If It Feels Good Do It

Whatever beer is cheap.

That’s how my conversation with the bartender began.

Most legs drove me crazy at that time. This was two days ago. The bartender’s legs drove me crazy at that time. This was two days ago. She wore a short dress to make sure she drove me crazy. She walked to the other side of the bar. Then she stood there with her back to me. Then she stretched.

But wait, that’s not how our conversation began. Our conversation began when she asked me what I’d like to drink. Then I told her.

This was approximately 2.5 hours after I had conceived of writing down my first impressions of a dive bar in Long Beach. Fern’s. Then I went there. Then she asked me what I’d like to drink. Then I told her, Whatever beer is cheap. Then she played “Between The Sheets” on the jukebox. Then she played the Devo cover of “Satisfaction.” Then she told me that she was not trying to set the mood or anything. Then I thought, Yeah right.

A whiteboard had a compassionate message written on it. “So you’re an alcoholic shitbag? We still love you! Drink up and sing loud!” I felt validated. I turned my head to gaze the length of the bar. At the end was the Ladies restroom. A huge Thrasher sticker was stuck to the door, and approximately 300 other metal, punk and skate stickers. All this fun was merely a bicycle ride from my apartment.

But I have not many friends down here. Going out sometimes sucks, because I’m often alone. The only person I know in LBC is Judy, a girl of former romantic involvement who I wish was not in that category.

Now she lived in her side of the town and I stayed in mine. I had loved her but it brought me nothing. Well nothing except consistent inconsistency. It’s like lyrics to a song you can look up.

Then you love a little wild one
And she brings you only sorrow
All the time you know she’s smilin’
You’ll be on your knees tomorrow

I needed some friends.

Some dude played a bunch of songs on the jukebox that I liked. Everything from Blondie to Ministry. I tried to strike up a conversation him. He was not into it. He thought I was too drunk or too gay to talk to.

He was probably right about one of those. So, in my solitude I drank my 25 ounce Busch available for $2 on Wednesdays. Then a Jack on the rocks available for $3.75 every night. Then more Busch. Then I saw two girls sitting together.

“I’m new to the area, do you mind if I sit here.”

Then I sat there.

Then those two girls weren’t into it at all. I was extremely drunk. I don’t know how the conversation progressed. Words arrived in waves.

“SO
IF
YOU
ARE
SO
INTO
WRITING
WHO
ARE
YOUR
FAVORITE
WRITERS?”

“Oh,” I said. I told her my all time favorite writer.

It was an extremely controversial statement.

“THAT’S
SO
OBVIOUS!” the girl farthest away from me yelled. After laughing.

“I don’t care if it’s obvious,” I said. “He’s my favorite.”

The girl next to me was pissed off. “THAT SEXIST PIG? HE’S YOUR FAVORITE?!”

“Yes,” I said. “No doubt about it.”

“Why? What do you like about him?”

“He’s honest,” I said.

“Honest about what?”

“Pain.”

“Like the pain of being a sexist pig?” she asked.

“Like the pain of meeting two bitches in a bar,” I said.

The conversation went downhill from there. And the girls left. Also from there. But before that they handed me their Karaoke raffle tickets.

A few minutes later I heard a number called over the loudspeaker system and I looked down. I had the winning ticket. I won a $30 coupon for a new cell phone I was too drunk to know if I needed.

Two seats to my right were three people — one guy and two girls. I walked over to a girl at the edge of the group.

“I’m new to the area, do you mind if I sit here.”

She didn’t mind. Somehow we had a nice conversation. About something. I didn’t know what. She also had nice legs. I tried to ignore them. Unfortunately she lived in Portland. She was from Long Beach but now lived in Portland.

I went to the bathroom. In the bathroom. When I came back the girl handed me her email address. Then she left.

So far it had been a good night. Fern’s. Nice place. But I was rapidly approaching a state of being too drunk to sit up. So I left, too. Then I called Judy.

“Wow, you’re actually calling me,” she said.

“Yep. I’m drunk. Do you want me to come over?”

“What? Why would you call me up like this,” she said followed by other stuff summarized as blah blah blah.

“Look. I could come over. Or not. Yes. Or no.”

“No.”

Oh. OK. So I rode my bicycle home. When I got there my phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

So I went there.

Stuff happened.

Then I woke up.

Then I went home.

Then she was mad.

Then a French dude came into my room. He started looking through my vinyls.

Then I thought, “Man, what’s next?”

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