Whether it’s TV, music, movies, or food/drink, I get a kick out of the bottom
rung. So if you’re serving runny Mexican cheese made in someone’s bathtub, I’ll
enjoy it. God-awful synth-pop music of the 80’s? No problem. Urkel marathon on
TV? Bring it on. I don’t actively seek out these things, but I do like trying to
figure out how their creators could miss the mark by such a wide margin.
This power has come in handy at times. Once, I was on a long flight, and the
movies being shown were Inspector Gadget and Jack Frost. Truly,
that’s a double bill dreamed up by Satan himself. But whereas everyone else
groaned and tried to pass the time by reading the back of airsickness bags, I
settled in to enjoy the appalling antics of Matthew Broderick and Michael
Keaton.
"Cougarhood is a natural stage of a woman’s development,
somewhere between early adulthood and menopause."
A few years ago, I began
to question what this said about me. Maybe it’s not right that I
enjoy things that everyone else hates. Am I simply finding comedy in
the crappiness, going through life like a wiseass commentator? Or
was I finding some genuine sliver of value in the inherently
worthless?
I decided to put this ability to the test. By now, you should know that one
of my favorite hobbies, besides ostrich polo, is barhopping. And my hometown has
dozens, if not hundreds of really classy, fun joints where the atmosphere is
friendly, the drinks are tasty, and there’s plenty of cleavage to stare at
through the bottom of an empty pint glass.
But there are also bars so horrible, they’re only discussed in a hushed
whisper. And you would never, ever seriously consider going to one of
them, unless you were being forced at knifepoint by an escaped mental patient. I
resolved to seek out these places on the world’s worst bar crawl. I might not
make it back alive, but at least I’d discover if my standards were... well...
substandard.
For this night of self-induced punishment, I enlisted the company of three
close friends: Mike, Matt, and Moose (this bar crawl brought to you by the
letter “M”). If those names sound odd, I’ll remind my American readers that
approximately 1 in 12 Canadians is nicknamed “Moose.” And when they showed up at
my door, I was far less concerned with alliteration than with what they were
wearing.
Since the stated aim of the bar crawl was to experience the worst of the
worst, they decided we should dress the part. To that end, they bought the
cheapest, nastiest, most mismatched clothes imaginable. But the critical thing
was that these ensembles were credible. They didn’t look like Halloween
costumes, but something put together by someone who genuinely didn’t know any
better.
In order to articulate how bad these clothes were, this sentence would have
to magically come to life and kick you in the balls. Matt was wearing
grandfatherly blue pants with an extremely faggy electric blue silk shirt. Moose
sported a plaid shirt with a pair of hysterically nightmarish yellow pants. Mike
had on some kind of orange number that was easily visible from space. I had a
good laugh, then I saw what they brought for me.
Coming in at under 5 bucks was a black and white checkerboard pattern silk
shirt, made of material so thin, you could see each and
every one of my back hairs poking out when I put it on. Add to that a pair
of green pants that left nothing to the imagination. We all looked like Israeli
pimps, but anyone who saw me in those pants could tell I was the Jewish one.
Our first destination was a little bar called The Red Lantern, located not
100 steps from my building. Normally, a neighborhood pub is a real boon, but
having this place around sent property values plummeting, I’m sure. Everything
about The Red Lantern was designed to be as unwelcoming as possible, from the
dilapidated interior to the equally dilapidated clientele.
It’s also kind of a rough place. The regulars were a working class lot, and I
think I remember someone wearing an honest-to-god eye patch. I began wondering
how we managed to find the cantina from fucking Mos Eisley. The bar went dead
silent as we entered. People didn’t know what to make of us. That was fine by
me, as long as they didn’t settle on “sodomy partners.”
Looking for all the world like a quartet of gay rodeo clowns, we made our way
to a table. The waitress on duty was a gravelly-voiced veteran who’d seen it
all, and probably wouldn’t hesitate to stick a shiv in you at the first sign of
trouble. We ordered some drinks and decided to play a game of pool, all the
better to cover up the sniggering.
The pool table was a real gem, replete with scratched felt, mysterious
surface lumps, and what appeared to be gravy stains, though I didn’t investigate
that too closely. Also problematic was the fact that one too few balls emerged
when we fed the table enough quarters. I was in favor of finding the manager,
but Mike pointed out to me that it’s usually better to avoid situations where
you’re likely to be impaled by a cue stick.
So, after a game of newly-invented “handicap(ped) pool” we ordered a few more
rounds. In keeping with the theme, I was drinking the worst, cheapest beer
available. I won’t name names, and I hope the Anheuser-Busch company appreciates
that. I had one last quarter left over from Handi-Pool, so I decided to drop it
into a Pac-Man machine. Of course The Red Lantern would have Pac-Man.
With arcade games getting more and more complicated, it was nice to see an
old standby from my childhood. Besides, I really identify with Pac-Man.
Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in a maze. When I get really fucked up, ghosts
chase me. And occasionally, I eat some fruit. We’re two of a kind. This machine
wasn’t a stand-up model, but one of those tabletop deals, with cigarette burns
and a greasy joystick for added pleasure.
Normally, I suck at all video games, but on that night, I was unstoppable.
Old Pac racked up so many points that surely Mrs. Pac-Man gave him one hell of a
blowjob when he got home. Slut. But my friends were too impatient to get to the
next bar. They dragged me out of there, before I could even think of a good
three-letter swear word to enter as my high-score initials.
The next destination was an underground joint called The Lazy Lizard. By
“underground” I don’t mean only the A-Team can find it, but literally beneath
street level. That’s okay, because one drink there will have you praying for the
nearby mercies of hell. The Red Lantern was a dive, but at least it was honest;
the Lazy Lizard seemed to be making a genuine attempt at adequacy, and failing
worse than an Iraqi Olympic bid.
For seating purposes, the owners staggered a few picnic tables as an
afterthought. Hey, my ass doesn’t need a goose-down cushion, but a chair isn’t
an unreasonable expectation at a bar. Moreover, these weren’t even particularly
good picnic tables; I’m talking peeling paint flaking all over the place, rusty
nails sticking out at odd angles, and several carved messages questioning my
mother’s virtue.
The Lazy Lizard’s big draw was an outdoor patio. In other words, the owners
roped off an area outside the front door and hoped for the best. But they must
have forgotten to tell the wait staff about it. Truth is, I’m not sure I saw a
single bartender, waiter or waitress the entire time I was there. Since our sexy
shirts offered more of a visual treat than actual torso warmth, we gave up on
the patio and went inside.
I guess I’ll never know how a bar can remain profitable if there’s no one in
charge to
exchange money for booze. But I must have acquired more alcohol somehow,
because at this point my beer goggles were setting in. And I was only looking at
the picnic tables. Getting one back to my place would have been difficult, but,
oh, the fun we’d have had!
The next stop on our Tour of Doody was a slightly more respectable pub called
Kramer’s. Nowadays, that name evokes images of unwarranted racism, thanks to
Michael Richards. I can safely report that his namesake bar beat him to the
punch by many years. The clientele inside was as white as a West Texas gun club.
Not that our foursome added to the racial diversity. At least our insane clothes
didn’t even seem so out of place.
We soon found the underlying reason for this disparity: Karaoke night. It’s
no stereotype; older white dudes really love to rock out to Neil Diamond and
Barry Manilow. It was like going on safari and confirming that lions do in fact
enjoy the taste of zebra meat. Not much of a revelation, but still kind of
horrifyingly cool to see.
The temptation of karaoke on our Bad Bar Crawl was too good to pass up.
Emboldened by my valiant intake of alcohol, I volunteered for some Revenge
Karaoke, a game that I described in an
earlier article. Basically, I was bound to sing any one song that my friends
could choose for me. I knew the “revenge” part would probably never come, but I
was too wasted to care. I could always just puke on their shoes when the time
was right.
My colleagues had a brief conference, and minutes later, I found myself
belting out a crappy song (Rod Stewart’s “If Ya Think I’m Sexy”), in the middle
of a crappy bar filled with crappy people, wearing crappy clothes, and drunk
from crappy beer. And yet, somehow, it was a great moment.
From there, it was on to the night’s final destination, The Unicorn. This is
a moderately popular place, with cheap drinks, and even a small but lively dance
floor. What qualified it for inclusion in the Crawl of the Damned was the fact
that it’s a known hotspot for woman of, ahem, a more advanced age. And like a
demented Dian Fossey, I was about to study some gorillas in the mist.
Cougarhood is a natural stage of a woman’s development, fitting in somewhere
between early adulthood and menopause. That’s all our best male scientists have
been able to figure out. Maybe there’s some kind of hormonal impulse to seek out
guys whose dads might have rejected you 15 years ago. Don’t get cocky, girls, it
could happen to you, and probably will.
Cougars shouldn’t be a source of amusement, but try telling that to the
45-year-old divorcee crammed into a halter-top designed to hide varicose veins
and mitigate drooping. We weren’t at the Unicorn for 15 minutes before it
happened. The air grew thick with the scent of cheap perfume and desperation. We
felt hungry eyes upon us. And suddenly, Matt and I were cornered by two
past-their-prime specimens.
I won’t lie to you; I was tempted. A formidable amount of alcohol was dulling
my wits and here was a woman made willing and eager by years of loneliness and
neglect, or so I presumed. How bad could it be? Maybe she wasn’t attractive in
the traditional sense, but I bet she could bake a mean cookie, and that should
count for something.
Then, she mentioned something or other about her son’s college major, and I
snapped back to my senses instantly. Most of my readers are college kids, and
it’s hard enough trying to entertain you without having to be a daddy to one of
you. It was time to make good our escape.
Inspired by the tale of Odysseus and the Cyclops, I devised an ingenious
plan. While Matt distracted the leathery monsters, I grabbed two lemon wedges
from the bar. Then, when the time was right, I squeezed those lemons right into
their eyes, temporarily blinding them. We made a run for it, and didn’t stop
until we were safely away. I always knew that mythology would come in handy for
something.
For me, the Bad Bar Crawl was, if nothing else, a night of revelations. My
goals for the evening were to a) get drunk, b) have a good time, c) determine
whether or not my value system was fundamentally flawed, and d) maybe hook up.
In retrospect, 3 for 4 ain’t too bad. That’s how Barry Bonds does on a good
night, and I didn’t even need steroids.
I figured out that tastes are mostly random, and don’t really need to be
questioned or justified. If, like me, you can tolerate RC Cola and Olsen twin
movies, more power to you. Someone has to comprise the lowest common
denominator, and it might as well be us. And when it comes to the truly
important things in life, I prefer the high road to the dirt road.
