Finding my place

In my ongoing quest to act more like an adult I have moved to Boston. Step two was to start drinking coffee. Since then things have stagnated a bit. But anyway, I thought being in a metropolis surrounded by people who contribute to society it would inspire me to do the same.

I used to live in Worcester, MA and San Diego, CA. These places literally could not be any more different but they were both places that bred complacency. In San Diego you constantly felt mellow and as if life couldn’t get any better, so you never tried to make it any better. In Worcester, you are constantly surrounded by people who are worse off than you, thus making you feel like a massive success even though you are only a bartender.

Boston is different. Boston is filled with educational institutions, cultural attractions, and erudite people. It is bursting with culture and class. So, of course, all I do is go to bars and talk to people exactly like me. I mean they are like me in the sense of social class and color. If you delve any deeper you would realize that I am unlike any of these people, which was made glaringly obvious the first time I met my roommate out at a bar.

I walk into a place called The Sail Loft and it is a sea of pastel colors. And that’s just the men. If anyone was wondering where the Northeastern Preppy Douche migrates in the Fall, I have found it. They all seem to be wearing expensive belts. My belt is from Marshall’s and has little pirate skulls on it. Not that you could tell, since my shirt is untucked. I am the only one with my shirt untucked.

I get the distinct feeling that I am the only person in this room that voted for Obama. I decide to keep this to myself and bide my time until last call when I can leave. Then a guy walked in wearing a scarf. Not a scarf you would wear because it’s cold, but a white linen scarf that I’m sure he spent a lot of time in front of the mirror making sure was draped perfectly around his pencil neck. Unless he flew to the bar in a bi-plane from 1947, the scarf is ridiculous. Cue the Irish Exit.

On a different night, we went to a bar called Lucky’s. Lucky’s is the kind of place that doesn’t a have a sign. It’s going for the underground speakeasy vibe, except it has a website. It does get a couple points for actually being partially underground and at the bottom of the stairs I realize something. I have been in this bar before except I was twenty-two and it was in L.A. and I hated it then too.

It was trying a little too hard with the red pleather booths, mugshots of celebrities and vintage toys on shelves behind the bar. It looked like T.G.I. Friday’s opened an Old Hollywood theme restaurant. Just to drive the point home, they were actually playing Swingers on the televisions. The women are dressed to the nines, the men are wearing Affliction t-shirts and I am suddenly very thirsty for bourbon.

I guess it’s all about finding your own place. These places are not for me. Nor is any place with bottle service or anywhere that plays techno. Like finding a significant other, sometimes finding a bar is recognizing what you don’t want and working backwards from there. For a bar, and a woman, the checklist includes: unpretentious, affordable, and doesn’t let a lot of creepy men inside. I don’t think that’s too much to ask and yet, I’m still looking.