The sum and substance of a weekend night

You set the scene: a local bar/dive, tight-clothed (underage) girls and guys who constantly look wet. Like so many nights before there was a prowl, there was a dense, wafting air of cigarettes and alcohol. This is what we have assimilated ourselves to, but I am always in the mood for assimilation of any kind. \nA group of young men, whose faces were familiar but the memories of names had been fried, stood haunched, snickering at some wisecrack. I figured I wouldn't look completely out of place in this group, so I sidestepped close and tried to look attentive and aloof at the same time, so as not to offend them or the rest of the patrons. \nThere were a couple of young ladies nearby, and I decided to converse with one. Rather, our proximity and my keen aloof look forced conversation upon us. Of course, the inevitable, ice-breaking major question came up quickly. I said mine was music, as it always is with beer and ladies. Sometimes I feel like a child molester at the bars. \nShe said hers was psychology, to which I quickly replied, "So are you like a, uh, crazy?" I was hoping to spur some conversation, but she looked offended. I was speedy to recover and told her how all psychology majors I had met were very much loose cannons or bedwetters. I said I could never understand why someone would trust these people with their secrets and problems and expect them to actually help out. I mean, these psychologists are probably just looking to justify their own strange behaviors by proving to themselves that there are people more screwed up then them.\nWell, that just didn't make anything better: her eyes darted around the room for a life preserver. She found one in a burly fellow about twice my size. She screamed a little in my ear, politely excused herself and went to wrap her arms around him. Now, I couldn't decide if I had been too obscure or too good-looking; either way, I was dissatisfied. Good-looking men can never have a woman really fall in love with them, and I was always very happy I had broken my nose when I was a boy.\nThe next conversation I found myself in was with a bald-headed, goateed Southerner. I had overheard him saying something about Jack Kerouac, and I figured this might lead somewhere. I started up the conversation by saying that lately I'd been plagued by an apocalyptic nightmare. At the end of the dream I had been upset when I found out there were many other survivors. \nUnfortunately, I had just given this guy the soap box he'd been waiting for to deliver his rhetoric. Before I could run away, he started explaining his personal philosophy that the world would be a better place if love ruled and everybody hugged. It was more than even a mild cynic could bear. I started to tell him that I couldn't understand how an obvious existentialist could swing with that notion. I told him that it truly is our prerogative to not care about other people. I'm a real democrat and an isolationist, a realist.\nHe looked equally puzzled and angry. He told me that I had it all wrong and started in on a theme and variation of his previous comments. In a brief and all-too-sparse moment of silence, I looked down at the ground and noticed he was wearing Dale Earnhardt Jr. socks. \nI spent the rest of the night ordering drinks or going to the bathroom -- anything to look busy. I wondered how a crowd of thugs and husband-seekers could invoke such violent feelings within me. I suppose that I'm searching for the same thing that these people are, and, in a way, it is hard to accept. I too want to get laid and have good drinking buddies, but perhaps it's too much to ask for good conversation as well.\nI ended up closing down the bar that night, stayed 'til I got kicked out. At the time I was ranting about sectional composition and the new Wilco album to the bartender. Can you believe that this guy from the Village Voice said he didn't know who would find Jeff Tweedy sexy? That guy's just trying to prove he's not gay -- Tweedy's got boyish charm! \nThat girl was still there, too, and she was not looking at all passive about her attraction to the guy. They headed out the door, and she was at a 45-degree angle. Maybe my old friends were right when they told me to lighten up, but I'm starting to take personal offense to my weekend nights.