Chameleon Junction

This bar is like a third world country. It’s hot. They have about half a dozen ceiling fans and only two appear to be working. Each fan has a combination of three differently colored light bulbs, selected from any of the following options: red, blue, green, purple, or white. Some of the fans are missing paddles. They all have a thick crust of dust accumulated on them, as though they were batter-dipped and deep-fried in dust. There is a disco ball in the center of the ceiling and it’s either broken or simply not turned on. Xmas lights have been strung over anything that will accommodate them. One of those things is a giant series of mirrors on the right wall. Four large, square mirrors, each about three feet across, all side-by-side, with all their edges traced with Xmas lights. The music is terrible. We got suckered into coming down here to see somebody’s band play. It’s all bad. Everything. The bar is impoverished. They have a small handful of moderate-quality booze sitting on a fold-out banquet table behind the bar. Three taps, all bad. Fifty-cent drafts of chilled piss. No food. The bartenders are mutants, like everybody in here. Fifteen years back in time and just slightly deformed. There are lots of posters of girls with big tits, bad beer, and race cars. My head is somewhere else entirely. I’m furious that I’m even here. Cranky as a child and tired, I’m a prisoner at the end of a fucked-up gravel road, under an overpass, in the middle of the goddamn woods, watching high school garage bands embarrass themselves.

The Firehouse Lounge

The three flights of carpeted stairs leading up to this place are crooked. As I climb them, it occurs to me how difficult it will be to walk back down them later, when I’m hammered. I will need to be careful when that time comes. The lounge is on the third floor of this building and I have no idea what’s on the other floors. Don’t care. The front of the lounge is comprised of three enormous, arched windows. The sun isn’t completely down yet, and it’s flooding the place with a warm pink glow. I feel like I’m standing inside a giant, gaping, square vagina. The bar is top notch, like everything here, other than the corny paintings of palm trees on the wall. No idea what that’s about. Everything else is great. Couches everywhere. Big cushions. Excellent interior design decisions abound. Everybody dressed nicely, except me. I don’t belong here. Fortunately for me, I don’t give a shit. Impressing corny, vain jackasses is not an aspiration of mine. It’s my friend Dana’s birthday and I will be drinking…a lot. Our waitress is stunning. She’s a black girl, about 5’7.” She’s got a nose ring hanging in the center of her face like a door knocker. Normally that looks bad on girls, but it’s cute on her. She’s got dreadlocks, about two feet long. Some are dyed pink or bleached white. There are lots of nice tattoos on her arms. They’re not overcrowded with them, just spaced out tastefully. The DJ is spinning nothing but funk, soul, and R&B hits of the '60s, '70s, and '80s. Everywhere our waitress walks, she’s dancing and smiling. I don’t know if it’s a strategy to get tips or if it’s a sincere expression of joy. I don’t care. She is amazing. She can rotate her hips like a belly dancer, and smile like it’s all she knows how to do. There are lots of other girls here but she stands out. My wife is talking with Dana and I’m making small talk with various other people. I don’t really know them all that well but we’ve got friends in common. It’s a good night. The gym will be closed tomorrow morning, so I don’t have to wake up and go there. I can stay out later than usual and drink more than usual. I just need to be able to make it down those crooked fucking stairs.

John’s Going Away Party

Steve is doing lines off the table and pulling on my nipples, trying to figure out the gauge of the rings I’ve got in them. I can’t figure him out. Karl is a good guy, but can’t argue to save his life. He has failed to convince me that there is a God or that I should care about football. My wife is enduring everything with remarkable patience. She has stepped into the god debate with Karl and has alleviated me of that burden. John and I are both very drunk and he’s decided to pick up where Karl left off. He doesn’t necessarily want to convince me that any god(s) exist but that it’s at the very least possible. He argues much better than Karl, though I’m still not buying it. Jimmy is an asshole with no reasons or stories, so fuck him. He’s not compelling. There are two other guys here. I don’t know their names but they’re nice. One of them understands Sartre and just explained him to John much better than I did. It’s been a few years since I’ve read Sartre and he’s difficult enough to grasp when he’s fresh in your mind and you’re totally sober. All the whiskey in my belly has rendered me Sartre-proof. We’ve toasted a lot of things here tonight: Hunter Thompson, France, Iron Maiden, John’s fiancé, and my wife. Our conversations have sprawled long and wildly, like a stripper’s legs. We’ve left god, found art and music, semantics, then more booze, then my wife. I thought she might show all our friends her tits, but didn’t. I don’t suspect that she’s drunk enough for that. I think everybody’s a little disappointed. I’m still encouraging her, though. I wish my friend from work was here. I would proposition her again. I’m sure she still wouldn’t sleep with me, but it would be fun to try. It would be fun to make her mildly uncomfortable. It’s not a difficult task but it’s always rewarding. That’s how people grow. She’s a great person, very moral. Tonight, I’m an engine, all internal combustion and torque. I don’t drive. I’m driven.

A Miscellaneous Asshole

I can see that you’re an asshole from 15 feet away, before you open your mouth or rise from your barstool. Here are the clues that tipped me off. You’re wearing a cabbie hat, ridiculous glasses, expensive pre-worn jeans, distressed pre-worn t-shirt, and expensive European-looking shoes. You’ve also got a perfectly groomed, fancy goatee,which implies that you enjoy shaving a little too much. You’re not actually gay but you want to look like you are. Add to that the cheap, shitty beer you’re drinking, despite the fact that you clearly have money. You just want to look like you don’t. You are obviously pretty vain and concerned about your appearance, as evidenced by the items listed above. However, you’re apparently not so concerned that you would do the physically demanding, painful work and/or disciplined dieting required to lose your baby fat. Doubtless, you hold women to physical standards that you don’t apply to yourself. You are not a man. You are a big boy with no permanent identity, imitating what you see on TV.

My 27th Birthday

She’s trying to show off “the goods” in the best possible light. That light is alcohol, neon, and Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” I’m lit and nursing a double of Maker’s Mark on the rocks. She wants to pick up some mediocre shithead with no sense of identity. She might not realize it but that’s what she’s shopping for here. It’s not her fault. It’s not what she explicitly wants. That’s just all there are - mediocre shitheads. And there are a lot of them. We’ve come to the right place for that. Shallow, pretentious, fashionista wannabes, art school flunkies, assorted failures, and miscellaneous people that don’t realize they live in Pittsburgh. Motherfucking Pittsburgh.She’s absolutely beautiful, though. She always is. I don’t need to be drunk to see that, but I am anyway. She undercut herself when she walked into this bar. She fancies herself some sort of party girl or socialite. Which, of course, she isn’t. We work together and are friends. My wife is here too. My wife’s the driver and she’s not oblivious, drinking, or jealous. She knows. She has given me her blessing, as I would never pursue “the goods” without it. Given that, I haven’t lost the pursuit yet, but she’s above sleeping with a married man. Though she knows I’m attracted to her and I believe the feeling is mutual.