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2007-08-01 - 1:09 a.m.

The thing of it is, you know where you should go. You’ve been in town for nearly five years, and you know the best bars in the neighborhood. The ones where the bartenders buy you a beer after a couple rounds, and the rounds themselves don’t jump up over four bucks. You know.

They’ve got a smoking garden. They dutifully play all the big ball games. The music doesn’t suck. (That’s the most you can ask for.) And the company is generally good; the company of friends. At worst, they don’t make you want to reach for a shotgun.

You’ve been there.

But then, you take the call to attend a meeting spot and join a collective of theoretically similar minds. Someone posts a celebration and given the gravity of the event, you attend some odd new-fangled establishment, in hopes of nestling into a comfortable pocket of like minded individuals.

Say a pitcher for your favorite team going for his three-hundredth win.

Say a new bar, precariously close to a hipster Mecca that makes your ego crawl.

Say a bar where your usual crap beer is something around the range of six goddamn mother fucking dollars.

Never mind that your team wasn’t able to provide enough run support to get said pitcher his historic win. Never mind that they end up losing in thirteen grinding innings. Never mind that you dropped fifteen bucks on two beers with tip.

Never mind all of that.

My mind is left with a single quandary after tonight’s debacle, in this foreign land.

Let me put it to you this way...In my bar, late at night on a Tuesday, you can expect the weary teachers from down the block, and maybe a few bar flies sticking to the pine because of some heavily debated social-economic boiler plate. (Aka, ‘is the Simpsons movie worth the twelve years of wait, or simply an extended episode pegged for greater returns than that of thirty minutes worth of commercials?') Maybe a few kids from the local film school wander in and toss back some beers after a late night of shooting. Everyone’s informal, or at least, have un-tucked their shirts and tucked their ties away in tucked attaché cases.

That’s the way it is.

It’s fucking Tuesday.

Now, I grant you, at this untested venue, there were collectives with boys in t-shirts, and girls and ratty ass tank-tops; a few spots at the bar with people of both genders flapping their loosened button downs to get some air against their sweating, humid chests.

But, why, I ask you why, are there women and men who have obviously showered, styled and shellacked themselves into a semblance of succubi on a goddamn Tuesday?

Strapless dresses? Freshly spiked hair? (No product can sustain that kind of height after an eight hour work day in ninety degree heat.) Stiletto heels? Seriously?

Arriving in a Taxi Cab?!

Are you serious?!

It’s fucking Tuesday!

Maybe I’m just getting old. There doesn’t remain a single show on MTV that doesn’t make me want to trickle gastrointestinal juices into my toilet bowl, and a 'quicky' in the bar's bathroom sounds at least two miles south of icky. (Twice this occurred tonight. Twice! In a fucking sports bar. Have we left, at long last, no sense of decency? Maybe, of course, they were just going into a single stalled bathroom to compare tatoos, but the mind does have to ponder, doesn't it?)

Thank god for the man who lost his voice to a tracheotomy, who successfully conned me out of three dollars for a whiskey shot. If it weren’t for him, I’d have never even known it was a weekday. (He was wearing a “Big Johnson” T-shirt, God bless him.)

The night could best be encapsulated as thus:

“So, Smiddicks was six dollars, how much for YingLing?”

“Six…”

“Okay, Smiddicks…”

“Mixed drinks are only seven, though.”

“I’m watching the Mets.”

“Smiddicks it is.”

The mute gentlemen, after much signing, and many scrawls on tattered napkins, threw his hands in the air when he learned his shot of JD was going to cost him three more than what I tendered him. Within moments he was galumphing towards the door mouthing various forms of the word 'fuck.' He should have known better as soon as he saw the dress code. I saw a snake skin belt. I swear to John Stewart Allmighty.

I should have simply attached myself to his coattails and fled, gently bumping shoulders with the twenty something gent in a blazer flashing his newly minted ID at the door.

“Are those fucking wingtips?! It’s TUES-FUCKING-DAY!!!”

You learn. And you go back to where the beer is three dollars.

You know where you should go.

You really should.

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