From Kissed to Kissed Off

So, here I sit at the computer on the eve of the end of another wasted Only-Day-Off; still slightly hungover, mainly tired (strung out), and really bummed out.

The End:

I ended last night [last Friday night] (once again *sigh*) at the Mark II Lounge (#261). Sipping Old Style and having like the 6th shot of Jameson, I found myself wedged way-to-tightly between the waitress stand brass rail and some annoying "actor" ("I just got done shooting this really cool indie thing in Chicago" and "I have an agent, I don't need to talk to you"). I try and chat up the cute Polish waitress with the Marylin Monroe Mole above her lip, but sense instantly no-chance and decide to shut the fuck up before she tells me to "shut the fuck up." Freddie, the bar back, stops by and says hello and shakes my hand, then scampers off to collect shot glasses and the like, so that lifts my shitty mood a bit. LA Kat jabs me in the back and shouts above the barroom din, "so this is where you hide to escape me" and then turns back to the Heavy Mustachio dude I left her with at My Place (#266) and some young couple she started talking with. Someone flicks me in the back of the ear, I turn to see a huge Mexican Guy trying to order a Corona, and realize LA Kat most likely was the culprit. I knod at the Mexican Guy because we accidently make eye contact then turn back to the bar. Angie waves and says, "Hiya, Mac!" then rushes to the other end of the bar to take orders. I finish my Old Style, get another, glance at the clock 3:30, and try and make eye contact with LA Kat to no avail...this adventure is most likely over. Feeling crushed, I chug the Old Style, squeeze LA Kat on the shoulder, whisper (drunkenly shout) "have a good night," walk home feeling rejected and confused...

And very very very alone in the world.

The Beginning:

Sitting at the Mark II Lounge, maybe a month ago, minding my own business, I look over across the way toward the pool tables and see this pretty woman. She's got long black hair, shorter than me, brown cargo pants that fit relaxed (but show curves) and a tight orange t-shirt. She has her hand on her hip which is cocked a little to the side, and she's just sort of standing there smoking a cigarette and like surveying the scene. Her head pans kind of slowly left and right, observing and soaking in the few people millng around or sitting at tables. I take a mental note to keep an eye on her movements.

If this woman was placed in a large room of other woman or differing looks, styles, races, hair colors etc., my friends would have pointed at her, nudged me in the ribs, and said, "dude, she's totally 'your type.' Go talk to her!"

I continue sipping my beer and trading small talk with Hristo and Freddie. They're nice guys, and they seem to like my company as they usually hang out with me before the midnight hour rush in the bar keeps them busy.

I guess reading this guy's date should make feel better, sort of, maybe? (link shown by Fresh)

Hanging with Crackhos

It's been a strange and pathetic few weeks.

I've been getting to know the drug-addled street-wise blurry-vision racing-heart underbelly of my neighborhood a little. Four o'clock in the morning conversations are crazy.

The Mark II Lounge, should be renamed The Mac II Living Room.

Isabella at Gallagher's spoke to me last Friday (she speaks English, someone lied to me!). What did she say? Um, the memory is bathed in beer and Jameson, and it's a little vague.

Fucked up at work way too many times. Showed up hours late to both jobs at least twice each. And fucked up big time today at The Bank...apparently I overstepped my boundary of authority; however, I think I cleared it up fifteen minutes later. Hopefully.

I can't go into details, as some are incriminating and (like I said) pathetic, vile, depressing, and just out and out disappointing to myself...yet, an adventure.

I know have more than one Secret, I'll be keeping it to myself.

Hello to Karin, Vernon, Shaolin, and Camilla. See you all on Clark Street after hours, eh?

Good night.

Friday? Where you at, Mac?

If you're looking for me (or just someplace to drink), I am planning to Drone Out With My Bone Out at The Empty Bottle (#105) on Friday.

One of the Z-boys' side project, Good House Stuff is playing at 10:00 p.m.
Check 'em out, they're a lovely bunch of coconuts!

The rest of the line-up to watch/listen/cross-your-arms and bob-ya-head to would be:

8pm The Number None
9pm Matt Clark
10pm Good Stuff House
11pm Haptic
12am Dreamweapon

Soon, after Good House Stuff, you will more than likely find my sodden ass at The Mark II Lounge (#261) because I'm a fool with a foolish job and a sucker for Eye-Candy and post two o'clock drinking!

Buy me a round, and I'll fall in love with you ;-)

It's 3:30 a.m.: What are you doing?

or:

Mac Attempts To Get Laid; Screws Self Instead

Tuesday:
Sonotheque---Z-boys
You've had a two days at work. Surfed the net, fended off whiny bankers, argued with coworkers about what your job is and is not. You need a drink by 3 in the afternoon. You leave work on time for once, but irritated at yourself and the workplace as usual. You get home and remember the Z-boys are playing tonight. You take a nap because you are normally exhausted after work, and the additional stress of being angry leaves you half dead. You take a shower, feel a little better in the warm water, a little more like the "self" you can tolerate being around. The water washes away the sweat of the day, but not all the sadness. You deal with it, smoke a cigarette in the kitchen, watching the cabs and cop drive by. That's the way it's been since you returned from that wedding in Scotland: Cabs and cops roaming the street outside your kitchen window, dropping people off and picking people up.

Everyone seems to be going somewhere except you.

You put on your coat, lock the door, and drive to Sonotheque, hoping tonight will be different fun, in hold of a kiss.

You can't find the bar and get lost somewhere amidst the Lake Street El tracks warehouses and million dollar condos. You turn around and around the blocks of closed cleaners and liquor stores hiding behind black iron cages. The streets are empty and your semi-good mood is emptying out with each exhale of now nervous cigarette smoke. You see a tiny blue neon sign peeking out from the window store fronts. You found the place and a parking spot a block away. You flick your Camel Light into the curb and walk into the bar.
After you show the bored dred-locked bouncer your ID, the first thing you see is yourself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror just inside the door to the bar. You cringe at your reflection, and turn away quickly, and walk into the main room. You avoid any mirror you come across, and there are quite a few. You can't bring yourself to look people in the eye.

It's long and dark, just the faint pulsing glow of Christmas light-like twinkles on the floor and the glow of a movie playing on two walls. The place is empty but for your friends, two bartenders, and two DJs at the bar. You swerve straight for Mike and Brian at the bar. Hellos are bandied about as you scan the overpriced drink menu, choosing Old Speckled Hen Ale just for the name and the fact it's only 5 dollars. It turns out to be a fine Ale and you drink 4-5 of them throughout the night. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
You lean against the bar, talking to one of the DJs, nice guy young, and this is his idea: having live music come on after a DJ set. The music is mixed with other bands and some of the DJs original beats. Its got a primal sad trance-like quality to it, which fits fine with your mood. The fake nostalgia of living out a Jay McInerey novel settles onto your brain, and you go with it. You lean against the bar and try and follow Mike and Neil's conversation about obscure movies by obscure foreign directors, and that crappy familiar feeling starts inching into your mood: you are the dumbest person in the room. So, you lean back from the bar and check out the women and men (boys and girls?) trickling into the bar. A rumor goes around the bar that the Z-boys aren't going to play tonight-- no one here to hear-- but that is soon quashed as the crowd surges up to like 40 people, all white hipsters except for a Nigerian ("he's fucking wacky to listen to" someone whispers to me) and a cute energetic Asian woman ("I think I met her at another of our shows" Mike whispers into my ear). You've been spending time in Gallagher's for so long, you suddenly feel out of place with all these white faces strutting around white men in leather jackets striking poses and white women standing with one leg jutted out in front of them ass pushed out just so with one hand on hip. There's a different vibe among those seeking attention, looking for a week-night hookup. You wonder what vibe you put out, shake your head and take a huge gulp of Hen: it can't be good.
The band starts playing, yet no one seems to notice. The band and the DJs have timed it worked it so the last song on the speakers was in the same key and beat as the first song by the band. It flows seamlessly into each other.
The set is mellow and good and you try to take some pictures (knowing that they won't turn out very well). There's a guy at the end of the bar who looks like a member of some Russian Mafia feeling the waist of a ample Blonde. It's strange, but you get the idea that he "owns" her. The couple next to you starts making out at the bar, you stare at the woman's jet blue-black wavy hair, and smell her sweet perfume and try to remember the last time you made out at the bar: Holly H.. 1998.
You sigh and finish your beer and scan the crowd, eyes stopping briefly on the pig-tailed girl in the 50s red dress white tights, then move on back to the Asian woman in the simple-black-dress whose name you forgot even though Mike introduced you only like 30 minutes ago. Your eyes meet, and you know there's not even a flicker of a chance, so you return to your smoke, stare at the mile long line of liquor bottles on the wall and let her go on speaking to the crazy Nigerian unmolested.
It's nearing 2 o'clock now, and you still want more beer, so you leave the Z-boys, and drive north on Ashland racking your brain for somewhere else to go. Gallagher's is closed on Tuesdays, so you try go through a list of all the 4 am bars you can think of, none of them sparking the least bit of fiery interest in your Ale-soaked brain. You turn onto Western Avenue and see an open spot next to the Mark II Lounge and think "why not." It'll be dead, but you can always mopey-gawk the hot Bulgarian waitstaff and drink in peace.

Mark II Lounge--- Edie and Robert

Friday
My Place closed until May 11th

Mullens---model---link in email?

Mark II--- Latin Swing Night


Saturday
Gallagher's----Ren and Jane

More later---Mac