150 Fridays

(Warning: This post is not for everyone..you’ll figure out who you are pretty fast.)

A most glorious weekend...

Since I’ve been cavorting in the grand city of London and just returned from Nirvana or Barcelona as its known to others, (momento de silenco por favor) I have noticed a shift in my attitude.

My love for meat-and most specifically -meat that hangs from a large hook has increased exponentially. I realize that is an odd statement. It’s actually been something I’ve been grappling with for a while now. Not the meat thing, but the new found love for seeing grilled meat (I will never be a PETA rep I am well aware of that) and layers upon glorious layers of dried hanging meat. Unbeknownst to me, there is no other city that loves a big roast more than London. Pig roasts are rampant in London and Sundays are the big day. I love Sundays. It’s like being a kid again and knowing that you are going to get to go on the Slip’n’Slide because it’s nice out. The large pig on the grill is my new Slip’n Slide. DISCLAIMER: I really do love animals. I am sticking to the Hat Trick of meat (ie) cows ,pigs and chickens. And I actually really love cows, pigs and chickens..(you see, it’s an internal struggle!)

Our love affair

However, I was in Barcelona this past weekend and I went to a local market. In the past, I would have scoffed and possibly grimaced internally at the poor animals that didn’t have a chance from the get-go. However, this time I grabbed my friend and said, “we must take a photo!” This photo then spurred an hour-long analytical discussion of meat. She has been experiencing similar feelings since she moved to London back in March. In fact, the Saturday before we were at an all-day roast and managed to consume almost an entire pig between the two of us. That takes talent and dedication. Now what does this all mean?

Overzealous? I think not...

I’m not exactly sure. Maybe it speaks to the laid back nature of the cultures; maybe Americans need to adopt a “when in Rome” (or I suppose London and Barcelona in this case) and open up a bevy of meat stands along Rush street; maybe the British and the Spaniards are barbaric. Whatever it is, I like it and I plan on going to many more Sunday (and Friday) roasts. I will not chronicle all of them as that would be weird.

For the meat-lovers back in the Motherland who don’t want to fly to London and pour red paint on my clothes after reading this, Paulina Meat Market at 3501 N. Lincoln Ave is a Chicago institution and has more hanging meat than you can possibly handle.

Que aproveche

Unlucky...or just unlucky in London???

London is not for the faint of heart. Or for the faint of hand.

I know that being naturally me, things generally just don’t go smoothly. And I won’t even bore you with my “detainment at the border” story. Apparently having a work visa here is really important and the border police don’t like being told “they will have a scanned copy in their inbox first thing Monday morning…” Also take note that despite wearing an oversized Bucky Badger sweatshirt and looking like you are MANY Fridays away from the age of 30, they will still look at you as if you’re personally wired up and ready to detonate in one of their British trash cans. But this blog is not about my arrival in London.

It is about how either God is trying to tell me to have some respect for U.S public drinking ordinances or to personally give me affirmation that I may be one of the unluckiest people in the world. I hope I conclude it is the former…

The group realizing that Shane was not a person they wanted to meet...

This blog is about my past Sunday. Because apparently in London, a Sunday is no different than a Friday at happy hour or a Saturday at 2AM. The British drink everyday, everywhere and at every hour. So this past Sunday I was trying to acclimate into my new British way of life and go to a pub in the afternoon, when really all I wanted to do was curl up on some sort of couch, order pizza and watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8.” But no, to a pub it was. It was that day I learned that despite a culture that brews alcoholism; the British are actually quite active. You see, they drink at the pub, but then will bring sporting equipment with them and go to a nearby park (which are all over) and proceed to play a half way decent organized game of football (the Euro kind people!!), rounders (baseball) or some other game that requires a ball. After I got over my amazement that the pub resembled more of an intramural locker room, I then noticed the intrepidness of my fellow pub goers. I saw them heading out the door, to the park, balls in hands, WITH their GLASS pint glasses. But you can’t do that…right?

Wrong. After I was given the quick 101 that it was OK to drink in public spaces AND bring the glasses from the pub.., I was quickly on board and swaggering a bit as I crossed the street to the park with a legitimate smirk on my face, feeling like I was playing hooky and talking smack (yes I did say that) about our “conservative” American drinking laws. Well that lasted for about 5 minutes.

Because all of a sudden an American football (the irony is not lost on me) flew threw the air and came down on both the pint glasses I was holding and smashed them to bits, slicing up my hand in the process. The action-hero-turned-leap-through-a-glass-window--unscathed is not something I buy into anymore. My hand bled at a scary rate. SO it was back to the pub, blood all over while my friend Liz had the unfortunate job of trying to calm me while I was pretty sure I was staring at a projectile of glass coming up from my hand. Once I was back, I heard the short order cook yell (that’s because I WAS in the kitchen with my bloodied hand) “Hey, has anyone seen that first aid kit that was supposed to be by the stove?” Dear, dear God.

Long story short, they wanted to call me an ambulance, but out of embarrassment and a desire to get away from the raw boar’s meat as quickly as humanly possible, I opted for Shane-the other cook- to assemble a bandage from an unmarked tin box and recommend the tried-and-true-method of Krazy Gluing my deep wounds together. Hmm….

My hand is much better-thank you very much-and I have no doubt I will venture out into open spaces again with a CAN of beer.

Stay tuned next week to hear about how I choked on a bacon cheeseburger as a bald eagle crapped on my head…Is London rejecting me?

The iconic phone booth we really do love.

I come to you with my head hung low. 150 Fridays implies that I should be blogging at least once a week, but perhaps a more befitting name might now be "33 every third Fridays." (somehow that doesn't have the same ring to it does it…) Please refrain from recalculating my new
age.

Alas, I am sure it's been a tough few months without my proper guidance on how to spend a Friday evening. How have you managed?

(Please note the dripping sarcasm, to which I fell inclined to spell out as 150 Fridays has been in hibernation.)

But have no fear because I am back. In a new way. From across the pond.

Yes, I am in London right now working at time.com for a short period of time. So rather than blog about Friday nights in good old
Chitown..I am going to go against the grain of my own blog and share my Friday adventures from London.

I must say my first Friday in London was um…quite a disappointment. That's because it was the Fourth of July. And to those of you who only think of the 4th in terms of no work, beer and sun, please note that I spent my 4th working, pining for the sun and realizing truly for the first time (over beers so that was good) that the British HATE the Fourth of July. It may be a duh factor, but I've never really really had to think about what the holiday signified, until I was thrust into an atmosphere with patriotic Brits who refer to THAT day as the "War of American Independence." Hmmm….interesting. Don't you mean THE Revolution… Or THE day that Uncle Sam got His groove back… SIR!?! (please say the Sir in a faux British accent, it makes the sentence way better) You get my gist.

Go ahead and salute the colors of the flag..American style.

But I must say, that being over here for the Fourth made me proud to be an American (and yes, my fellow American friend Liz and I only sang that triumph song at least 4 times walking down the streets of London…along with many other fine classics like "London Bridge is Falling Down" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy." )

It may have not been my ideal "first" Friday in the great city of London, but I must say, everyone should spend one Fourth of July abroad to gain better appreciation for our fine country. Who knew I was such a patriot (I am kind of creeping myself out actually)…and who knew that I would be frantically racking my brain one night for any remembrance of fourth grade social study lessons.

So please accept my mea culpa for being a fair weathered blogger and get ready for a great summer of the return of "150 Fridays…London style."

Cheers

A monumental love, maybe.

I popped my DC cherry. And I have mixed emotions about it.

I’ve been in DC for the past few months finishing out my Masters program at Medill. I am one of those rare people who never went to DC on the obligatory 8th grade class trip. Instead my Catholic grade school schlepped, or rather bused, all 12 of us out to Toronto (yes my 8th grade class was really small and it is really easy to be popular when there are only three other girls…in retrospect, great for the esteem). Anyway, I really, really like DC but I can’t help but sprinkle in (annoyingly I might add) when I am talking to DC residents, “Oh! But in Chicago we do YOU FILL IN THE BLANK.”

Being out here is kind of like being in a brand new relationship. The first month here I was blown away at how different it was from Chicago and all I wanted to do was spend every waking minute having mind-blowing “DC tourist days.” I couldn’t get enough of the city… and how beautiful it was… and different. It was settled. I was moving to DC and swapping Michigan Ave. for Pennsylvania Ave. I already felt more sophisticated.

Then the normalcy period hit me and I realized that the city is actually kind of small, not to mention that political talk here is as commonplace as bitching about the Cubs and we all know how old that gets. Additionally, I started to become someone I didn’t think I was. I remember alarming myself one night when I asked a friend who works for a prominent senator in all seriousness to “give me all the juicy Senate gossip.” It was a moment of self-reflection and I just turned slowly to stare out the window at lovely DC in all its glory and started to feel…um…slightly dissatisfied.

Well, that period lasted for a bit and I think if I were here for an extended period of time, DC and I would eventually break up. But for now, I am back at the appreciation stage. DC is really a fabulous city, despite the lack of hair product on the men. It takes all the will power in me not to load up my purse with gallons of Crew and pomade every weekend and start feverishly applying it to the product starved, Robert Redfordesque hairstyles that DC men (abhorrently) seem to favor.

But being out here has definitely made my heart grow fonder for the Windy City. I have spent a few of my remaining Fridays out in DC and have loved every minute of them. I think everyone should live in DC once for a period of time. But maybe like your first true love, where in your heart you always kind of want to end up with them…I too, want to eventually end up with My kind of town…

I am sure you’ve seen the AP photo of President Bush standing on a chair next to a very, very, very tall guy in a tux. Well, that guy happens to be my really good friend Dave, and yes, he really is that tall. Six foot seven to be exact.

I have to admit I am insanely jealous of him. It’s not only because he got a ticket to the coveted White House correspondent’s dinner where he got to shake the leader of the free world’s hand. It’s not only because he got to see Bennifer II up close and personal (that’s Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner for all of you not in tune to pop culture). I am not even totally jealous that he got to meet Henry Kissinger (OK that is pretty damn cool)… or pee next to a Jonas brother (for my readers who are not 16 year old girls, the Jonas brothers are another creepy trio of brothers who can sing…Just think Hanson Brothers of the Millennium.)

Dave had a 15-minute conversation with Kumar. As in THE Kumar from “Harold and Kumar go to White Castle”. Please don’t even try and pretend that you don’t love that movie…or that a new found love for Neil Patrick Harris --“NPH” -- was resurrected in a way that you didn’t think possible since the death of Doogie. That movie is pure genius and it reminds me of many Friday nights a few years ago, when I was in what you might call my “early 20s”. (Note -- since I have left my early 20s, I no longer validate that distinction. I now feel all of the 20s are equal.)

I used to live on Southport near Wrigleyville which is conveniently located down the street from…you guessed it…White Castle. That would be 3212 West Addison St. I feel no remorse for blatantly plugging the place like a publicist. Prior to living in such close proximity to the fine burger establishment, I did not truly understand the underground obsession with the place. That is until I had it one late, late night after shamelessly going to Big City Tap. Words cannot express what I felt that night and I am not even going to try. Just know that I woke up to a tower (an actual one) of burger cartons. It was beautiful.

What was even more beautiful was that Harold and Kumar came out just a few months later. It was a force to be reckoned with and so relevant to my life. How did I not think of that screenplay…it’s a sensitive subject to this day. To add insult to injury, my friend Dave actually had one-on-one face time with the man. I immediately asked if they discussed the much anticipated “Harold and Kumar escape from Guantanamo Bay”, which is yet to be released but I am sure had some relevancy given the subject and the partygoers.

To my disappointment, Dave said that Kumar stuck to much less relevant topics like the election and Barack Obama. Dave said Kumar was eloquent, intelligent and engaging. That was enough to bring me back fondly to my White Castle years and reflect on that special time in Chicago.

Oh yeah, he said Kissinger and Bush were alright too. Now if only Dave met NPH too. Actually no…my envy levels might have gone to new levels.

White Castle…may I repeat 3212 West Addison.

As I sat deciding what I was going to do one Friday night, my mind started to wander back to my mid-20s…ahhh, seems like eons ago. Do you remember the first time you went on MySpace?

Well, maybe some of you don’t. But before Facebook, there was another social networking site…and it was called MySpace. Do people even go on that site anymore? I decided to find out for myself.

So I logged into my now barren account (I swear) and I actually think MySpace has gotten worse. After I logged in I was re-introduced to the most ridiculous group of people that ever have lived. Was it still possible to be this absurd? Unfortunately, the answer to my question was yes.

Apparently doctor and lawyer aspirations are just so yesterday. On MySpace it is now far more ambitious for girls to shun the scales of justice and stethoscopes for a shiny, silver pole and clear plastic platforms. And just in case you really don’t understand how passionate they are about their craft, the girls post pictures that would be perfect for America’s Next Top Model…if it was on Cinemax.

Apparently unfamiliar with the concept of a picture being worth a thousand words, phrases like “Don’t lust for what you see, desire what you know” splatter across the different pages. “I thirst for you to figure me out” (You have to understand all the girls on MySpace are complicated and deep and philosophical and independent and real…how they navigate the waters of life amongst a sea of simple people never ceases to amaze me…the girls of MySpace are true pioneers). Last but not least is “Sometimes classy girls have to do trashy things”. I don’t think Aristotle could have said it better himself. At this point, I was silently patting myself on the back for never becoming a “MySpacer..” Now, Facebook, well, ahhemm….that’s a different story.

Five hours later I was still on my couch shamelessly searching through MySpace becoming increasingly disappointed with my gender–that is, until I revisited some of the guys’ pages. It was like a Vidal Sassoon commercial gone horribly wrong.

Endless photos of orange skinned guys who had somehow sculpted their hair into giant gel weapons flashed before my eyes. With the eloquence of a Shakespearean sonnet, they wrote slogans like “Wuz up sexi, holla’ back at me”, and “Damn, I’d hit that.” (needless to say, I was swooning) And just in case they couldn’t woo you with their brain muscle, there are no less than ten close up photos of their abs to really get you hooked. Do any of these boys actually own a shirt??? Studies need to be done. I needed a break and I needed one immediately.

But more importantly, I desperately needed to log off of MySpace but I couldn’t. I felt like a crack addict on A & E’s Intervention. I couldn’t stop looking at people’s profile pages. I knew I was being judgmental, disapproving and critical. So I did what every self-respecting person would do.. I turned back toward my laptop and I logged into my FaceBook account.

[At Press Patrice still has her MySpace account but continues to fight her daily urge to log onto it and make fun of strangers].

I was walking down Rush street the other day past Le Colonial. As I passed, I saw a waiter staring out the window serenely, clearly taking in the great weather. He and I made eye-contact and his expression changed. As he stared at me, I saw a look in his eyes that resembled the first time I realized I only had 150 Fridays until I was 30.

It was a look of sheer terror.

And that’s when I remembered I had seen that look before. Yes, I knew exactly who this abrasive-looking gentleman was and I couldn’t help but combat his cobra-like stare with a big grin.

I was walking down Rush street the other day past Le Colonial. As I passed, I saw a waiter staring out the window serenely, clearly taking in the great weather. He and I made eye contact, and his expression changed. As he stared at me, I saw a look in his eyes that resembled the first time I realized I only had 150 Fridays until I was 30.

It was a look of sheer terror.

And that’s when I remembered I had seen that look before. Yes, I knew exactly who this abrasive-looking gentleman was and I couldn’t help but combat his cobra-like stare with a big grin.

It was two years ago in April and the weather was just starting to get nice. It was the day I learned the greatest remedy of all and this man unknowingly played the role of ER-George Clooney. He was the doctor of drinks that afternoon and I was the patient in an episode I call, “Day Drinking.”

Yes, day drinking. Don’t lie, you know you love it. How many times have you walked by a table of people on a gorgeous work afternoon and have seen them laughing, kicking back and drinking some beers and you being so envious, you’re half tempted to plop down like a weirdo and join?

Anyway, it was two years ago almost to the day that I had officially reached my first quarter-life crisis. Without going into the specifics of why I saw a large, black abyss when I thought of my future, just know that it had something to do with not getting selected as host for a horseracing show….don’t laugh please.

But at that particular moment I was devastated, and my then horse-less life, as I knew it, was over. So I called one of my best friends who I knew could leave his job in the middle of the day. He had two words for me: day drink. The truth of the words rang out as soon as he said them.

Now, I am not a raging alcoholic, nor am I promoting drinking at odd hours of the day as the answer to life’s problems (which it very well may be). But lets be honest, this was an emergency and he knew that a plan of action would have to be implemented in order to thwart the imminent life break-down. The only way to counter-balance my horse-induced devastation was to partake in the best of all warm-weathered traditions.

And so we planted ourselves at a prime outdoor table at Le Colonial on this particular gorgeous Friday afternoon. Eight hours (I am not kidding), one box of Kleenex, several bottles of champagne (isn’t my friend great! Even in my woe, he knew better to view that day as a celebration with bottles and bottles…and bottles of champagne) and several angry stares by the Le Colonial wait staff later….I had clarity on my life. And a voodoo doll replica of myself (I am positive), handcrafted by the man I saw the other day in the Le Colonial window.

My friend Chris and I single-handedly saw 10 different groups of people come and go throughout the course of the day…and night… in this man’s section. Apparently, even if you rack up a ridiculous drinking bill, snagging the “hot” table on a Friday night and not eating is not kosher. Each time the waiter came back he asked if we wanted to order food, and each time we’d respond in what was certainly a slurred, “nope…just one more drink though.” In retrospect, the same look I saw the other day is in fact the same look he was giving us most of the day, but I was too focused on our champagne.

But I learned several things that day:

1. I decided I should go back to grad school and viola, here I am at Northwestern…so the day, was ultimately a success.
2. 9 PM is a perfectly acceptable time to continue to wear sunglasses.
3. If you see the same people on Rush street stare at you incredulously after they have seen you at the same table with drinks for almost a full working day, it’s best to stare back at them confidently; there is no place for shame in day drinking.
4. Our waiter almost cried with joy when we finally paid our bill. Apparently, most waiters really don’t like you after the 7th hour of waiting on you…the nerve right!
5. Day drinking can cure all of life’s problems, if you will just give it a chance.

Some other favorite day drinking establishment: The now-defunct Melvin B’s, but I believe Cactus and Cantina is still open next door too it; Cru; Chaise Lounge; Castaways; Lux Bar; and obviously, Wrigley Field!

Tis the season!

Cheers

I know this blog is about places to visit before you turn 30..however, due to an embarrassingly frequent occurrence, I am compelled to talk about a place that you never, ever, want to visit.

Photo by celikins

The caverns of Lower Wacker…otherwise known as “the scary place you go to get your car when it[s been towed”.

I am ashamed to admit that I am all too familiar with this place. The same kind of shame I had the one random night a few years ago when I ran into my college-aged brother at Beaumont’s on Halsted (I don’t know what possessed me to go there ) and realized the Beaumont ship had sailed eons ago (if indeed it had ever docked). The tow place will evoke the same emotions I promise you.

For those lucky people who have the Towing Gods on your side and have not had to visit what looks like the set for a new Wes Craven movie, I will tell you about my most recent excursion.

Shockingly, I couldn’t find a parking spot by the Apple store on a recent Friday during rush hour. So I did what I always do. Park my car on the corner of Superior, east of Michigan Ave., put on my hazards, cross my fingers, say a few silent Hail Marys and join the long mass of cars that are parked in a row doing the exact same thing (in retrospect, this may be why I’m always getting towed….but whatever). Allprofessional double parkers have the same look in their eyes: a crazed look, with eyes darting back and forth as if their being followed and a walk that could rival the power walking champion of the world.

Not more than 20 minutes later, I emerged from the Apple Store to find my car…or, to be more accurate, not find my car. I immediately cursed my carelessness. Never be the first car in a line of cars with their hazards on. You might as well send an invitation to the city to tow your car. I couldn’t believe I made such a rookie mistake.. Of course, my car was the only one towed. .

As I gazed upon the spot where my car used to be, my stomach dropped because I knew where my next destination must be.

Lower Wacker.

And it’s funny, because no matter how many times I have been there, I still cannot tell a cab driver exactly where it is. It’s like being in “Labyrinth.” The place exists, but it is so underground that even cab drivers don’t know where it is.

When you finally arrive at this strange place, you are immediately shocked at the village of people that dwell down there. It is the Ritz Carlton for homeless people. All of the people know each other and not just any homeless person can start hanging out. It’s like a secret club. But the only prerequisite for this club is a mild case of schizophrenia.

When you finally find the make-shift office (really it’s a double wide), you will be rudely greeted by a city employee who is as unhappy with his job as Milton when Lumbergh took away his Swingline stapler.

The misery is palpable. Imagine the DMV times a thousand.

And if you try to build a compelling case on why you should not have been towed, the tow employees will mock you like a late night employee at Weiner Circle.

And if you want to pay the $200+ tow fee in cash, watch out. You will have to venture outside – the now (oddly enough) safe haven of the double wide - to go find a cash machine…which is conveniently located in someone named “Crazy Joe”’s bedroom.

I have three words for you: Run really fast.

Each time I get my car from Lower Wacker - like an alcoholic-I vow that I will never park illegally again.

But, well, you’ve seen the ending to that story.

So I was walking in Bucktown the other afternoon and I swear I saw Moby…..47 times. But then I realized the implausibility of that and remembered no…I was just in Bucktown.

On that same note, I went to dinner in the Gold Coast and had full-fledged conversations with David Hasselhoff…nine different times. It would have been 10, had the Hasselhoff look-alike’s girlfriend not angrily intervened. Then again, it’s hard to convey anger when your forehead doesn’t move…

The same clichés go for the Hollister-wearing, popped-collared frat brothers and sorority sisters of Lincoln Park. And let’s not leave out our favorite bunch: the people in the Loop who trample you with their brief-case-turned-rollaway-suitcase because they’re talking on a BlueTooth ear piece while fiddling with their BlackBerry clip as they head back to the AON Center…for a very important meeting.

We are in a crisis.

Chicago is even more segregated than I had originally thought.

And what is even greater than the clichéd people is the clichéd nightlife that undoubtedly settles into each of the different areas, allowing the clichéd characters of this city to fester and grow. I vowed long ago to challenge myself to think outside the ‘hood.

I am going to start with Moby-ville.

It began with a simple night out at Debonair with a bunch of my friends. What can I say, I love ’80s music and dancing; please don’t judge.

The conversation began like so:

Moby imposter (wearing a Ramones tee…branded at Strange Cargo): So…like…do you like music?

Me: Yes, of course. (Hello, I’m at Debonair, clearly not for their specialty drinks)

Moby imposter (the perfunctory adjustment of the black-rimmed, non-prescription glasses before he speaks again): So…like…do you wanna come see my band play sometime at the Double Door?

I will spare you the rest of the gory details. But know this: I have no doubt in my mind that he would’ve offered to buy me a free-range vodka soda had I not politely stepped aside to go dance. (I have never had such love for Boy George).

Surely, there has to be a place in Bucktown where not everyone is just..so…Bucktown?

Fast forward to the next weekend…

My college friend, who is (dear Lord) married was feeling restless and wanted a fun “Beth and Patrice” night on the town. I will say, there is something mildly depressing about trying to reenact college days but inwardly knowing things have changed. Wow, I just depressed myself. There will be no more of that in this particular blog entry. But I am not making promises for the future. Anyway…

Bucktown is a happy medium point for us, so we decided to start our night there.

And that particular evening I knew in my heart that I just could not stomach an attack of Mobys and swarms of Pete Wentzes. So the usual haunts were pretty much out.

I then remembered my roommate just went to a place in Bucktown called Violet Hour and was surprised at how cool and different it was for the area. A few texts later and an admittedly slight twinge of the “Let’s-just-go-dance-to-’80s-music-at-Debonair” thought later, we found ourselves outside an unmarked black door.

At first I rolled my eyes because the umarked, graffitied door screamed, “Oh, I am so hip and underground…and so Bucktown.” The exact cliché I was trying to avoid that night. From the looks of the door, I was expecting the worst. Moby, bring it on….I guess.

My married friend didn’t get out much anymore, so she was just excited to be anywhere that didn’t include the words “potluck” and “other couples.” I could sense her fears were not exactly in-line with mine that evening.

When we walked into the lounge’s lobby my expectations rose slightly for a very unlikely reason. There was a no cell phone use policy. I mean, I am even talking about texting. What!?! Well, then how could all my little hipsters mass-text the time and location of their next gig. Hmm….perhaps this place was different?

And indeed it was.

Where were all the Ramones vintage tees? Where were all the Converse Chuck Taylor AllStars? And most noticeably missing…where were all the obligatory Bucktown faux-hawks?

I almost felt weird. I almost wanted to run back to my “safe Bucktown place” so I could declare that everyone and every bar is so cliché.

But Violet Hour was staring me down…and so was the DiCaprio look-alike from across the room…or so I thought. My married friend Beth was gorgeous and had a ring. And I’ve learned that rings (yes, even on women) are one of nature’s most powerful attraction magnets.

As he sauntered up to talk to…yes, it was her, I only prayed that he wasn’t going to ask us to come to his show later on that night at the Double Door. And yes, he was too good to be true. In his defense, it wasn’t his band.

But I suppose it’s all about baby steps. And I had already accomplished my mission of finding a non-clichéd place, in an endearingly, hilarious sea of Mobys.

Moby photo courtesy of wikipedia.com.