OUR WORLD:
Since sitting alone in bars is part of my job (professional Sad?) I’ve developed proven methods to give off “no, it’s okay, I’m not a sad person”-vibes. It’s tricky, really, toeing the line between self-assured, creepy and sad while sitting alone at a bar, but when done properly, can make you feel like one of the cool movie guys who make you want to get into cigarettes again. (Then you’ll probably go overboard and try rolling the pack in your short sleeve like James Dean until you catch your profile in a mirror and realize that your jawline is NOT chiseled.) I’m planning for “The Rules of Being Alone At A Bar” to be recurring posts. Let’s try these out first:
NEVER SIT DIRECTLY NEXT TO SOMEONE WHEN THERE ARE OTHER SPOTS OPEN: What’s worse than sitting at a bar with a bunch of open seats, and some chode picks the seat right next to you? Everyone knows that there should be one seat in between each party at the bar and if I owned a bar, I would actually mandate this by allowing my customers to place sharp metal spikes on the seats flanking their party at the bar. Would there be some bloody butts? If it keeps the creeps fromma’ creepin’, then it’s well worth it. Girls, wouldn’t you be much more likely to go to the Spikey Seat bar than risk having Hairy Jerry and his double vodkas sitting next to you and your friends on a Friday night?
If you are reading this and thinking “I like to sit next to strangers at the bar because I’m open to meeting new people!” just stop fibbing yourself. The whole “meeting new people”-catchphrase was started by some hippy who wrote a book or something that confused affability with harassment. What, you can’t talk to someone if your love-handle isn’t resting on their thigh? (Side note: ever look at people seating at the bar from behind? NOBODY looks good. It’s like a row of ziplock bags stuffed full of melting gelato with heads on top. Oh, and the heads? Most have bald spots.)
MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE BARTENDER WITHOUT A FULL-BLOWN CONVERSATION: Not every bartender is an amateur psychiatrist thrilled to diagnose all the problems you’re dumping on their doorstep. Remember especially if they’re over the age of 35, they’re doing a job that requires an explanation of “what went wrong” every time they speak to their grandfather. When I bartended, I did not whistle while I worked. Instead, I felt trapped between sads and their unprescribed medicines; I got to play the unlicensed doctor setting my patients up for a blip of relief before waking up with a stinging headache. (I just don’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t a good bartender?!?!) I was cordial with the alone-people at the bar, but I was overly cautious with them due to the fear of getting caught by a talkative one. Ever wonder why the bartender acts super busy in a slow bar? He’s probably trying to avoid getting cornered by an alone-person sitting at his bar. It must be a BILLION-TRILLION-GAJILLION times worse for female bartenders. Give ’em all purple hearts and lifetime passes to every panic room ever constructed.
As an alone-person at the bar, simply play hard to get with the bartender. You want to make friends with him because maybe he’ll give you a free drink and most bartenders have cool stories. So order your bev, thank him or her without really looking at them, and go back to watching the television. Play it cool, guys. Keep an eye on what’s going on around the bar and, after a while, you’ll pick up on some of the politics surrounding your seat. Maybe you’ll see a pouty server or a bitchy customer or an angry boss. Once you spot this, wait for the bartender to come near you and flip a “I’m with you, brother”-comment the bartender’s way. For instance, lets say you see a customer send back a drink more than once. When the bartender nears you, say something like “they seem like fun.” BOOM, you’re on the bartender’s side. All most bartenders want to do is complain about their job, so once you open that possibility for them, they’re puddy in your hand. And guess what? Alone-you has just made friends with the most popular person in the place. Congratulations.
DON’T TALK TO THE TELEVISIONS: You’re not fooling anyone. The entire bar knows that your running commentary on the muted news program is a signal: YOU’RE DYING FOR SOMEONE TO REACT TO YOU! I’m not talking about the meatballs who yell at their teams during important sports games (how else would the players know they were fucking up?) No, I’m talking about the nights at the bar where there aren’t sports on, but they left the TVs on, like, the news. There’s no sound, but a picture of Trump will come on the screen and the alone-guy DYING FOR A REACTION will blurt out something like “You believe this guy?” First off, no, I can’t fucking believe that guy. But more importantly, I don’t want to be goaded into a political conversation with the alone-guy stranger at the bar. Nobody does EXCEPT for maybe some of the other alone-guys at the bar. This creates an absolute nightmare scenario where alone-guys are shouting conversation to each other from across the bar. If you find yourself in one of these shouted convos, stop it right now. You don’t want to be one of these people for even ONE SECOND of your life.
Now what if you hear one of these alone-people barking at the TV, but you didn’t know that was the situation? You turned to your left and, all of a sudden, you’re making direct eye-contact with said alone-person right as they’re reaching the climax of their political monologue. “Shit, alone-guy is gonna take this as a sign I want to engage in this” is what every sane person immediately thinks. And guess what? Alone-guy DOES take that eye-contact as a sign that you’re in. As you see television talker alone-guy misread your accidental eye-contact, he’ll shift slightly towards you covered in “let’s have a chat”-body language. Before he completely turns in his chair, you need to get up and go to the bathroom. That’s your only way out; straight bail move. Act like you really need to go and you turning that way was just part of your exit-move. Hop off your barstool and do a trot-waddle to the bathroom to really drive home the point. We don’t want to make the alone-guys sad, but it’s every man and woman for themselves whenever the television talker starts acting up.
MY WORLD:
I’m in the midst of a sock crisis, and I’m close to just throwing in the towel. The VP and I have gotten caught WAY behind with our laundry, so we’ve been employing the “lets rummage through the over-stuffed dryer every morning for our outfit”-plan of attack. Unfortunately, the fruits of these dryer searches are limited to shirts only. At this point, finding matching socks is about as likely as The VP becoming an ultra-marathoner (I think I’ve seen her run once…in an Ikea parking lot when she thought for a second she was gonna get hit by a car.) Now, a normal, responsible adult would gather all the hamper socks and devote however long it takes to match socks. Lest you forget, I am special and have chosen an alternative solution: embracing mismatched socks as “my new look”. I, Jimmyschair, hereby announce that I am no longer a sheep in the matched sock flock. Remember, fortune favors the bold.
For those of you who thought Jimmy Fashion was dead: catch me on my yacht.
LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Dave Matthews Band came out with a new album and I think this is my favorite song on it. I THINK!
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Rainy Fridays in the summer.
WRITING ABOUT GAMBLING ON THE NBA FINALS IS BORING ME SO I’M GOING TO TAKE A BREAK FROM IT FOR A LITTLE BIT. PLEASE DON’T CRY LIKE “BACHELORETTE” LINCOLN ABOUT THIS.
But real quick, I’m putting the balance of my Bovada account on the Warriors tonight.
K bye.
Jimmy's Chair 