I would have been way back beyond the scrappy weeds...
We're a mixed bag here at Twitarded and some of us are rabid sports fans, but I didn't grow up in a household where we played or watched sports. My parents may or may not have believed that I developed a sudden interest in football while in high school, but in truth on game day I was generally holed up at a friend's house, listening to Cheech and Chong records and getting high. I have never even dated anyone who was into sports... Like JJ, I tend to gravitate towards musicians and other tortured-artist types. I've been to an occasional hockey or baseball game (ok, one of each, a loooong time ago and it was mostly to get out of work), but the whole "people in matching outfits doing things with a ball/puck/stick" thing has never really been a part of my life.
So it's kind of inexplicable that Mr. Snarky and I ended up having dinner at a sports bar last night. We were out after seeing an early Screaming Females show and there were a lot of options at our disposal...
I have a total girl-crush on all all 5'-nothing of her.
Also, she may have made a Robert Johnson-style deal to acquire her mad guitar-playing skillz.
Chipotle? Right around the corner, but we'd already had burrito salad bowls for dinner earlier in the week... The place where their signature salad is a lopped-off quarter-head of iceberg lettuce drowning in a Bic-Mac's-calories-worth of creamy dressing? Definitely a possibility... How about the awesome restaurant where we'd had our wedding reception? A little pricey but soooo worth it, and they have a phone-book-sized martini menu. But the sports bar was right there, and we had never been there, so it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I'm not sure what exactly tipped us off to the fact that we might be in over our heads, but by the time we noticed that half the people at the multiple bars were wearing matching jerseys, it was too late - we were in the door. When the bartender asked us if we'd like a table upstairs, we assumed that our befuddled expressions had given us away, and she was going to take us to the room where there were no TVs and cool jazz played in the background. Instead, we ended up in a room where the walls were lined with televisions and everyone was staring at whatever ball-chasing extravaganza was transpiring over our heads.
It was kinda like this but more brightly lit and less cool.
Also, I can now definitively say that I have never been to a real "sports bar." Oh sure, I've been to my share of old-man bars with a television in the corner that might bill themselves as sports bars, but folks, this was different. And frankly I find it disconcerting to have a bunch of strangers - mostly male, mostly large - suddenly leaping out of their seats and shouting in my general direction. Hey, I'm from New Jersey. Random strangers in gang colors shouting in my direction is a cause for alarm. Not what I generally seek out in dining atmosphere. If they were actually AT the game, I imagine this crew would have been face-painters. I figure the face and body-painters are the sports-equivalent of the guy who goes to a NIN concert dressed in black fatigues and a trench coat completely covered with safety pins. Die-hard, yes. Mildly terrifying, you betcha.
It was thisclose to being just. like. this. But with food.
Image from Cosmos & Cleats, where a sports-savvy girl tries her best to help chicks like me.
Other things that should have alerted us to the fact that we were in the wrong place: the ginormous customized sports-bar-themed Hummer that the owner of the place drives and always parks prominently out front; the fact that the menu had "Freedom Fries" on it (really? still?). Also, in case the ball/stick action wasn't your speed, they were also showing poker on one screen. I'd rather watch paint dry than a bunch of pimply baby-faced twenty-somethings trying to win their next ten grand. I'm not sure what's worse - the people playing poker on television, of the people who find it entertaining enough to watch. You be the judge.
Although it was sadly on the screen located behind Mr. Snarky and we couldn't watch together, there was one television tuned to 60 Minutes (no volume, natch). So I got to watch some chick who needs to be told that pink isn't her make-up color interview a few other people. At least they weren't throwing balls or tackling each other. And of course there was the Andy Rooney tribute... I used to watch 60 Minutes when I was a kid, and my favorite part was always Andy Rooney bitching about some inane thing. He was like Seinfeld before there was Seinfeld. Maybe it was all the people shouting around me, but I was strangely unmoved (I did, however, break down at my desk sobbing when I read that Jack the cat had died, so I do have a heart, in case you were starting to wonder).
Since it's Monday as I write this and I am feeling a tad whiney, I'm just going to come out and say that the food sucked, our waitress had on waaaaaay to much perfume, and when we got the bill, we found that they'd overcharged us (I think they knew we were not on our home turf). Even the onion ring sucked. And that was not a typo; Mr. Snarky's meal came with a single onion ring. It was so heavily dipped in crappy soggy batter that you couldn't even appreciate it. And I LOVE onion rings.
Mr. Snarky can't remember who told him that it was a good place to check out, but we are pretty sure at this point that they were fucking with us or he imagined the whole thing, depending on how devious we'd like to characterize our friends as being (I'm voting for the former, for the record).
And now me and my case of The Mondays bid you goodnight! Maybe I will wake up on the right side of the bed tomorrow...