A woman loves me, a woman scoffs at me, a woman gyrates on me

There is a customer at my store who is love with me.  She asked her mother to ask me out on a date, because she is too shy to ask me herself.  Before she asked her mother to ask me out -she inquired to some of my co-workers if I was single. I bet she would like it if I asked her out for some coffee.

I don't have a car, and I don't like coffee.

Her mother showed me a picture of the woman before she asked me if I would like to get her daughter's phone number.  Her daughter had short blond hair that flipped up at the ends. She looked to be in her late thirties and was slightly overweight.

Her mother told me that she was aware that I was single and "since her daughter was single, would I like to get her number?"

I don't want your daughter's number.  She is not my type.

"I like them pretty."  I told the co-worker.  "I can't help myself."

I jotted down the phone number the old woman gave me.  I had to ask her to repeat the number twice.  I'm not sure why it was so important to me to get the number correct as I never intended to call her.

I told my ex-girlfriend about the woman.  She seemed unruffled.  She asked when I was going to go on the date with the girl.  I said, "never."

The ex-girlfriend called me her friend.  "Sometimes I go a long time without seeing my friends."

I don't want to be your friend.  I have way too many friends.  I don't like most of them.  Those I do like come over too often, or they ask me to do things for them.  Then they tell me things that are supposed to make me care about them.  And all this makes me uneasy.  It makes me guilty.  It fills me with fear.

There is something I don't like about the woman that loves me. She is a regular customer.  We have short discussions when I check her groceries out.  She is always smiling at me.  There is some twinkle in her eyes.  She seems grotesque to me now.  So happy.  So jovial.  I am the answer to all her problems.

I'm at Rocky Point Catina.  A woman is gyrating towards me at me.

She is petite, under 5 feet tall. A Mexican, she is wearing a skirt so short that it barely conceals her tiny panties.

She is overtly sexual.  Strong, thick black hair down to her waist. Amazing eyes that are wide with youth and vigor.

"Are you here alone?"  She asks.

"I am."

"I am with a friend." I also try and tell her.  But it is loud and my words do not work well when I am sober and being grinded into by a sexual beast.

She had been dancing by herself.  A practice of art that the ethnic woman of today has mastered.  They shake their booty.  They decide which man to rub against. It is a feminist dream come true.  A dream or a nightmare.  The woman are all about sex, display, and power.

The men are just happy to watch, to be chosen, to know we have fooled them into playing our game of casual sex with no feelings.  The men sit back because they know they have won.

Stephanie has been ignored all night by the men.  Despite the fact that she is one of the best dancers at the club.  Perhaps the men (all negro) have no interest in Mexicans.  She is a nice looking woman though child like in size.

"How old are you?" She asks  She pauses her ass shaking to look up at me.   Her eyes are ablaze.  She has mastered the turn and stare.  Her hair flares out magnificently.  She looks like she knows she is being filmed for MTV.

I told her I was 39.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was at the bar."  I tell her.

She goes back to humping me.  A few minutes later I am high fived by a brother.  He winks at me.  I wink back and high five him.  I shove my hands in the air.  I am confounded by all the movement my partner is making on my genitals.  I am slightly aroused, but know instinctively that too much arousal is bad, (but that some  is good.)

Stephanie finds my penis and squishes it back an forth between her butt cheeks.  She uses me a stripper pole.  She writhes up an down on my body.  She is showing off for all the other men.

Her friend has a hold of her arm.  Her friend has had enough of Stephanie showing me a good time.  But for some reason Stephanie is stubborn.  She has wanted to dance with a man.  She has wanted to grind.  She has wanted to hump.  And I am content to let her.  So she rewards my patience.

A few minutes later and Stephanie decides she will attempt to attract a younger man.  I wander off to the bathroom.  The restroom is strangely empty despite the fact that the club part of the bar is packed with sweaty black men and woman.

None of them are in the restroom which smells heavily of pot smoke.  The amount of smoke is obnoxious.  It is patently obvious what everyone is doing.  They are all smoking week.  I make the racist observation aloud that "this would not be allowed in a white bar."  In a white club.

If you are white you smoke weed in your car, or at your house.  Everyone knows that at the club you snort coke.  You don't smoke weed in a club. It's lower class. But maybe pot is why everyone here is so relaxed.  I am my usual clumsy self and I bump into a number of large African-American men.  None of them get angry at me.  None of the show even the slightest hint of resentment or annoyance towards me.  Some of them apologize for my mistake.

On my way back from the restroom I notice Stephanie is alone again.  She has her rear end pointed out.  She is waiting for a man again.  I think about going over to her.  I think about getting behind her and mounting her.  I think about telling her I am sorry for not having a car.  That I live just a few blocks away.  That we can walk there.  That I will offer a cab ride home after we are done.

"I am 21."  She tells me.  But I don't see one of those paper bands they place around your wrist when you can drink.  I think she is 18.  She must be at least 18 I tell myself.  They check ID's here very carefully.

But I don't tell her anything else.  I just walk out the door.  I leave the club to go get a pizza and a coke.  When I am done I walk home alone.

If you come up at me "rapping" about how you're a "grandma" and you "want to fuck me" I might ask you to remove your saggy tits from my shoulder

Last night I got a call from j-dog.  I hung out with him at the "Lucky Devil" and nearly got laid.  I met a nerdy girl who just turned 21, and I bought her a shot.  She ordered the most expensive tequila in the bar.  I guess I should have figured.  Her shot almost cost me more that the 3 small pitchers of bud light I was nursing that evening.

It was okay though.  It was her birthday and I am on my quest to date a nerd girl.

While we waited for her shot she told me she was ex-Mormon.  She said she started drinking when she was 14. Then she told me she could drink me under the table.

"Because I'm a shot girl.  I only do shots."

I told her once I got under the table, "I was a trouble making troll."  Then I told her about my affection for alliteration and she was like, "I'm good at math."

Her parents kicked her out of the church because they thought she was a lesbian.

"Well."  I thought.  "You aren't married and 21."  I told her.  "And you have short hair.  That pretty much makes you a lesbian in the Mormon church."

She agreed.  But she did not apologize for her short hair.

She had some funky glasses that hid her face well.  I think that was a good thing as there may have been some cross-eyes, or Mormon inbreeding going on there.

Still she was intelligent and spoke of jokes about 8 year old boys and the pope and so that caught my attention.

But her cock blocking friends were going to have nothing to do with her talking to me.  They all walked up and dragged her off, only for her to come back a few minutes later and sit down with me.  We talked for like another 20 minutes and just when you thought I could have asked for her number her friends drag her off a second time.

In my youth I would have drank a few beers and waited for her to come back around, or walked outside to get her number, but I am way too old for all that now.  Also, it occurred to me that she was only 21.  Other than molestation, I can't think what to do with a 21 year old girl.  So I bid her adieu and walked home.

Other things that happened that night.

J-dog and I talked cell phones.  J-dog is an interesting cat.  He is the only person I feel comfortable calling me "bro."  He saw me texting and had the best line of the night when he told me to "put that slow phone away"  Okay.  Maybe not the best line of the night.  But I now can't wait for August 20th.  I am getting me an Epic 4g.  No matter what.  If I have to sell everything I own.  I will do it!*

*Not that I have any interested buyers on the enV3 I put up for sell on craigslist.*

Other things that have nothing to do with cell phones.

J-dog's brother got arrested for punching his girlfriend.  Somehow I was made to feel sorry for J-dogs brother.  I guess his girl did not want to press charges, but one of the neighbors saw the punch and called the cops.  The guy is on parole, so it could be messed up for him.  J-dog is afraid his brother is going back to jail for a long ass stint.

The brother went to jail for stealing a million dollars from an old woman.  But it wasn't like he wasn't taking care of the old gal while he was milking her.  He used some of the money he stole for her, and apparently she did not want to press charges against him.

J-dog told me about how his parents spent a hundred grand on lawyers as he sipped from a 20 ounce Whataburger cup full of Jagermeister.

His brother's situation sounds a lot like the girl I felt up 20 years ago in a bar.  I reached up and ran my hand real slow like up her skirt till she turned around and was like, "Hey!  What the FUCK!"

I was like, "Took ya a while to say something."

Her friends looked over at me in disbelief.  But then I got confirmation from the girl.

"I had my hand there for a while, right?"  She let me play with her thigh.  This only emboldened me and I went for the panties.

She nodded at me but was like, "You took it too far."

I guess it was the finger in the panties then?

Fair enough.

Another thing.  The grandma rapper was real.  A sweet 41 year old grandma.  She rapped during the DJ show.  She kept telling me her tits were on me.  I kept thinking "Does that mean you have droopy tits? or are you into me?"

Well she wanted to fuck me.  That's the third woman in the past month I turned down.  So I guess me not get laid is all about me being choosy.  But without a car I can't go back to her place and then never call her again.  She might drop me off at home and then she'd know where I lived.  And crazy-rappin' black grandmas is something you don't take lightly.

I was gonna buy a crap load of drugs from some of the people I met to celebrate my vacation.  But circumstances came up and I was unable to consummate the deal  Also, I am down to 100 dollars in my account.  I can't see me buying drugs and eating out, going to the bookstore and buying a new phone anytime soon.  Even if I start donating plasma at 50 dollars a pop.

I let you know if I am healthy enough to donate plasma.  Also, if I have AIDS or some other blood disease when the tests come back.

Part 1 of the St. Patrick Holiday Re-cap (edited)

I can still smell the cigarettes on me.  The stale ash is buried in my nasal passages like a band of Hobgoblins making camp from my Dungeons & Dragons playing days. (The above link is an advertisement)


My plan to celebrate St. Patrick's Day was to go downtown to Mill in Tempe and walk around downtown on E.  I wanted to visit as many different bars as I could.  That way I could check out the vibe of each place and see which one was the best bar to chill at whenever I used.


But instead I ended up at the Yucca Tap Room all because Emma asked me to meet her at a bar after work.  


When a 65 year old woman asks you out to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day you feel like it is the right thing to do, since you have no idea if she will still be around next year to go drinking with.


I love hanging out with Emma. She has such a young soul.  Whenever we are together she tells me stories form her "whoring around period."  I love listening to Emma remissness about her glory days.


I got off work that night earlier than everyone else.  Emma and the most of the rest of the gang I hang out with from work did not get off work till after midnight. 


8pm


I got dressed to go out at work.  I chose the Khaki pants I wear at work, because they look like fake Dickie's, and I wanted to try and pass for hipster.  I wore a black t-shirt that told the world I was "Irish for the Day."  The shirt and pants went well with my new, fake, black converse shoes.


I was feeling good about myself because I had received a number of compliments about the shirt.  not only that but I was feeling skinny because I had skipped lunch and dinner that day.  I don't eat before I drink anymore, because otherwise my liver is too strong and I don't feel the buzz anymore.


After getting dressed in  a stinky public restroom, I walked over to the Yucca Tap Room.  The Yucca Tap is an institution in Tempe and is one of the few remaining dive bars around.  The Tap is just a regular neighborhood bar, but it has worked fiercely to retain its working class vibe despite the influx of hipsters from ASU.


In a nod to the growing influence of the hipsters and the affluent the owners have built a new trendier, upscale bar right next to the Yucca.


I'd never been inside the new bar but was curious, so I took a chance and went inside.      


Once inside the bar I had a nice conversation with the first guy I sat down next to.  He worked promoting Left Foot Beer, a small brewery in Oregon.  We talked about what makes beer special and he gave me a short version of the speech he gives to all his customers.  


He told me how I probably grew up drinking Coors Light and I was all of a sudden interested in trying something new because I could afford it.


The guy sounded a bit like he was reading off a script when he talked, but he still managed to seem genuine.  A neat trick for a guy in his business. 


I did not tell him I had been drinking for 25 years, and had been trying small pubs and different beers since I was in my mid twenties. Not did I tell him how I hated Coors Light (that is until they made those cool temperature activated cans.  Sorry, but I really like knowing my beer is cold.) 


I drank non-mainstream beer from around the time the at-home brewing phenomenon took off.  I was also pretty familiar with beer (mostly because I had friends who had made their own beer.)   over the years my friends have forced me to try hundreds of different kinds of beers.


But I soaked up his wisdom and played the fool for him because it made him happy.  


While he talked I waited for one of my coworkers to get off work.  On my way to the Yucca my friend Mari surprised me by saying she wanted to get together for a beer after she got off work.  She told me she got off work at 9 and I should expect her around then.


I glanced down at my cell to check the time and to the chagrin of my Left Foot sales guy  I ordered a second Four Peaks beer.


"Loyalty to a hometown brew is nice, but other places make a fine beer."  He cautioned me.


"I know you FEEL like you have a connection to a hometown pub, but really it's just that."  He looked over at me smugly.


I thanked him for the psychological insight and accepted his offer of a shot of stout that was made by his company.


He was right they made a nice stout, "But you have to be a  stout person to enjoy a stout."  He agreed with my comment and later in the night before he left he bought me a beer that he told me I was guaranteed to love, "Since I like Kilt Lifter so much."


A female coworker of his offered me a free t-shirt.  Pumped, I gladly accepted the free offering.  It felt like years since the last time I got a free t-shirt,or free glass on St. Patty's Day.


I was excited until I looked down at the tag and noticed 2x Large.  


"Am I fat looking?"


I shrugged off the feeling assuming it was the last shirt she had and that all the hipsters in the bar room wanted extra small shirts to go with their skinny jeans.


At 9 o'clock I was wondering where Mari was.  Like a gypsy with ESP she sent a text telling me she was on her way.


"First condition." She texted me. "Is that you have to buy me a drink."


"You bet!"  I answered her text back quickly, looking forward to talking to some oneI actually knew.  


Not that I did not enjoy talking to the people at the bar.  I ordered food from the bartender after the guy next to me overheard me talking to myself about getting drunk fast because I had not eaten much.


He suggested the pizza. He said it was a lot like Red Devil's Pizza, a pizza I really enjoy.


I scarfed the pizza down as soon as it came.  The crust was thin and chewy.  The sauce was sweet and ripe.  The cheese tasty.  My only complaint would be that half the crust was soft.  I assume from sitting under a hot lamp for too long.


When Mari arrived we gave each other a quick hug.  She sat down next to me wearing the exact same shirt I had on.  We both bought the shirt at work that day for $2.43.  


We made a joke about being twins and Mari took photos of us highlighting our shirt to post later on her Facebook profile.


Mari placed her phone down on the table just as the bartender approached us.  He asked her what she'd like and she yelled over the jukebox that she'd like "a long island." 


I shot a look at the bartender and told him to "put it on my tab."  The bartender gave me an admiring look and whispered "smart move."


Mari and I laughed off the bartenders suggestion and we got to talking about twitter.  I told her how to access her account and how to follow my twitter on her phone.  I then began to follow her tweets on my phone as well.


I am a big phone geek now so we talked about twitter and her cell phone for a good 30 minutes, trying out new things on her phone and twittering to all of our friends in hopes they would show up.


Mari sipped her Long Island carefully and complained to me that her drink was too strong.  Then she ran outside to answer a phone call from her husband.  She told him she was meeting some friends after work for a quick drink.  I think Mari felt guilty telling her husband that she was meeting "friends"  when they all turned out just to be me.


After Mari returned from her phone call I got a text from Leif saying that he was going to show up around 10.  I decided there was no chance of me getting to Mill Ave. so I decided to excuse myself from Mari and pop my e tablet in the dive bar next door.


Stay tuned for St. Patty's on E.

More at the end of the road

I was telling my friend Leif (you call him Lester) that:

"I liked everything about the movie The Road except for the ending."

A new pair of tits is slinging beer from behind the bar. The new tits are wrapped in a wife beater t-shirt. New tits has tats up and down her shoulders. New tits hair is crew cut short and slicked back.

"But I liked the movie." I say.

"The movie is one of those post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi movies about a boy and his father. Only this movie gets a lot of it right."

"I mean the movie is completely fucking depressing."
 
New Tits pours me a beer. She slides the beer over to me. She gives me a wink. New tits checks me out in that I am not being discreet I am checking you out but you aren't supposed to see me checking you out way. 

But only I know she is not really checking me out she is only pretending to check me out because she has sized me up already. She has figured out how I like attention from women. Because she is a fucking genius, New Tits is.

She has this idea that being friendly, but not too friendly, is going to earn her some tips tonight. And since there are only 5 or six other people in the bar and most of them appear to be asleep or dead she might as well hang out near me and Leif.

"Bad things are happening in this movie. Really bad things." 
I say.

I am talking really loudly. I am talking loud enough for the whole bar to hear me. I am being dramatic. I am using body language. I am using all kinds of vocal intonations and arm gesticulations to get my point across.

"People are dying. Everyone is hungry. There are cannibals everywhere."

I throw my hands up.

"People are committing suicide."

People would rather kill themselves than live in this movie and that makes a lot of sense to me.

"In the movie things are always getting worse. Every time something bad happens and the father and son escape to a new situation, the next situation is even worse than the old one."

I can see the bar is not convinced.

"At one point the father/son team escape from a group of cannibals and finds a cabin. You think to yourself. Nice, a cabin! Maybe they will be safe for a second." I pause for dramatic effect.

"But not for a second." I deadpan.

"The cabin is home to a bunch of cannibals who plan on feeding off a bunch of people they have locked in a cellar."

I look over at Leif who looks like he wants to throw up.

"Jesus." New Tits says in disgust.

"Some of the captives have had their arms or their legs amputated and eaten." I tell New Tits.

"Christ." New Tits finishes.

"The best part of the movie is how there is no hope. Things are only getting worse. No matter how much people try, no matter how noble their efforts at survival are, they just can't catch a break."

Leif interrupts me.  "If you plan on killing yourself…I want you to tell me first."

I laugh at him, "Okay, man. I promise."

At the end of the road is the guy you left vomiting in the toilet stall all by himself

And he gets all mad at you and says things like:

"Hold my hair back."

"Why didn't you hold my hair back?"

"I can't believe you didn't stay with me while I puked on you, and I can't believe you didn't hold my hair back as I puked into that smelly ass toilet."

"Why did you bring me to this shit hole dive bar?"

"Is is just because you want to score with the fucking EMO chicks?"

I remind Leif there is no such thing as a 30 year old EMO chick.

"There are only 30 year old hipster chicks, or fastly approaching 30 year old hipster chicks."

The only EMO's I know are 14 year old girls.

Splashing sound.

I am holding his hair back as he pukes.

The sound I am hearing is like the sound you hear when you pour a pitcher of kool aid into a bathtub. Only the purple splashes hitting your feet in that case would not frighten you.

Leif says, "Are you holding my hair back?" His hair is full of puke.

"I am holding you stupid fucking hair back." I tell Leif.

I tell Leif. "I am keeping your highlights from getting damaged by the powerful stomach acids that are shooting out of your throat."

Leif is drunk. Leif is deranged. Leif insists I am not there. Leif is angry that I left him puking his guts out in the stall of The Tailgate Bar.

Leif has never been to a dive bar. Leif wants to know if he is pretty. Leif wants me to be his pimp.

I tell Leif that all that puking is going to make him thin. I tell Leif that I wish I could puke like that. Then I would have tight abs like he has. I tell Leif that the $10,000 dollars he has been offered by the GENTLEMAN is not enough.

"You are going to be rich and skinny forever." I tell Leif.

I need to get some cocaine. All this hand holding is getting on my nerves. I'd rather be drinking what's left of my beer. The dyke lesbian bartender in the other room is probably pouring my beer out as we speak.

"I look like shit." Leif slurs. His throat is dry and course from all the puking.

I have no idea when my puking sympathetic reflex is going to kick in.

"Your fucking sexy, Leif." I lie to him.

I tell him how I have a semi hard on and I suggest that he make a grab at my dick if he doubts it.

He says it would make no difference.

"Your cock's too small to know the difference." He says suddenly feisty.

I let go of his hair and his head hits the porcelain lid of the toilet and bounces off it. I catch his head before it hits a second time.

"Shut the fuck up!" I scream at him.

"My cock is big enough." I tell him.

Leif is suddenly sorry. Leif is sobbing uncontrollably.

"You've got to pull yourself together man." I tell him. "I am not going out there with you if your lipstick is all smudged up."

"I thought we were friends." He says.

"We are." I tell him.

"I'm gonna take care of you." I say.

"Who do you think is gonna drive you home?" I ask him.

He looks up at me.

"That's right."

"Me."

I'm risking 6 years in jail. I have 4 or 5 DUI's. All depends on the way you want to count them.

"I am going to drive through Tempe drunk as hell." I say to him. The cops are everywhere I am sure.

"First we are going to pick up Krystal." I tell Leif. "Then we are going to get some WhataBurgers."

"We have a plan." Leif sighs, relieved.

I review Harry's Last Call a bar in Phoenix where I met up with my exgf and her new Baby Daddy

The first thing you should know about Harry's Last Call in Phoenix is that your pussy ass should not go there. This is a REAL dive bar and not a FAKE dive bar that caters to your hipster irony. If you bring in any of that fucking hipster attitude into this bar I will help the homeless guy nursing his Bud Light on the stool next to me kick your ass. We will leave you bleeding, and the homeless guy will take a piss on you, and someone may cut you. AND THEN YOU WILL GET AIDS motherfucker.

I am just saying. 

I am not going to take your side, because this is not your place, and you have been warned. If you still want to go there the pool table takes quarters and it costs 75 cents a game.

The beer is cheap, but that is because the draft does not work. It just tumbles out at the bartender (my exgf so take your fucking hands off her) and spills all over her and she will ask if she can get you a Bud Light bottle because she hates fucking with the draft.

The bar looks deserted as you drive in. There are no cars outside. But that is typical if you are at a real dive bar as opposed to the fake bars you drive to. Real homeless people are drunks and so they can't afford cars, or they never learned how to drive, or they have 6 DUI's so the cops took their license and their vehicles away. So it is no real surprise that the bar has 7 people milling around the front entrance.

I askew using the back entrance because I have no idea at first if this is the bar I am supposed to be going to, or if I have ended up at the wrong bar. (A dirty bar with homeless people and crazy Native Americans who guard the entrance.)

I know some people like to make fun of the fact that Natives drink a lot, but you will never see me do that. Probably because I am one fourth Cherokee. Anyway, I don't think Natives drink that much. I am pretty sure that all the Natives I see drinking in bars are not really different Indians, but the same Indian guy. Because everywhere I go I see the same drunk Native dude on the stool closest to the entrance.

He never sits with his back against the wall. And he always invites me over to share his warm small pitcher of beer. He winks at me and when I walk over he pulls out his pocket knife. He does that trick every time. Then he winks at me again and complains aloud to anyone who will listen that he needs to find the Indian bar on 16th street and he needs money for another drink.

Mostly I ignore him and hope he really does not want to kill a fellow Native American. I have no idea what they do in his tribe, but my tribe does not kill the Red Man. Just whitey.

When I approached the entrance I noticed a girl who I assumed to be the bartender. I look closer at her and I realize that she is my EXGF. She is standing next to a rather tall and goofy looking half-black dude who I can tell from his myspace profile must be the exGF's newest baby daddy.

It is not very often that my appearance somewhere will startle people, or make them jump. By my showing up here does. My Ex looks likes she is ready to swallow pills. Her eyes are jumpy and she excitedly runs at me to introduce "baby daddy" to me. Home boy gives me a hand shake and I tell him it was nice to finally meet him. I tell him that I bet he has heard all kinds of shit about me and he says he has heard only, "good things." he says "nice things" like all begrudging like somehow it is my fault that I am nice guy and he walked out on a woman with two kids and no job.

I keep wanting to tell him to stay away from the white women, but mostly we don't talk. He offers to play a game of pool with me. He wins the game, but only by one ball. We both take a long time to finish the game and he admits "that we suck."

I order a couple of beers from my exgf. She stays busy talking to her customers and she stops by every once and a while. I tell her how I think the bar is unsafe and she confides to me that she bought mace.

" I have no idea if mace would even work against the brutes in this place." I scold her.

I play UFO and Trapeze on the Internet Jukebox. just for shits and giggles I play some Kelly Clarckson. Some drunk comes in and orders a drink. He pays in quarters. He says he was "just in a fight and the cops are on their way here. " At least the cops are coming. I think to myself.

The cops show up and they are being cool. The cop does not walk into the bar. He stays out on the front entrance like he and the homeless vermin who inhabit this bar have some kind of special agreement. He just asks to talk to the guy who was in the fight. The guy drinking the jack and cola walks out calm and cool. He doesn't even put up a fight.

In my pocket is the lottery ticket I purchased for this weeks drawing. I am potentially worth 186 million dollars. I should leave before something happens and I get stabbed. The baby daddy is most likely upset that I am here, but he has not started anything with me. In fact he seems cordial and shit. I guess it true what they say. We are polite to strangers. Cruel to those we love.

I showed up to the bar at 10. It was midnight and I did not want to wait around all night if baby daddy was going to be there. He would make sure the ex lived through the night. She was not my responsibility anyway.

I stopped by another bar on the way home. I should have guessed by the name "Cruising 7th street" that the bar was a gay bar, but since I don't know a lot about gays -the way you do- I had no idea until it was too late that I had stepped right into the gayest bar in town.

I had to use the restroom. I know going to the restroom in a gay bar is not the brightest idea, but the whole reason I stopped at the bar in the first place was because I had to go pee. Cruising has two bars separated by rest rooms. After locking the stall door and peeing I heard what I thought was singing from the other side of the bar.

It turns out there where a bunch of drag queens Lip-syncing to music full of double entendres .

A few of the drag queens tried hitting on me, but I guess they did not try very hard. I ended up leaving after the drag show (which consisted of one dude with a stuffed bra singing over the radio and getting tipped a few dollars by a couple of horny gay guys) finally ended.

Did you notice that I am back to posting? I teach you things about lingerie bars.

You never notice anything. Like how I am back to posting after taking a break. I bet you didn't even miss me that much until you started reading me again and then you remembered how boring your lives were and how pathetic most every other blog you read is and how you only link to those blogs in order to increase your traffic because you are addicted to the attention you think you are getting from people who stop by your site for 0 second and then move on to porn sites where they can indulge their bizarre polish girl sex fantasies.

I got invited to a BBQ today from a friend at work. The texts message indicated that no hard liquor will be consumed and no drama is allowed. I guess dinner parties for teenagers are different than dinner parties for adults. Adults like drama and hard liquor because it gives us an excuse to do the things teens do when they are sober. If I end up going to this party it will be to continue gathering my drinking experiences to put in my book.

Speaking of food, I am considering eating a sausage biscuit for breakfast even though the last time I ate one of these walmart frozen sausage patties I had the runs and a terrible case of gas. I go to work in a few hours, so I sure hope that pattern does not repeat itself, because I ate the patty anyway. I am taking the chance on a bad case of diarrhea because I spent 4 dollars on 30 spicy sausage patties and I don't just want to throw them away on the chance that the patties defrosted in the walmart freezer before I bought them, and are now simply the breeding ground for some anti-biotic resistant strain of microbe that the government planted in sausage patties to reduce the population mass that votes for Obama, because we all know black people love biscuits and gravy.

I should probably go ahead and finish the update from yesterday for you guys on my drinking last night, not that it was really exciting. I was reading one of the free magazines Palo Verde offers to its patrons instead of easy women, entertainment, or good times, and I discovered that Arizona has another lingerie bar. I was a regular at the only other lingerie bar before Mayor Phil Gordon incurred my wrath and lost my vote by shutting down the bar. In case you don't know what a lingerie bar is, a lingerie bar is a bar where the wait staff all dress in lingerie.

What is so great about a lingerie bar anyway?

Class. A lingerie bar is way classier than a nudie bar. And cheaper to boot. You don't have to pay for lap dances and the girls get to keep their dignity by keeping their clothes on. The lat lingerie bar I went to had cheap beer specials too. I remember being astounded one day when I got to the bar and saw they had new menus. I figured the bar had finally gotten around to charging nudie bar prices for their liquor. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that they LOWERED all of their prices. I love lingerie bars!

tHE SELF HELP GUIDE TO LEARNING ABOUT LINGERIE BARS!

The women who work at lingerie bars are typically white trash or their ethnic counterparts. Many (if not all) of the bartenders you find in lingerie bars used to 'dance' for a living and now they are too old, too cracked out, or too dead inside to strip down for money.

The good thing about these girls is they are usually the kinda strippers that talked to you for a little before and after the lap dance they gave you, because they get how you only go to strip clubs for the girl friend experience because women don't like talking to you, on account of your policy of no showering, which I guess is good for the planet, but not so good for your prospects of getting laid.

THERE ARE RULES OF ETIQUETTE AT LINGERIE BARS LIKE THERE ARE RULES OF ETIQUETTE EVERY WHERE

I know that a bar that advertises sexy women dressed in lingerie feels like a place where you can stop pretending to be part of normal society and just indulge in your desire to stare at the back of the saggy and cellulited ass that is pouring you (and your only friend) a warm draft, but don't. Unless her back is completely turned to you, and in that case she will expect you to.

Otherwise it is policy of these places for you to pretend that the bartender is fully dressed and not half naked, and the reason you drove down to the bad part of town and climbed the run down stairs that take you inside a remodeled former apartment complex that now offers postal boxes, and a porn store with gay jacking booths, is because you actually like the drinking specials and sharing your time with the little community of drug fiends, pushers, homeless people with money, and the desperate losers like you who can't find female companionship.

You can always tell a novice at at lingerie bar because they look the bartenders up and down like they are at a nudie bar. Don't be a rookie. You must pretend to not stare at any cleavage until you make a crack about how everyone else here is just a loser and you can probably get a girl friend if you tried because a lot of women ignore the smell of shit stained underwear on men because that is the way their daddy's smelled.

Once you break the tension, you can go ahead and stare all you want as long as you add a little compliment to your voyeurism like, "damn girl you got a booty back there!" She will enjoy the compliment and be brought back to a time in her life when men valued her enough to give her money, and a woman with her life experience knows that money is the best way to show you care about someone.

DO NOT START SHIT WITH ANYONE/HOW TO HIT ON A LINGERIE BARTENDER

You might not believe it but nearly everyone in a lingerie bar will be pissed off and ready to fight. Homeless people don't look tuff, but they don't fight fair. They kick and bite and have nothing to lose.

The men inside a lingerie bar are well aware of the competitive pressures they are under, because the only woman who ever steps inside a lingerie bar is the woman who works there, and that means you have to become a regular to get on her good side and get her comfortable with who you are so she does not freak out too much when you ask her out on a date.

*hint*

another rookie mistake men make is getting all gushy with a lingerie bartenders because it is the first time many of them have had a woman in her underwear talking to them. just realize she is in her underwear for every guy there and she is not looking for a dude who mistakes a little nipple slip for true love

*end of hint*

Avoid one of the biggest rookie mistakes of hanging out at a lingerie bar. Don't ask your bartender out too quickly because then she will just mentally file you away with all the other alcoholic losers who visit her bar. She will dismiss your invitation as the sloppy, drunken, horny attempt it actually is. But if you get to know her you can talk to her like a real person. Remember to show up on a regular basis. Tip her generously enough to leave her feeling good without seeming like a chump who just gives all your cash away to any moderately attractive women who smiles at you. She will want to know that she can trust you will be frugal around all of her prostitute friends.

If you follow my advice then you have built the right kind of moment for you to ask her out. I would suggest inviting her to a party or invite her to do something that she likes (this requires a lot of paying attention to things she says, and is way more difficult than it sounds, as she often will say inappropriate things that make no sense, like how her therapist suggests divulging how her father molested her as a child because keeping secrets is bad, but go ahead and give it a shot.)

You could also go with the whole dinner and movie thing, but play it like you think that kind of thing is lame, but that it might be funny to go on a date like normal people. Maybe she will mention she is a prostitute on the date. Try and ignore this attempt to get your money unless you feel you are being followed by a large Porta Rican, then give her the money she asks for and your ATM card if you value your life.

Good night and happy hunting,

Romius T.

"When I get drunk I want to stick my hand up your dress." - A drinker's requiem.

Do you remember when I said I was not going to drink anymore? No, you probably don't . You hardly remember anything I have to say, because your life is so interesting with all the little debbie cakes and the showering you do everyday.

I wrote this even though I have to wake up in 5 hours to go to work. I will not sleep today. It won't matter because I am working customer service this week. For some reason customer service is slow. I was so bored today at work, and had so few customers, that I read 4 magazines. OK! Magazine, Scientific American, Scientific/America Mind, and a pro football preview magazine.

I am drinking again. Last night I went with out with x and his little brother which is a mistake. I must be a slow learner, because I made the same mistake twice last week.

I was driving to Whataburger for dinner when I got the call on my cell phone. I was startled by the ringing, because I don't get phone calls anymore. I get text messages. I set the text messaging alert to vibration on my phone. Now messaging me only sends me warm vibrations. But I got a call and my friend asked me if I wanted to go out drinking with him.
"I though you were going out of town." I managed to communicate into the speaker phone and drive at the same time.

Turns out he got shit faced last night and fell on his knee or something after trying to "grab tit" from one of his male friends so he decided to stay in town. X's little brother mentioned later why he likes to hang out with me, because his brother doesn't have gay tenancies around me. X indicated the reason why he never gets gay around me is that he thought I "might act on his overtures" which is really just his way of hoping I would, which will never happen, because if I were gay I would not be into chubby mexicans (ask my ex wife).

"Where do you want to go?" I ask him.

"Some place with a parking lot."

My friend really talks like that.

We decide to go "dive barring" because in his condition my friend can't walk around so we can't go to Mill Ave or Old Town Scottsdale.

Our first stop is the Palo Verde Lounge. Palo Verde is no longer just a dive bar, now it is a bar full of hipsters. A going away party for the only attractive bartender is in full swing. We get offered pizza but decline politely. I just had a whataburger and I was still full. It took a while to get a beer because the owner/barkeep was sloshed and chatting with his ex employee. He was sweaty drunk and wiped his brow a lot. The owner has a round belly and the medium long hair of a 16 year old dungeon master. Between every effort to pour a drink he paused to brush away at a few strands of hair, curling the stray unwashed hair behind his ear.

We ordered one small pitcher. I drank and the X-man drank, but our designated driver did not. DD did not like the bar and wanted to get out as soon as possible. He thought we might get shot, or attacked by someone. "Not at this bar full of posers." I said (perhaps too loudly) "but no one here will fuck us either." I said it loudly, purposefully. (You were eavesdropping, so you deserve it.)

The rest of our conversation consisted of various attempts to decide where to go next. We can't think of any place to go. All the cool places require X to walk, and he is still being a pussy -even though he has had half of a small pitcher so I believe he can walk.

"I just want to go somewhere I can stick my hand up a girl's dress." I say finally. That seems to bring about a resolution.

We end up deciding on Maloney's. Maloney's is a frat bar located next to ASU. I have not been to Maloney's in quite some time. Maloney's is full of sluts. Sure none of those sluts will fuck me, but at least I can stick my hand up a dress without having to explain anything.

Maloney's is dead because school is out. The bar is also undergoing a major remodel. The bathrooms are all outside in porta potties. But these are the nice porta potties that are like little trailers. They have 4 urinals and 4 stalls located under a roof. You have to climb stairs to go outside and climb another set of stairs to get inside. I laughed the whole time I was peeing because I knew X would just have to hold it while we we stayed here. When I suggested he buy "the big beer" he shot me back such a hurt look that you would have though I had just stuck my hand up his skirt.

The bouncers at Maloney's remain in cock blockery, snobby mode as they await the migration and seasonal return of their brethren. The check my i.d. I sigh deeply while all this goes on. "C'mon dude. I am like 40." I tell the guy who half heartily gives me the "just doing my job, man" routine.

A "big" girl sat next to X's little brother at the circular bar. Little brother promptly stood up and sat down at the booths behind us. I guess he did not want any one to know that he sometimes fat people get near him. He told me that you "can't trust fat chicks" that they are "always on the look out" and they will "take advantage of you any way they can," and that made my friend X think of the time I "made eye contact" with a fat girl, "remember how she took you home and raped you?"

"I told you not to make eye contact with her," explains X-man "but you did not believe me."

"I did believe you. People make mistakes. And sometimes those people pay for their mistakes by kissing a fat woman with a mustache."

We went looking for a bar called Hits. I am not sure such a bar exists. We ended up at the Red Owl instead, but that club has a five dollar cover charge for the white trash inside. As we exited the lobby refusing to pay we could overhear, "I've been thrown out of nicer clubs than this!" from the girls ahead of us in line.

"I am sure you have!" I shout back at four trash-sluts who can afford cover charges my friends and I can't.

Finally we end up at Groggies. I have a crush on the bartender there. She is not working tonight. Groggies is full of human waste. I am the second skinniest person in the bar (not including wait staff). All of the women are hard core beer drinkers who crush cans with an open fist after they finish drinking them. All of the women are over 200 lbs. Most over 3oo.

We order one giant pitcher of beer between us. It cost only 6 dollars. I tell little brother that I used to buy the same size beer for just $2.50 at Rowdy's. (Rowdy's is the best god damn bar ever. One day I will write about Rowdy's.)

The cute waitress stops by our table every three seconds. I think she is relieved to take our order. We look like the only "normal" people in the bar. I am sure we are the only men in this bar who have never been shot at. Never spent "hard time" time in prison. We look soft. But we don't buy beer from the pretty waitress. Little brother pours a glass from our pitcher. He decides he wants his first drink because, "he can't handle this atmosphere."

I go to the bathroom again. The best thing about Groggies is the saloon styled doors that lead to the stall of the men's room. I remember not making it to the stall after getting poisoned with tabasco in a "birthday drink surprise" from my favorite bartender.

I walk of out the men's room. There she is. I upset her the last time I saw her when I pretended not to know her by mouthing over and over to my friend that she didn't know me. This time I make eye contact with her and give her the Hey, I do know you, ..it's been a while how are you....?

She looks happy to see me. I ask her if she still works here and she says yeah. But then she adds that she is leaving in a month or so. She says she is about to finish her federal training. I ask her what she means by that and she answers that she is becoming a border agent for customs or the secret service or something like that. I am not exactly sure. I was a little drunk.

"So, are you doing this just so you can arrest mexicans? Because their are way too many mexicans." She laughs. "Yes, I guess that is why."

"I've got a few mexicans you can arrest right now." I point over at my two Mexican friends seated at our table. "You should check them out, I bet they are here... illegally." She laughs again. "That was funny." She said, like she was remembering why she liked talking to me. Because I am entertaining as hell is why, bitch.

I don't want to stay too long. She mentions her work schedule and I promise to come see her before she leaves. I tell her she should take me with her when the "feds" send to her to some god forsaken border town. She says she thinks that is a good idea. I wasn't so sure she meant it.

She introduces me to her "best friend." He is like 6 foot 5 and he grips my hand like a vice, like he actually needs to prove to me that he could kick my ass. I peer up at him by bending backwards as far as I can manage. "Nice to meet you!" I shout at him like some kind of bad "how is the air up there?" joke. I do that because I want him to understand that I know he is a freak. That normal people are not this tall.

He shakes my hand. His large hand engulfs mine and he smiles down at me, "nice to meet ya" he says like what he really means is "wow you have small hands dude." I pretend not to notice how hard he is squeezing. I turn around and notice she is gone. Oh, well. That chick is a fucking cock tease and we all know that. Even giraffe boy knows it. My look back at him conveys the message that when it comes to cock teases like her-he is no better off than me. He accepts my claim. My challenge.

I don't say good-bye to her. I just leave. We all head off to Mesa. RTO Sullivan's.

At Sullivan's the bouncer was black and I guess that is why he had such a good attitude when compared to the Maloney's guys. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that there is a fifty fifty chance we will have a black guy as president and when we do he will round up all the white guys and throw in concentration camps. Personally I applaud the move and it about time you white folk got what was coming to you. 200,ooo dead Filipinos mean nothing to you, so 180 million white folk shipped back to Ireland or where ever you are all from is good news to me. I could tell the bouncer got that about me as he casually undertook a glance at my i.d.

Sullivan's has hot waitstaff and even though the pretty blond with spiral hair was 30 she was a good thirty if you know what I mean. She had not let all the drinking she did leave her dehydrated and empty. She was flirty without coming on to us. Of course X- assumed she wanted him and maybe she did as little brother discovered she was totally pregnant once the lights came on and last call was announced. Our bartender told us all about the history of Mesa and RTo Sullivan and how it was named something else before it was named RTO which would have been interesting to me if she said it in the nude while lactating but barely kept my attention even when she was talking to me directly and staring into my eyes which is just a woman's way of making sure you are paying attention to what she is saying and I have always resented that kind of thing.

The rest of the night consisted of my friends drinking Jager shots and yelling at each other over who among them was the bigger fuck up. I just assumed it was me because I brought that shit on myself.

I celebrate St. Patty's Day by confirming that alcohol makes me shit yellow

I am hoping that my shit being all yellow today has something to do with all the green beer I drank last night. Me and the FrO went out bar hopping because the only holiday we celebrate all year is a drinking holiday.

The FrO has gout which you would think would make him stop drinking. But this is one tuff motherfucka. Either that or he is really just one dumb muthafucka. He took a week off from work because gout said "sit the fuck down." The good news that came out of this is he was able to devote that time to reading every single post ever made on this site, including reading all the comments.

I think the rest of you should call of work and do the same. If you can provide me some kind of proof I will send you an autographed copy of the podcast on CD and a packet of gravy. Actually you have to choose, either the packet of gravy, or the signed CD. If you want I will even sign the gravy for you. You can choose brown gravy or country gravy. I recommend country gravy as it goes good with biscuits.



First we checked out R.T. O'Sullivans. O'Sullivans had a 10 dollar cover to get in and that is more money than I make in an hour. We bought 6 dollar Irish Killian Red beers, by that I mean I bought a Killian's red. I won't lie for my friend, he bought a bud light because he is one prissy bitch, for a guy who prefers to limp around with gout rather than take medicine or stop drinking.
I had to pee as soon as we got there and that's not just because I don't want to pay for the first round. I'll have you know I bought the first round. So I went around checking for porta potties and finally found one that wasn't locked. But it was occupied by a girl with her pants around her ankle and big wad of toilet paper around her arm who screamed at me "it's doesn't lock" or something like that. I was too flustered to make any much sense out of anything, and just ran off to quickly use the toilet inside the bar.

FrO actually talked to a girl tonight. That's a first I believe. I am sure she walked up to him. He said he talked for about 2 minutes and then ran out of things to say and so went inside to look for me. There were plenty of hotties to look at, and the new thing this Patty's Day was for girls to wear short skirts with green stockings or garter belts. I hope that tradition keeps going.

Next, we went to a bar that is owned by a famous ex basketball player in Phoenix. Dan wasn't there but I did tell the bartender that I was gay for Dan Marjele, but I don't think that makes me any gayer than any other dude as Dan Marjele is pretty cool. I also told the guy I need to get a cell phone that I can use to upskirt with, and if you want to send me one of those, I promise I will send you two packets of gravy. One brown and the other country, and then you can get your gravy on!

We left because only three people were in the bar and I wanted to make sure that my driver had no more than 1 beer at any bar we went to. We took off for the rest of the night to the FrO's favorite neighborhood bar where I kicked his ass in trivia and came in third place in the entire nation. I can't believe there really are two people out there smarter than me, but robot computers don't lie, they just plot your death.

We got picked up by the Fro's sister so no need for the Po-lice to get involved and I bought insurance today, so I am just a bus ride to the DMV away from getting my license back, and then buying a bottle of wild turkey, and then watch out you fucking homeless people I have the right-away.

I'm not an alcoholic, I just crush easily on bartenders

Which is why I wished I hadn't upset one of my favorite bartenders of all time. She works at Groggies in Mesa. I haven't been to Groggies in ages. You should visit the bar and her sometime and make yourself a regular there.

If you do go, don't make the same mistake I just did. Pretending not to remember her after being away for so long. I think I offended Groggies best bartender when I replied to her observation that she knew me by mouthing the words, "no she doesn't" to my friend. Over and over again. Like I was embarrassed to know her or something. Which of course isn't true.

Now the bartender with gold highlights and curls hates me. This makes me nervous. When she liked me she used to put Tabasco sauce in my shots in order to watch me puke on my birthday. I have no idea how she will treat me in the future, but I can say it may be dangerous for me to go back.

That's not the reason I didn't say goodbye to the bartender when I left. I tried looking back at her as I walked out the door. I hoped we could at least make eye contact.

I remember when it first started to get weird between me and the groggies bartender. I think one of my friends let it be known that I "had a thing for her." Which I suppose is true, but we both knew that it wasn't reciprocal. So we never had to broach the subject. Once the subject was "broached" by someone all my "innocent" flirtations were deemed creepy impositions by her.

Not that she didn't flirt too. That little bartender has a sensational smile and she loves to flash it for you. But she saves those flashes to interrupt her normally grumpy personality just at the moment you may decide to "write this chick off, that she is just another stuck up hottie always in a bad mood. Then she'll look at you and her eyes will sparkle and she'll give you that smile. And she's got your attention. I guess I am saying she's like Bill Clinton now. She "locks" into you. And suddenly you feel like a jerk for even thinking anything bad about her at all.

And then with a twist and a turn she raises her cleavage back up and is off down the bar chatting it up with some tattooed poser. Leaving you to swallow down your beer and take off with your friend for the next bar. Not that the friend hadn't noticed how you gushed over her, so there is no use to playing it off. But you still try and look cool. You finish a small pitcher between the two of you and slowly exit the bar.

You look back two times as you open the door to leave, but the bartender is busy pouring drinks for others. She is too busy to notice you leaving. And when she gets back to your spot in the bar your absence will confirm for her all her mental impressions of you. All those inadequacies you see in yourself you hope that others don't. She sees them.

We forgot to pay the bill at another bar in town in Tempe. I was pretty sure I saw a friend of mine slip the bartender some cash. I guess she didn't need the money because she refused it. She used to work as a stripper, so maybe she is loaded. A fellow bartender and co-worker of the ex-stripper is here tonight. Very hipster cute. For a while I was worried that the co-worker was going to mobbed by the desperate men that frequent this dive bar. They crowd in on her and press their bellies into her back. But she gets a free drink out of it.

Hipster bartender's bill came to 33 dollars which surprised her. She looked up at the ex-stripper barkeeper like "you're going to rape me too?" But she piled out the cash and left it on the table without a fuss. She didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She was just hoping that she could drink for free in the bar that she works in. Not a crazy request.

The Palo Verde was dead tonight, but not as dead as the Re-Work lounge. A total of two other people sat at the bar at 9 P.M. on a Saturday. Bad. Arizona's smoking ban has basically killed this bar. It has no patio or smoking section. Just a jive jukebox and oddly smoke free clean shine to the furniture which I remarked upon. Dive bars should not be this clean.

The barkeep was 21. She was cute and personable. She cheered for us to come in and order a pitcher of beer. So we did. Whenever I meet a person for the first time I always do my best to creep them out. That way they know just where I am coming from.

The bartender asked us how what were up to. I told her we were hunting for fat chicks. Because we want to get laid. I asked if she knew any fat chicks, but she said she didn't. So I asked if she was a fatist, and she said she wasn't. Then I called her parents hippies. And she told me I was right. That her parents were typical Boomers that used to be hippies but now work for the "man."

"They even live in a gated community." She volunteered. Her Dad worked for Honeywell which in my mind made him a bomb maker. She claimed that he worked in fiber optics. I replied that I thought there was quite a lot of fiber optics these days in bombs. Bombs these days being all smart and such. She asked if we would like another beer. There was no chance in hell of that.

Next bar is a Karaoke bar that Foxxxlove does her singing at. I gave the most interesting interpretation of Gloria ever "sung" at that bar. Which to my dissatisfaction contained no hipsters to "get it." Though I must say that the aging Karaoke DJ who sung like Alice in Chains "got it."

We fled that bar to get Tacos from Jack in-the Box. 2 for 99 cents. The drive thru nearly let us leave without our waters. And then it was back to the Palo Verde. This time the bar had filled up with 2 cute hipster girls playing pool. We watched as the two beat the pants off a couple of guys. I think they went about getting those guys pants off the hard way. I am sure they just could have asked. Anyone in the bar would oblige.

The girls got served after 2 am. So did we but we had to "buy" our drink before 2 am. The male bartender nearly refused to give us the second pitcher of beer, but we reminded him that we already paid for it. He kindly poured us another pitcher. I poured out my old beer in a glass and poured myself a fresh cold glass of beer. I did not finish drinking the beer. And I didn't beat myself up about not drinking it either.

I know where you can score some PBR for a buck a can on Wednesdays in Tempe

I hear people are in an uproar over that guy who has drug resistant TB flying around all over the world. News organizations and bloggers are falling over themselves pretending to hear about this kind of thing for the first time. They should have been panicking a long time ago. I've blogged about a case like this back in March when I wrote about a Russian in Phoenix who was placed under quarantine for really bad TB. Much like Andrew Speaker this Russian guy is a bit of a crybaby.

"They're making a criminal out of me," he added. "I've been crying almost every day. . . . I'm all alone. No showers. No sunlight. It's the silence that's pushing down on me. . . . It's the worst you can get, even if you murdered somebody."

You see I am always helping my readers out with important news like exactly how many people who have incurable TB are living near them and exactly how many Pabst Blue Ribbons one needs to consume in order to get a hangover. That number is 8. Plus or minus one.

The Palo Verde is a dive bar that is one part hipster bar with a rocking jukebox (that only takes quarters) and one part homeless beer provider.

$1 cans of PBR on humpday brings in the crowd. Even if the ASU students are gone for the summer. Even when the PBR reps waving around corporate debit cards have all been fired. You can still see the assorted working class mingling with the slumming college kids who think real street cred has something to do with tattoos. It doesn't. Street cred is about choosing a bar because of the dollar specials they have, not using Daddy's credit card at the bar provided ATM machine. $2.50 surcharge for each withdrawal.

If that ain't enough to get you going the jukebox has a single song selection from UFO. Highway Lady. A song about a prostitute. The lyrics from the song include the words " she makes you smile and makes you forget how she feels...how she feels."

In the imortal words of someone I can't remember. "I'll never forget!"

I have no Lucky Charms. I didn't even get Corn Beef and Cabbage this year. A way too late post on St. Patty's Day.

I was depressed on St. Patty's Day. First, I saw no Leprechauns. And if you don't know how much I love leprechauns then maybe you don't pay much attention to anything you read here. Which is OK. As I don't really pay any attention to you.

The day did start off pretty well. Around 7 in the morning I took a civil service exam at the post office. That way when I get older I can really go postal on your ass. That deserves another post sometime.

Card Shark and I were still awake at 10 am. So he decided to stop off at a local titty bar. At 10 am the bar wasn't even open yet and somehow we convinced the doorman to let us in.

I think the bartender was a little pissed about us getting in so early, as she didn't have any clothes on yet, just a G-string and bra. Which is great. Because the best part of going to a strip club is seeing someone naked or near naked that never intended for you to see them naked.

Later that day I told a friend while watching that shit hole of a movie Strip Club that, "At some point in a stripper's career she dies a little on the inside. That's the day she stops getting nervous or embarrassed about going on stage."

I told my friend that I wished I could just pay to see the look in their eyes as their dreams or dignity died out. That's way better that a lap dance any day of the week. And the only reason my friend really goes to strip clubs in the first place. I guess the point I am making here is that my friend is a misogynist and everything I say is just a joke.

The other point I want to make is the quality of strippers at 10am is shit. My stripper had enough scar tissue on her stomach to start a war with. My friend "fell in love" but the girl would normally be considered the "fat ugly stripper" at most strip clubs. The longer we waited the more we saw fat chicks walk in and get naked. Suddenly my real life had intruded on the fantasy that is supposed to be going to a strip club.

In real life even I can get a middle aged fat girl, who's children have left her scarred and busted, naked without giving her money. I just go on E-harmony.com for that. So we decided to leave. As we left the bar we saw the doorman "making out" with one of the strippers.

This stripper wasn't hot. Just to give you way's of comparison, I've always dated hotter chicks. But here this girl was making out with some 50 year old 400 pound sweaty guy. I mean heavy petting at 10 am and the guy is drenched, no covered in sweat. She's holding on to him like she can't get enough of this guy.

"This guys gets more pussy than me?" My tone is incredulous. And my friend has to listen to me rant for about 16 minutes on the drive home. I am so upset about all this I decide to get myself a fat chick. And whenever I want a fat chick I go Karoke or dancing.

Eventually we made our way out that night to Graham's Central Station. Gram's has 4 0r 6 different clubs all under one roof. Mostly a bunch of cowboys, hoodrats and minorities show up to this place. You know just the type of people that a middle aged post modernist (but non-hipster) white guy can score with.

I take that back. I can't score at all. I saw myself in a Walmart mirror the other day. Walmart mirror's are not designed to make you look skinnier and they are placed out in the frigid bare industrial lighting. Lighting that makes you take stock of yourself. And forces you to surrender your vanity to the inevitable ravages of time.

I was told yesterday that I seemed positive. Despite all the shit "going down." That "my blog seems positive." I think I need to nip that in the bud.

Stop reading this blog. Or I am only going to resort to reviewing all the boring clubs and bars I go to in Tempe for you.

Anytime I get a spike in readership I slow down in my posting. I don't like having to live up to all your expectations. I've said it before. But I feel the need to keep saying it over and over again.

I know you think I am a hypocrite. Because all I ever do is tell you I want to get famous and rich. And anytime I get close I self sabotage. But I could stay up late with you every night and get drunk and talk to you about the philosophical implications of approach/avoidance disorder till your sick and puke your guts out. But I am pretty sure that'll just be the tequila talking.

Last night I went out on the town again. Which is funny coincidence, because lately I've been watching a lot of the movie The Last Days of Disco.

In the movie one of the characters is given a fancy overcoat to throw over his hideous middle aged clothing in order to get past the bouncer. My friends and I had a similar experience at Club Zuma. We are way to old to be trying to get into this bar.

My friend got really pissed at the doorman for letting in a bunch of VIP's and hot chicks before letting in a couple of 30 year old scrubs. I tried telling my friend that it was OK. That this sort of thing always happened. And if was any kind of consolation, The Last Days of Disco pretty much ruined Whit Stillman's career as a director.

But my friend was basically inconsolable. He just kept staring at the doorman with these crazy psychotic eyes. The kinda eyes you all assume I have. But you're wrong. In actuality I am really quite placid and laid back.

We eventually got in to the bar though. One of my friends enjoys "grabbin ass" and I am pretty sure he did his fair share of ass grabbin. Which is ironic. Because one girl who walked up to us near closing time thanked us for "giving her support" in dealing with a belligerent ass grabbing drunk.

Funny thing is while she thought I was telling him that he didn't need to be harassing her, I was really telling him to instigate some trouble with her. I guess the point is here that you can't even trust the dopey middle aged guys at a bar who look like they are trying to prevent the perverts from touching you.

Cheers.

Romius T.

Yesterday's Holiday is Named Fat Tuesday for a Reason

I am not sure what it is about Generation Y. All you fucking MySpacer's out there just love to expose yourself.

Back in the day exposing yourself was dirty. It made you a cheap slut. Even if you were "just playing office with your stepbrothers."

I'm not sure what part of office includes you getting finger banged by a semi related family member, but who am I to complain? I haven't fingered banged a girl since my step-sister, so I really wished I had remained in contact with her after my father left her Mom.

Sorry, I digressed. I digressed into sexually inappropriate memories of my former stepsister. But if your step-sister was as hot as my step-sister then you would too. Especially if you finger fucked her on more than one occasion.

I bring up how my step-sister used to molest me for a good reason. When you read about step-brother/sister fucking you generally get a bit sick to your stomach. You should, because it's dirty. And it was the dirty that was so exciting. At least for my step-sister.

If it wasn't for how disgusting my stepsister thought I was and how dirty it might be to have her step-brother finger bang in the back of her Mom's pickup bed on the way home from our Aunt Jean's house, I would have never been introduced to the velvety pleasures of the female genitalia until I was at least 20 years old.

Early sexual exposure is nothing new to this new generation. that's because for for them sex is not dirty. But public. Everything, including sex, has to be displayed and shared on You-Tube. For them somehow nothing is real unless someone else is watching it on a computer screen or TV. Because TV and computing and text messaging is the only way these kids know how to relate to the world.

I didn't want to expose myself today, I just wanted to hang out and party on Fat Tuesday because I support the Katrina victims. And because I like getting drunk in public. Not because I have some kind of sick voyeur fetish. Instead I payed a 10 dollar cover to stand in line. The celebration at Fat Tuesday's on Mill Avenue consisted of paying a cover and then waiting in line for an hour and a half to get inside the actual club for overpriced frozen girly drinks.

I've never felt comfortable in lines or around groups of people. There is something unnatural and bothersome to me in the gatherings of people. So many of them. Happy. My EX used to get pissed at me, because I would embarrass her in line at Safeway. But I only acted inappropriately in line in order to make all the other people in line feel as uncomfortable as I felt around them. And I think it works.

So while my friends and I were content to simply drink a beer and complain to each other about the slow moving line so many of the Y'ers were not. Instead they got their nasty on. That's Generation Y. Always positive. Gen Y has zero attention span and no desire to see the dark lining of any cloud. A few bored fat girls danced for us while we waited in line. And by dancing I mean mimicking things paid hookers are often too timid to try.

I think these girls fail to understand that the thrill men find from watching women lick each other or fake anally penetrate each other is the the thrill of dirty behavior. But wen you copy that "dirty" behavior so self-consciously it completely ruins it for the true pervert. You can't "own" degrading behavior. It ceases to be degrading at that point.

But the only thing that really makes dirty dancing unwatchable is fat chicks. Fat chicks have completely taken over the promiscuous displays of their generation. I realize most Americans are fat, but I thought we all were superficial enough to agree that only attractive people should be allowed to flaunt their stuff in public.

Last night at Fat Tuesday violated that agreement, and thereby lived up to it's name. Fat Tuesday with its massive veined breasts exposed. Fat chicks grinding away and hopping. Red lined bellies from too tight pants exposed by too short tops. Tops that wanted to be lifted at any excuse. Tempe is not New Orleans. Nobody should expect that the cheap beads they give out to everyone at the entrance of a corporate sponsored sex-o-rama would be able to entice any of our Tempe girls to uncover.

But I was wrong about that. I was totally wrong. Also wrong about things like how fat chicks are actually human beings. Mental Agents with desires. I had always assumed like most psychopaths that people so different from me have no human agency. They may jump like frogs when shocked with electricity, but not from an inner volition. To me fat humans had always seemed merely responsive to stimuli. See Big Mac. Insert Big Mac.

It's now all so disconcerting.

I Got Hit On Last Night At A Bar. For the first time in a long time the girl was cute. Way cute. Cuter than you.

I just hope last night was a prelude of what god has in store for me. Maybe a little Valentine's Day Awesomeness!

I was at a local pub last night minding my own business. Mostly I just stood around waiting on my friends to bring back beer for me from the huge breasted bartender. We always go to wherever big boobed bartenders serve 25 cent beer. Even with a 5 dollar cover charge you can get drunk on the cheaps.

I must have been rubbing my nose absent mindingly, because a rather cute dark haired girl leans over to me and asks "Are you mocking me?"

That's not an unusual question for me to get asked. I usually am mocking you. But I was just zoning out at that exact moment she looked over at me and was not at all copying her.

"Because I was touching my nose at the same time as you." After she finished her question I notice my interrogator is really cute. Petite and young. Half my age I'd guess. This puts me at a loss. I can't recall the last time a women made a move on me.

Normally I am quite quick witted, but last night I had no retort. In fact all I could stammer out was "No, no ..I wasn't mocking you."

I am so cool. That must have sounded totally bitchin' to her. I am just some little girl who dared not to offend. My friends cracked up laughing at me. They insisted that I "dropped the ball" and "fumbled at the five yard line." One of my asshole friends even brought up Tony Romo's choke of a hold on a place kick that cost the Cowboys a playoff victory.

Talk about kicking a brother when he's down. But don't worry sports fans. Old Romius T. still has a few tricks up his sleeve. I got the girl's attention a few minutes later and used an eye contact thing I know. You ladies understand what I am talking about. Some guys just know how to give good eye contact.

She walked back over to the bar where I stood. I started with a run up the middle for 4 yards. "How you doing?" But things got better when she leaned in to me in order to hear me better. "Actually," I tell her "I really did mean to mock you. Normally I don't try and hide it. I just do it straight to your face."

She seemed relieved that I wanted to insult her. I noticed she travelled with three hipster wannabe tough guys. She made a point of saying to me that "They were just friends." So I figured she must be into water sports or something freaky. "You should say it to my face." She mutters to me half drunk. Her eyes are shiny and giddy.

I am not going to tell you much about what happened next. But let's just say that I punted and put myself into some pretty good field position. I am sure we will meet again and I can't wait to try for a field goal.

Happy V-Day everybody.

Cuddles.

Romius T.