couple weeks before christmas

this morning i forewent a 'brunch' with my girlfriend (who in this blog, we will call m.), which created a prodigious hissy fit (sorry, i don't know if anyone else uses that term anymore, so if you don't, insert dummy spit or strop in place of hissy fit) which resulted in an impromptu train ride to philadelphia for a few 'what the fucks' over overpriced beers, otherwise known in the winter season to me as watching football. i found out last season that whenever we had a row (or hissy fit, dummy spit, or a strop) i would unwind the best by yelling at a television screen at rich adults playing a kids game while getting blitzed (drunk, not chased after by 250 lbs+ men) and have continued to use this as a quasi-crutch to hobble myself away from tiff (see above for replacements) after another with m. it's just a coincidence that i took a train into the city last year and ended up (in this blog i will call the bar q. not because i don't want the bar to get some publicity, but the total opposite, i don't want to sully it's name or patrons through inaccurate bad publicity) in center city and have been going ever since.

not a hole in the wall, nor a taproom with suits and ties (though i have seen a regular sporting a tuxedo print tee once), nor is it either a room full of jacked up, testosterone junkies with their hands scratching nuts, chucking chicken wing bones or slamming beer mugs or fists on the counter tops along with expletives every time the eagles (my team, in my fair city) fumble or a receiver drop a pass. it isn't the cleanest bar and if you do drop your food on the floor, there is no five second rule (but as a rule of thumb, the five second rule should disappear once you step out of your house/apartment/parents basement, but you don't have to listen to me...) or waitress that sweeps the cigarette butts up when the accumulate beneath your feet. it's a 'put 'em out wherever but don't fucking burn the place down,' kinda place. now, this place isn't a slop house either, it is probably cleaner than where you live and has better looking people too...well, maybe not, but the people are nice and if you don't mind the smoke, you grow used to the relative uncleanliness.

it's got your stock amenities, urinals and bar stools (in different rooms respectively), toilets for the ladies, pukies, and poopies (i know, but it kinda rolled off my tongue), a dozen or so booths that line either sidewall of the bar, a plasma screen mounted in each corner, one or two bartenders, with an eager bar back waiting expectantly (sometimes unexpectedly) with towels or stack of sullied beer mugs, ashtrays, a chalkboard with beer listings (but no prices;don't worry, they're overpriced) and dim lighting because we drinkers need to keep the light out so if we are drinking before twelve (or while the sun is still up) we feel that we are falling into social norms and when the sun does go down we don't really need to discern facial imperfections between each other by turning up the dimmed lights (remember when i said that the patrons are probably better looking than whoever occupies your residence?).

it's a place to unwind, to escape, to pretend like you're just one of the guys (or gals). i can't explain the atmosphere poetically, i can just give you the feel of the place. i'm sorry, i'm sure that poetics would make the place seem something more tangible. i wish that it could be someplace with a definite meaning that in which i could convey. it's not. it is just a bar filled with people that want relief from the nine to five, having weekends off and then hitting the streets early monday morning to repeat again and again throughout the year. the people there have their expectancies, but are usually disappointed, with a world view that is a little pale and jaded (that doesn't make any sense, literally, but it makes sense to me and that's what counts, right?). they, like me (and most importantly, they like me), want the world outside the doors of q. to be silent until they want of conversation that is beyond their bar stool mate's comprehension (that not being intended to express that their bar stool mate is not able to understand). it's beautiful. it's dirty. it's where politics and religion never have their say. it's the when between m. and i. it's...well, my kind of place.

so, you know the landscape now of the bar i frequent. wow, it feels nice to just to put it out there. i'm sure that you have favourite haunt. a place where you go to forget your 'have a cow's' with your respective others. where you can drink overpriced alcohol (i drink bass ale and chase each bottle with jameson, about 8 dollars, if ya wanted to know) and commiserate about the sorry state of your local football team's affairs. maybe you call your haunt a pub (i.e., public house), or your 'dive' (i.e., dive bar). you all have one, but if you don't, hop a train after your next fight (there, i said it, fight) with your 'love you always, but hate you sometimes', and get angry at something else, be it a sporting event or any event...you'll thank me later.

p.s. i can't wait for the baseball season.