It had come to my attention in recent weeks that my dear friend Stacey and I had seen very little of each other since she started her new job at the PAA. She used to work at this bar on the Waterfront called Sing-Sing and for whatever reason she still has a soft spot for the place. The last couple of times that we've made plans she's always suggested that we go there…she suggests it casually but I can tell that she really wants to go. I feel bad because I always suggest something…anything else like, “Oh, no, you know what we should do? Shave our legs and then go to sleep.” I had been there once before and absolutely hated it. However, Stacey was buying that evening and I ended up being very rowdy in a way that Stacey misconstrued as, “Kelly loves Sing-Sing.” But she really wanted to go this weekend with some friends of hers from the PAA and I figured that I should quit being such a snob and do what my friend wants to do. Besides, she babysat all those Thursdays for me for free after coming off a late shift. She's a saint.
At the beginning of the evening I felt a little uncomfortable. At Stacey's house she showered, changed, changed again, changed one more time and spent at least 15 minutes doing hair and makeup. All this while I sat on her couch and watched Pleasantville in my dirty jeans, very old shirt and sans makeup.
So, my scrubby self and Stacey get to the Waterfront and…see…I don't mind that place too much as far as shopping goes but I really don't get people who want to hang out there on a weekend. It's just so silly.
We go into Rock Bottom, the restaurant that's attached to Sing-Sing and meet Stacey's friends there, Kathleen and Alison. Alison seemed alright but Kathleen had me feeling a little wary. It didn't help that when she went to the bathroom Stacey and Alison were concerned that she might get lost since, “She can be a little ditzy.” Not a good sign.
After an introductory drink, we headed over to Sing-Sing. Their shtick, in case you didn't know, is that they have dueling piano players who take requests from the crowd. They basically replace the jukebox that you would find in most bars, singing songs that, for whatever reason, really appeal to drunk white people. As we walked through the door I was greeted by their gravelly and sloppy rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Free Bird.” I shuddered.
Details are a little hazy after that because Stacey kept buying me drinks. However, the fact that I managed to get drunk is a testament to my new, post-baby status of “lightweight.” At $5.25 a pop, the Cosmopolitans were actually glasses of lightly spiked cranberry juice with a twist. I think what did me in were the mysterious shots that Stacey kept purchasing. But at no point was I out of control, just rather tipsy.
Unfortunately I can't say the same for Kathleen, who was drinking like a 16-year-old. If you ever had parties in high school they were probably of the “we-had-better-drink-whatever-we-can-find-it's-imperative-that-we-get-drunk-now” variety. Kathleen was drinking with this kind of desperation and abandon, which I find inexcusable for a 23-year-old. After a few beers she started ordering drinks at random: a Captain and Coke, a shot of Rumplemintz, a shot of Jagermeister, a shot of Goldschlager, *two* Captain and Cokes, another beer, and so on. Now, I don't know anyone who can drink like that and maintain dignity. So when I would come back from trips to the bathroom and find her draped in Mardi Gras beads, I wasn't surprised when she explained, “I FLASHED THE PIANO PLAYERS! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” and that, “WE'RE GOING TO GO UP ON STAGE! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” And go up on stage they did. While I sat in my chair, demurely sipping my $5.25 cranberry juice, Stacey, Alison and Kathleen did the chicken dance in front of 500 or so Pitt/Penn State students and grads, the guys all uniformly wearing baseball caps and the girls wearing these crocheted/mesh shirts (not suitable for a late February evening in Pittsburgh). They giggled and did the motions as the audience sang those famous lyrics, “Nah nah nah nah nah nah na, nah nah nah nah nah nah na, nah nah nah nah nah nah NAH, *clap clap clap clap…”
Which brings me to the music. I haven't really gone into detail until now but it's definitely worth a mention. Since the crowd is more or less in control of what is played, you probably won't be too surprised when I tell you that I heard a good chunk of the Lynyrd Skynyrd catalog, both the Pitt and Penn State fight songs, “I Will Survive,” for the newly single gals in the crowd who were busy drinking that man right out of their hair, plenty of “Happy Birthdays,” “I Want You to Want Me,” some Bon Jovi tunes, some Jimmy Buffett, and, of course, “Piano Man,” by Billy Joel. I lost count how many times that particular tune was played and every time I looked around and saw people swaying back and forth, holding micro brews and singing along I got a little angrier. The song, while I have nothing against it, per se, is about some neighborhood bar where there's a lot of regulars and stories being told. This was not the environment that we were in, but it's trying so desperately to sell it. All of these places like Sing-Sing, and T.G.I. Friday's and Max & Erma's, that put up fake vintage pictures on the wall and decorate the place to make it look older than it is, sell drunken camaraderie to people and I don't understand why that market is there. If you want to be in a neighborhood bar, why don't you go to a neighborhood bar…where everybody knows your name?
Anyway, enough rant. Halfway through the Van Halen medley I decided to go to the bathroom again and phoned the boyfriend. He told me about Turkey not letting our troops in. When I returned to the table I tried to tell my companions about this bit of good news but they looked at me like they didn't know what I was talking about. I promptly changed the subject and Stacey and Kathleen retreated yet again to the bathroom. I sat with Alison, who was making some rather funny comments on the current group of girls on stage, when suddenly the piano players began the Patriotic Section of the evening. They pounded out “Proud to Be an American,” at which point 98% of the crowd stood up, started shouting along, swayed back and forth, lifted their drinks to the flag hanging on the stage. I turned and looked at Alison, generally confused. She then said, “This is so….Fox News.” I agreed. “It's like the O'Reilly Factor Christmas Party.” When it was over, everyone sat down with a look of satisfaction on their faces, as if to say, “Well, I've done my part.” Drinking, apparently, makes people feel very patriotic.
A little while later, after sitting in relative silence and rubbing her head, Kathleen went to the bathroom. When she hadn't returned in over 20 minutes I suggested that someone go to check on her. Stacey took it upon herself and when she returned she reported that she was sitting on the bathroom floor and not feeling too well. She told me that she had ordered her some food, in the hopes that it would settle her stomach. Stacey and Alison headed back to the bathroom to further assess the situation while I remained, guarding our table and various purses and coats left behind. The food came a little while later, some sort of chicken fajita that I'm sure wouldn't have helped Kathleen's stomach. I wasn't hungry but apparently the guy one table over was since he reached over and helped himself to the plate. I looked at him, eyebrows raised, and told him that I certainly didn't want that one back but he couldn't have anymore. Luckily, he didn't contest. Stacey came back alone as Alison and Kathleen headed home. We stayed a little while longer and finally left, reeking of cigarette smoke.
I was happy to spend time with her, but that's just definitely not my scene.
Oh well. I'm hungry and I feel better now that I've gotten the story out of my system.
