They've Got A Name For The Winners In The World

LiveJournal was apparently down for a bit this weekend. I post this as a reminder to Future Perich, who lives in the year 2007 and might be wondering what happened in early January 2005, and not as an announcement to all of you (who probably knew). As I've mentioned before, I'm trying to make this journal more of a personal recollection than a soapbox.

Along those lines, I should find something to archive my journal. Can anyone recommend a Mac-compatible LJ-archive client?

Friday, flynngrrl and I took the train down to Jake Ivory's, where Auston and Deirdre (not deirdre) were having a very small fourth anniversary party. Flynn was a total dork on the ride down, entertaining me until we got to the door. We'd misread the start time and shown up 30 minutes early, so I had time to duck out and wolf down some McDonald's¹.

Time before last when I visited MT in Chicago, we went to a mahogany-panelled bar off of Michigan Ave., with low ceilings and an extensive martini list. A big man in a silk suit sat behind a baby grand in one corner, taking tips in a brandy glass and belting out the classics. I mention this only to establish a benchmark of what a good piano bar requires. Jake Ivory's sucked.

It doesn't take much to put together a Tanqueray and tonic, but the bartender stiffed me with a watery concoction that wouldn't have passed for flat Sprite. The bar looked like nothing so much as a "black box" theatre, the kind favored by small indie companies, with garish lighting and risers in the back. Flynn and I enjoyed a quiet chat until Deirdre and Auston showed up, and we wondered when exactly Jake Ivory's had gone downhill.

Then, the "entertainment" showed up - two guys, one fat and one balding, in Hawaiian shirts at pianos on opposite ends of the stage. They proceeded to look at the requests already in the boxes and toss them in the air with much fanfare, demanding "love offerings" to play your tune. Nothing makes the practice of tipping sweeter than when the server demands it, of course, so I, naif that I was, wrapped a dollar around a request for Steely Dan's "Deacon Blues."

The fat guy got back to his seat after a piss break and looked in his request box, empty save for my offering. He unwrapped the dollar and looked at what I'd written. He looked at it for a good while, like Australopithicus afarensis at some alien obelisk. He set it down gingerly, as if a sudden movement might inspire it to snap at his fingers. Then, if memory serves, he played some Jimmy Buffett.

Deirdre and Auston had since left, deciding to go someplace classier for their special night². I'd been ready to write off the evening as a wash when flynngrrl demonstrated that the quickest way to my heart is through keen Negotiation Theory. She flagged down the manager and explained, in mature yet disappointed tones, that we'd come there with a couple celebrating their fourth anniversary, who had already left. The manager provided a refund of their cover charge with his apologies (eight dollars a head!) and we moved on³.

Everyone except me played pool at Jillian's; I'm no good when I'm drunk. We sat aside later to munch on cheese fries and talk about high school (swearing in class, primarily), video games and people who weren't there. flynngrrl and I were the last to leave, taking a cab back to my place to crash hard.

More on the weekend later.