[Trying To Ge Fucked] In Park Slope

This is an ongoing series in which we attempt to bring you lots 'o different perspectives on what its like to *actually* live in Park Slope...from readers just like you (or not--that's the whole point).

Yet again, here's our own Jew-cy, randy, "can I get some action up in herrre, plz!," Park Slope hetero: "Mark*" (*names have been changed to protect the soon-to-be-fucked).

I can’t hold my liquor. Well, I can…but this hold dissipates when I’m ten deep and it’s 3 in the morning. I know it’s gone when dreams of chicken-and-something pizza from Joe's sound better and less complicated than going through the motions of getting this girl in front of me home.

She’s cute enough, but smells vinegary; the crap Merlot she's sipping in the back of Union Hall escapes from her pours, too impatient to wait for her liver. The wine, like me, doesn’t want to be inside her.

Though Joe's won in the end, the night started promisingly enough, with two Coors tallboys and an hour of Most Shocking Wild Riots, Police Mishaps, and The General Lowest Common Denominator on TV. Human desperation and gross stupidity readies me for the unplanned Slope bar crawl on tap for the evening.

On the way to meet friends in Park Slope proper, my roommate and I stop for two Buds at Timboo's – the institution that is fast becoming my favorite bar in the hood. Among the cigarette-wrinkled faces and leopard-print blouses, Timboo’s offers a real sense of place: A juke box with selections ranging from "Born to Run" all the way to "Thunder Road;" a wall-to-wall picture collage, not updated since 1984, of patrons who are presently sitting at the bar; flyers everywhere for a $25 open bar for the Super Bowl (deals still exist in this town). A place where, if I were into 60 year old married chicks (in their defense, they only looked 60...they could have been much younger), who drink their Coors Lights out of snifters, I may have gotten laid. Luckily, for both me and the future of this post, I’m not.

We left after a guy using the urinal next to me decided I was his friend and asked me, soon after saying hello, if I would go to his place and take care of his wife for him. But I shouldn't worry, he said, cause she's only interested in sex. Laughter ensued as I tried to figure out if he was serious (he was), and finished peeing. It was either the most random introduction I've had in a while, or the guy was a fucking stealth blog-reader who figured out who I am and what I want after only one post. Before I could follow-up, it was time to head to Great Lakes, the planned meeting spot of the eve; me silently hoping that I'd get the same offer there.

I think "Glory Days" was playing when we left Timboo's, and Great Lakes greeted us with "Caring is Creepy" by the Shins. Oh, the dichotomy. But it didn't end there.

People were younger, more attractive, and the girl-to-guy ratio was reversed in my favor. But something was left at Timboo's.

My confidence?

I don't know what the deal is, but at places like Timboo's I can go up to anyone and say anything, and not act a fool. I have more trouble around my contemporaries. No, that's not true either. Maybe I only have problems at generic bars, cause I don't see what I have in common with anyone else there other than being at the same bar? If it were a concert, I'd be fine, cause there's a talking point: we both like the same music. But other than Southpaw, all we have in the Slope are bars.

I'm a good conversationalist one-on-one, but that "hello, I have no idea who you are but I'm saying something to you right now which means I'm interested and we're in the same bar so we definitely have something in common" doesn't work for me. I tend to observe in these places. If I see someone, I wait for my opening and let it pass when it becomes available.

There were 6 of us now, and with only one guy (who always does all right for himself), talking to a girl that he met out in the Slope before but never called, we decided to head to Union Hall. Cause that's where chicks go to get laid. Right?

Well, that's what I've been told at least, cause it hasn't happened to me there...by choice.

Like on Friday. It was getting near 3, and I bumped into vinegar girl.

Literally. I spilled some of her precious Merlot (do many people drink wine at places like the Hall?) on my way to the bathroom. And, as always happens, people I'm not at all interested in talking to start talking to me. I excused myself after a bit to have a cigarette outside (this habit is good for something, after all). But she appeared right after I lit up. I was in if I wanted it. But I didn't. She didn't know of the date I had with Joe's. I let her know about my prior engagement, and left needing satisfaction.

Joe's didn't disappoint.

Comments

[the coopalicious]

that chicken pizza can get pretty complicated depending on how much you drank...don't let your guard down.