The Piano Bar

It’s now day four and everything is still going well. I went to the bookstore and found an interesting novel (actually a series) about a guy who finds himself trapped in the future after a nuclear war. He has a shotgun and a Harley Davidson. I just started it but it is pretty damn interesting.

I watched the Badger-Wolverine game on Wednesday night with the FA and the Renter. Well, I should say I watched the first half of the game since the FA wanted to go to some piano bar. I thought ok, it could be cool, a piano bar with some guy singing “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond with everyone singing along, drinks in hand (ever see “Beautiful Girls”?). Boy was I wrong. I guess in 2007 a piano bar consists of uppity pricks drinking faggy martinis listening to some guy play the piano and sing some lame Madonna song while his sound system is pumping in the bass and symbols. Dude, who needs an amp and speakers when performing in front of a piano? You’d think it would just be the nice warm sound of the piano but no, fucking loud ass “background” music pretty much covered up the piano so it was like karaoke for one, and you know how much I lllloooovvvveeee karaoke. And to make matters worse, THEY DIDN’T HAVE A FUCKING TV!!! Yours truly put 40 “roses” (as the escorts like to call them) on the Wolverines even though I’m from Wisconsin. Michigan was getting 12.5 points and to make a long story short (really short since I didn’t get to see the second half), the Wolverines started the game up 9-0, then had six straight turnovers, were down by seven at halftime, down by 20 with three minutes left and only managed seven points in those three minutes while holding Wisconsin to none. I lost by half a point. Boys and girls, don’t gamble; it will only leave you with sweaty palms and, over time, hair loss. And no friends. And definitely no women.

(Oh, and that was my best Brett Favre imitation in that first paragraph.)

Back to the piano bar. I would never recommend it to anyone. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice establishment, if you only look at the bar itself and the décor. The floors and tables were really nice as was the huge wooden thingy (I know, very descriptive) that held the many bottles of vodka, some of the shit I had never even heard of. The staff were very friendly, especially the chic with the nice ass and rack. Actually, she didn’t serve us and we didn’t talk to her, but in my dream she was very nice, freakishly flexible and even swallowed (and her name was… damn!).

I tried not to pay attention to the crowd but judging by the way they dressed they were all hoity toity jerk offs.

The FA talked me into getting a martini. They had a $5 special that night.

FA: “Have you ever had a martini before?”

Me: “Nope.”

FA: “Well, how is it?”

Me: “It’s kind of like one big shot. I don’t see the big deal.”

The martini is not for me. First of all, how the fuck are you supposed to hold that funky glass? Are you supposed to raise the pinky like a queer (is that PC?) or just grab it by the base? Second, can a guy really keep his dignity and manhood when he’s sitting next to a woman who’s drinking the same pink shit out of a funky glass that he is? Kind of like doing shots at a real bar, whatever the woman orders the guy has to go one step stronger just to be tough and rugged (or at least I do to make up for my small penis). You won’t catch me doing a shot of Hot Sex or Baily’s, hell no. I must admit, I did have two, but the second only came after the FA called the local news station to find out the score of the Badger game (know anyone else who does that?).

We browsed through the menu a bit, laughing at the $200 bottles of wine. Then we turned to the last page. At the top of the page it said “VIP.” At the bottom of the page they had a $350 martini. Huh? THREE HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLAR MARTINI. “$15 a drop and worth every dollar.” You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’d like to stick that $350 martini up the owner’s Very Inappropriate Place. You know what I could do with $350? I could probably take a group of five women out for dinner and drinks, pull out all the proper lines, be the perfect gentleman (i.e., refrain from farting), and maybe take one of them (or two?) home with me for a little “desert.” Yeah, we all know that isn’t going to happen. But if anyone is reading this, my birthday is coming up, hint, hint. And you don’t have to shoot for the stars, just one woman will do just fine. Wouldn't hurt if she looked like this, but it's not like I'm a pig or anything.