Number 6…sorta

Oh blog. How I’ve neglected you!

I am obviously behind schedule, but life calls. Between maybe getting another job and preparing to move and planning the rest of my life and working and being addicted to really embarrassing shit on Facebook, I just haven’t had the time. But I have not given up on this spiritual quest. I’m just going to have to spend a month or two drunk at some point is all.

Nevertheless, I did somehow miss a bar I visited three weeks ago. On Halloween I went to Blueberry Hill to meet friends, making it really like number 3 or 4, but we’ll just say it’s number 6.

So I’m getting off work and it’s been a slow night for obvious reasons. Who wants to eat Italian small plates when you can go to parties and bars and celebrate National Dress Like A Whore Day? (I had an early preview at Bar Italia, which you can skim over a couple of posts back.) I sent out some exploratory text messages to the usual suspects, trying to see if anything was afoot. There was a contingent of people at Blueberry Hill and it looked as though I would be able to arrive there around 11:30. This is on a Friday night, remember.

There are times in my life when I question the choices I have made. I look at the people who I know and love and I see how they have a nice car, or medical coverage, and I spend an evening wondering whether or not I should try to go back to school or take some other road to a normal, 9-to-5, Monday-thru-Friday existence.

Then there are nights when park in the loop at 11:45 and recieve a text as I am stepping out of the car that everyone is going home because they are tired. These are all people aged roughly 28-to-32 years, which is not particularly old. None of them have children. They just were tired and went home on a Friday night during a usually fun holiday with no reason to get up early the next day. So yeah, thanks for giving me a reason to reassess those late night yearnings for responsibility and order.

Mr. “3 Ounces Of Responsibilty” was supposed to meet up with me as well, but he also bailed. His reasons for bailing were related to getting laid, and therefore no grudge can be held.

Anyhoo, I did manage to convince my good friend Kevin to ditch the early birds and return to Joe Edwards’ establishment. We talked politics, and when the Hill closed we relocated to the ever dependable Mangia and bumped into Monsieurs Sean and John and talked more politics. The night ended up being far from a total loss.

We’ll see what time I can get out of work tomorrow night. I need money, but I might need drinking and loud music more.

Numbers 3, 4 and 5

#3 – Bar Italia, Central West End

#4 – Mia Rosa, The Grove

#5 – Dog Prairie Tavern, St. Paul, MO

I should have just written about these 3 bars sooner and then I wouldn’t have to tax my stupid brain. I think Bar Italia was on Monday, 10/27. Mia Rosa was last Friday or Saturday night, 11/1 or 11/2, and the Dog Prairie Tavern was earlier this week, on Sunday the 2nd.

Bar Italia ended up on the list because that is where Meredith’s restaurant was holding their Halloween party. I dressed up as the kind of person who would never want to voluntarily attend a party at Bar Italia. Actually, although I am sure I will return there before this year is up, I could live quite comfortably without ever really visiting the Central West End. I don’t make enough money, I don’t have pricey enough clothing, I don’t go tanning, and I am not ambiguous about my sexuality. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. That part of town just isn’t my scene. There was a time in my life when I would try to blend in to those kinds of surroundings; but the blend was really never successful and the music they play in those places sucks anyway. (I was in Mangia on a random night last week and they were playing album cuts from Outkast’s ATLiens. The last time I had been to the CWE was to go to a club named Mandarin where the music was 20 seconds of a Notorious BIG song, poorly faded into 20 seconds of some awful radio bullshit, poorly blended into 20 seconds of an unintentionally hilarious dance remix of Aerosmith. But I digress…)

There’s one thing that is both wonderful and not about Halloween and that is that many (most?) girls use it as an excuse to dress like a tramp. No matter what the costume is, it’s the sexy version of the costume. I’m not just a nurse, I’m a naughty nurse. I’m not just an alligator, I’m a sexy alligator. At this party, there was a sexy mariachi/cantina/Mexican girl, a sexy police lady, a sexy Harry Potter student, sexy military personnell, and at least 17 sexy cats.

Anyway, I mostly stayed out of the way. Then I had to take a phone call and spent 45 minutes in a quieter room off the dance floor area.

Mia Rosa could be considered a cop out, I suppose, since I work there and all. But I actually rarely drink there. On busy nights, we are entitled to a shift drink and I was known to stick around a month ago or so. But honestly, our beer selection sucks and I’m usually eager to get home and do nothing or meet up with friends and a far more entertaining venue. Last weekend, though, after a rough night and waiting for my ride, I did sit at the bar and sip a skunky beer. It was fine. Come visit the place sometime, jerks!

The Dog Prairie Tavern almost qualifies as a road trip bar. St. Paul, Missouri is a tiny community nestled between the most rural outskirts of O’Fallon and the middle of fucking nowhere. My sister, my mother, my brother, his wife, their son and I were there to attend a benefit for the family of my step-uncle, who had recently passed away from lung cancer. I was semi-close to the family in my childhood and adolescence, but had seen them perhaps twice in the last ten years. So it was a sad occasion, but only vaguely so. I saw and spoke to a few people I hadn’t for many years, saw a couple more who I wish I still hadn’t seen, and got to hang out with my family, so it was ok. I did my job as uncle, whipping my toddler nephew into a frenzy just in time for his parents to have to restrain him in the car for what I am sure was a long ride home. I talked to a girl whose boobs I touched when we were both around thirteen. And despite the fact that we were in a place where Bud Light surged through the bloodstream of anyone who ever set foot inside the doors, I managed to find a couple of O’Fallon Wheat beers hiding in the deepest regions of the cooler.

So I needed to visit an average of 8 bars a month and I managed only five in the first few weeks. Some stepping up will need to occur.