Thursday, April 24, 2008

Play Me a Memory

I visit Chicago!

I feel like a small town girl when I'm there: a city where Stoli is the "house" vodka and parking costs $23 an hour. I'm with a friend, and we celebrate my last evening in town with a trip to a piano bar.

When we arrive, it's still early, and we're two of ten female patrons shouting song selections to our dueling pianists. "A song about divorce!" "Sing something about how men are fucking losers!" But as the evening passes, the place fills up, and oddly enough, with men. My friend, who is newly single, is optimistic, even though a bar (albeit piano in nature) is not where respectable folk go to meet people. A bar is where respectable folk go to hump in dark corners and blame it on the alcohol.

One of the pianists looks at a song request. Shaking his head, he mutters, "Considering how many men are in the audience, this is weird."

My friend raises her eyebrows. "Considering how many men are in the audience, my bar tab is way too high," she says.

We clink shot glasses and toss back our whiskey. The pianists begin a rousing version of "My Humps."

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