAK and Faustus, who never disappoint.

And there were, to quote Ann Reinking as Roxie Hart, "a whole BUN-CHA boys" (It's not as effective if you don't know the lady's voice; imagine Kathleen Turner with a cold. Or go out and get the original cast album of the Chicago revival...you'll see.) there that I knew, so I didn't have to sit all by myself as usual.

Not to go all Romper Room on your ass, but Mike was there and JP and Jon were there, as well as Matt and Jeff, and Michael. I also saw MAK's other half, K, and Byrne, though I was not sitting with either of them.

Afterward, we headed over to the Phoenix, another gay bar to which I'd never been. It was pleasant and divey, which is great. Love that in a bar. Best of all, there was no boom boom boom beat working its evil way into my soul from dance music being played way too loudly for comfort and conversation. Someone at the Phoenix must have noticed that they have no dance floor; I wish they'd pass the word to their breathren in Hell's Kitchen.

It was a really fun evening. Amongst other things there was a discussion with Jon about the various merits of farce and a funny misunderstanding with Mike when he mistook the word "acidic" for "Hassidic." Talk about farce...

Also, my raucous laughter continues to draw attention. It's all from the diaphragm, Jeff.

Posted by Jere at June 22, 2005 12:53 AM | TrackBack