Monday, July 10, 2006

My Own Private Superman

Had a great weekend. Went to a BBQ with a few friends on Saturday and took my niece to Pirates 2 yesterday. Both of us agreed: it was long as hell and not as good as some folks are making it out to be. Still, $132 million for an opening weekend...damn. And despite the gripes, both of us agreed that we'll probably break down and see the third.

Gay and straight worlds collided routinely this weekend. While trying to unload a cluster of CDs I no longer need (free REM Monster CD to a loving home), I found Neil Young's Prairie Wind for only $7.99 and Madonna's not-quite-fabulous, but still good Confessions on a Dance Floor for the same price. A cute record store clerk griped that if she knew if Neil Young's Prairie Wind was in the used lot, she would have snagged it up.

I went to an Ultimate Fight Night gathering with a few friends. I'm not a huge fan, but I was more into hanging out with the group of friends than the event. Some shaved bald guy beat this other guy, but it looked more like a boxing match, which the audience of almost-has-been celebrities didn't like. I wanted the fight to end sooner than later since it was getting late and I was due at The Max - a gay-friendly dance club in Omaha. My jeans were the same, but I had a Boston Red Sox shirt donned for the Fight Night. Not that these folks are homophobic or anything, but the shirt was more appropriate to wear than the tight-fitting, brilliant red, jellow and white soccer-style shirt I was wearing to The Max.

I left UFC night and went to The Max. I opened my bookbag and saw the red shirt with some cologne next to it. I just kept thinking of Superman or Spiderman - a situation arises, he has his outfit, either worn on the inside of his 'ordinary' clothes or in his bookbag. Hidden. I did a quick change, put my 'ordiniary' Boston Red Sox shirt in the bookbag and splashed some cologne on and went into the club.

And got absolutley no love for the shirt, with the exception of a few creepy troll-like figures. I asked for a vodka tonic and the shirtless bartender took almost two minutes to make it, not because he was busy, but because he was flexing and shaking his goods to the howling onlookers on the bar. Dude put the ice in my glass - then shook his hips and flexed, reveling in the cheering adoration. He then asked me again what I ordered. I said "vodka tonic." He nodded absently and grabbed some vodka but before he poured, he flexed and shook his ass. Again more people cheered. I wasn't one of them. I was getting impatient. He poured the vodka and then asked "tonic...right?"

He grabbed the tonic and ...yup. Flexed, strutted and vogued for the onlookers. I was getting pissed. It was like I was invisible. I don't subscribe to the belief that a bartender should fawn over you, but they should either be a) courteous and attentive or b) pour a really strong drink. This one did neither. I had a nice, crisp dollar in my pocket for the usual tip I give a bartender. Fortunately, I also had two quarters in my pocket.

The bartender got the two quarters.


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