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.

Swing Club

It is our practiced opinion that swing clubs are a bad idea. Good ones might exist. We’ve only been to one, though the experience was sufficiently horrifying that we’ll never try another. My wife and I had found one online that looked promising. Their website was terribly designed and constructed, though it contained incredibly thorough information about the establishment. No pictures of patrons were included, as that would be indiscreet and in very bad taste. The interior of the building itself was, however, thoroughly documented, photographically. The various rooms looked a little goofy, but by what I could gather, were very clean and well-maintained. It was a secluded two-story house that had had its interior converted for the purpose of housing sprawling orgies. No exterior pictures were provided. It cost $50 per couple per night. The elaborate rules were all appropriate, made sense, and were laid out explicitly. Located in Irwin, it was a substantial distance from our place. On one summer Saturday evening, we decided to go.

The drive was long. Finding the place was relatively simple and consisted of big main roads, until the final few miles. The final few miles to the place were all through heavily wooded back roads. Houses were separated by no less than a mile each. We didn’t see many on our way there. It was late. There was no remaining sunlight and no streetlights. We drove through pitch-black woods until we found the place. The house looked like any other, except for the long gravel driveway filled with what must have been about a dozen and a half different vehicles of varying expense. There were a few decrepit-looking domestic compact cars, a new-looking BMW, and just about everything in between. At the entrance our IDs were checked. Our money was taken. Our shoes were removed – I’m not exactly sure why. The tour started immediately. Just around the corner of the entrance there was a hot tub. Nobody was in it, though it bubbled and looked inviting. All of the patrons whom we had seen entering thus far, as well as the couple who hosted the event, looked to be well over 40. This was a little discouraging, though we maintained hope that we’d find some people our age somewhere in the rest of the building. There was a meager bar and refrigerator in the connecting hallway. The contents of both were generously offered without reservation. Just past the bar were two large rooms that must have been living or family rooms back when the house served a more familial purpose. The one room had a giant TV with porn playing on it and a great number of people watching. We got a lot of stares as we walked through.

We were becoming more and more aware of a trend in the demographic that comprised the clientèle that filled this place. At the time, we were both 24. The next youngest patrons looked to be about 20 years older than us. Moreover, none of them appeared to be in very good physical condition. I won’t go into merciless detail, but suffice to say there weren’t any marathon runners or gymnasts in the house that evening. Compounding the discrepancy in age and physique between the other patrons and us was the discrepancy in general appearance. This is not to say that anybody had poor hygiene or was badly dressed but that the cultural divide between my wife and I and everybody else under the roof was very pronounced. Beyond this, most of the women were wearing various types of lingerie and the men were wearing robes or just boxer shorts. My wife and I were still fully clothed, though we were each wearing our nicest, most form-fitting attire. Walking through these two rooms was like walking a gauntlet. Other than the gracious hosts providing the tour, nobody said anything to us. I could see all of the women glaring angrily at my wife and all of the men looking at her like a piece of raw meat. It was very funny. I laughed silently to myself. At that moment, I knew that we wouldn’t be taking any of our clothes off at any point under that roof. I reconciled myself to that fact and simply began to view the experience as a sort of gonzo sociology adventure. At the end of the TV room, there were stairs that led up to the other rooms. Our hosts led us up and showed us each of the themed rooms. Christmas lights were strung up the stairs and down the length of every corridor. They were all basically bedrooms, with minimal decorations and a bed or beds in the center of each. There was also a “dungeon” with a sex swing in the middle of it.

Further lessons in etiquette and detailed explanations of the rooms were provided. A fully closed door was to remain undisturbed. A partially closed door was safe to peer through but not to enter. A fully open door could be entered at will. If people happened to be screwing on a bed in a room with an open door that meant that you could enter and watch the proceedings. If you wanted to participate in what was happening, you were to place a hand on the edge of the bed and wait for an invitation. If none was given, you were not to invite yourself further. Fortunately, we didn’t see any sex happening anywhere. Not so much as an errant tit. Contrary to our hopes, though in line with our suspicions, the people upstairs were no younger or fitter than the people downstairs. They were, however, much friendlier. The people upstairs seemed much more interested in keeping us around and talking. Fortunately, nobody propositioned us, though a few did corner us and talk to us for a while. They were all very nice.

After a while, we made our way back downstairs and decided to make a move for the door. When we had entered, the hosts were very emphatic about their no re-entry policy. Once you leave, you can’t come back that night. We were ready to accept those consequences. We made our way back down through the gauntlet, past the bar and the still empty hot tub to the entrance area. Once our shoes were on, we were out the door and across the parking lot to our car. When we were about halfway through the lot, I saw the male host emerge from the door. He was wearing a robe now and didn’t say anything as he watched us leave. I wondered silently to whom the BMW belonged. We drove quite quickly through woods, possessed of an irrational fear that somebody might be following us.

Drinking Holidays

Fuck Cinco De Mayo. I don’t mean that to be rude or offensive. I think Mexican people are cool. I think Mexican culture is cool. I think Mexican immigrants are cool. I think Mexican food is really cool. I completely dig Cinco De Mayo, but I hate drinking holidays. More specifically, I hate amateur drinking holidays. St. Patrick’s Day can go get fucked too. It’s a day when your favorite bars will be full of asses who don’t know how to drink but want to pretend that they do. Every bar will be filled with binging middle-aged accountants and Jimmy Buffet fans wearing plastic green hats, getting drunk, telling stories and acting stupid. It will be full of frat boys wearing every stitch of green clothing that they own, establishing the foundations of the lame stories that they’ll embellish and retell later, after they've become binging middle-aged accountants and Jimmy Buffet fans wearing plastic green hats. These fratboys will be there, crowding the space and ruining the ambiance for what could have been a decent night to get buzzed.

I drink like a fish. I don’t need holidays to motivate me. It seems like drinking holidays are just excuses for affluent Caucasians to bar-hop and be obnoxious. The real face of a degenerate parasite is a blue-blooded motherfucker who gets riled up about illegal immigrants and illegal aliens, then puts on a novelty sombrero for a day, gets drunk in public, and acts like ass. OLE!

Three Cunts

There are three cunts at the bar and only one of them is a woman. The other two are men. They were here first and then this woman showed up. They are all friends. She has just bought a new pair of shoes and she is ecstatic. She loves her new shoes so much that she has taken them out of the bag, out of the box, removed the white tissue paper wrapping, and flopped them on the bar for all to see. Apparently, they are the most comfortable shoes in the world. I immediately begin to despair, as I now know that the most comfortable shoes in the world can never belong to me, and that has been one of my lifelong aspirations. Goddamn my luck. Regardless, the other two cunts begin to fawn over her new shoes. They’re gay men. Generally, I’m a big fan of gay men. I tend to be a big fan of anything that challenges or offends tepid, mainstream Christian American values. These two are cunts, however, because they’re shallow, catty, prissy, bitchy, and condescending. Those qualities are repulsive in anybody. I don’t believe that sexual orientation excuses that sort of bullshit. Man or woman, doesn’t matter. I’ve been listening to them talk and now they’re fueling the diluted, content-free, rented identity of this woman. She’s young and pretty and she’s got a few tasteful tattoos on her ankle. They’re some sort of Asian calligraphic symbols. She’s not Asian and I seriously doubt that Asian culture means that much to her. The small tasteful tattoos are absolutely inane. They’re a fashion accessory. Literally translated, they mean, “Fuck you, Japan. We bombed you silly about 50 years ago, and now we’re going to steal and bastardize your culture. It makes me feel enlightened. Would you like fries with that? Please pull around.” She’s also got a hemp necklace containing big, brightly colored glass beads, and a pair of expensive sunglasses worn atop her head to hold back her curly brown hair. Everything the gay men are wearing is expensive, nondescript, and not worth listing. The three of them are complaining about a “frumpy” woman at the gym, who often smells bad and wears ridiculous, unkempt clothes. Everybody at this bar is pretentious and cancerous. I want to cover them with gasoline and burn them all alive. They’re not looking down at this end of the bar. I suspect it’s because they hate us and we don’t belong here. We would not come here if they didn’t have such great beer and pizza at such great prices. It’s so cheap, and so ironic, given that this bar is located in the most expensive part of town. It’s a very posh neighborhood and I guess that explains the clientele. They’re rich, pretentious, bitchy, shallow pieces of shit who have never worked or suffered. They have no permanent sense of identity or lasting content. They’re rented. High rent, but rented. Fortunately, there’s an Internet jukebox with lots of Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Kiss, and I have lots of small bills.

Art Directors

There is at least one breed of person that natural selection should have weeded out long ago: the art director. It would seem to me that self-importance is the drug of choice for these creatures. In that way, they have a lot in common with pigs. Pigs, however, do occasionally use their self-importance to serve and protect the community. An art director’s self-importance is only there for the purpose of protecting his right to make six figures without tangible qualification, and sport expensive pre-worn jeans, vintage t-shirts, generic tattoos, ridiculous glasses and retro haircuts. An art director is a hack who is generally creative, in a nebulous, useless kind of way, and lacks the vision and/or fortitude to be an honest artist. None of them have soul. They just want to look like they do, which is appropriate given the nature of their profession.