Cocktails, Communism and Countertops

Horea regales us with the similarities between our nation's current politics and his native Communist country. Snooze.

As we draw nearer the address Joy and I have given to him, he mentions that we are not far, but that address has quite a few establishments right there. He asks specifically where we are going.

In unison, Joy and I sing "The Bad Dog!" and think it is hysterical.

Horea stops at the light and turns completely around in the seat to look at us directly.

"Girls?" he asks, with an air of protective are-you-sure-you-know-what-you-are-getting-your-beer-soaked-selves-into-ness. And then he looks a little closer to make sure he has not mistakenly picked up some hookers. The establishment has a bit of a rep. He'd clearly assumed we would not be caught dead there.

"Oh no" Joy assures him. "We are meeting friends there!"

"What kinds of friends are these?" he asks, his ability to control his Croatian accent and his perspiration waning. He must have sisters. Gullible sisters.

"We've been there before," Joy continues, "And these friends are men AND women we've known for a long time."

Horea lowers his neurosis enough to capably step on the gas and get us to the church on time. The outside of the bar is crowded with parked motorcycles and leather-clad smokers enjoying a few butts. We pay Horea and as the sea of smokers parts to allow us to pass, we notice he is waiting to see that we make it safely across the threshold. We wave to him and blow him a thankful kiss. Poor guy probably said novenas all through his shift.

Joy and I walk through the long hallway to where the action is and are spotted by our merry band of traveling friends, who sing songs with our names in them in booming voices as we approach. A welcome like this is hard not to appreciate.

Rounds are ordered and doubled and Joy and I take our places in our familiar crowd for the games to truly begin.

The Bad Dog is ONE OF THOSE BARS. Not a strip club, but clearly flirting with that definition.
There is a pretty even mix of male and female patrons, couples, old and young folks. And for that reason, it is indistinct from any other bar. What sets it apart is that the cocktail waitresses and bar tenders are all clothed in nothing more than black push up bras and skimpy black boyshort panties that read "Doggie Style" across the behind. And for a big enough tip, one will climb up on the bar and perform a trapeze act swinging from the rafters. And speaking of rafters, the rafters of the seating area are decorated with cast off, flung and left there brassieres of lady patrons who have been inspired by the atmosphere to let their own girls fly free.

What never ceases to amaze me about this place, is that it is not even the slightest bit uncomfortable to be there. In fact, it is in my top 3 favorite places in this town, the other two having already been visited this night.

Joy seems to have paid close enough attention to figure out why the atmosphere does not give anyone the willies. The cocktail waitress, clearly being ogled by the men, are extremely attentive and gracious to the women, who might otherwise feel ignored. It is like being waited on my your kid sister's best girlfriend who wants to take care of you because she can.

We are there for last call, pile into cars and head to our friends' house - they will return the favor and host the after party. And after party that may or may not include shots, beers, Jiffy Pop, a heated pool, line dancing or dancing up on counter tops, but will definitely include all of us singing at the top of our lungs at one point or another.

Another fine night to rehash over breakfast the next day.