Public Relations
It’s like a bad toothache. You want to stop touching it, but you can’t. You have to know if it still hurts. Watching a bleach-blond puma* in a tube top throw herself at the guy in the bar stool next to her, using way too much tongue as they begin to make out, is kind of like that. I feel disturbed, uncomfortable. Then I hide my eyes embarrassed for her, embarrassed for being so close to it. Ten seconds later, I’d forgotten what it looked like and had to look again. I smack my friend. There needs to be another witness to verify this is happening. They are still going at it? And at a sports bar? Not the sort of game I’d planned on watching. OK, I confess. Yes, I have made out at a bar … possibly more than once (thank you cherry bombs and Kelly Clarkson). Admit it, we all have. But none of us are proud of it. So, please do the rest of us a favor before you decide to get your game on in public, locking lips with your date, significant other or that really cute dude you just met. Stop. Think of your surroundings. You’re in public. Translation: plain sight. Hand holding is cute. A quick kiss on the lips is acceptable. Keep it clean, and keep your hands and tongues to yourselves.
*Puma // a woman in her early 30s on the prowl for a younger man. Next stop: cougartown.
Tab Fare
A bar tab is a relationship. It’s a commitment. It says, “I’m going to be here a while, so please be here for me.” It carries the implication that even though it took me 10 minutes to wrangle your attention to get my first drink, dear bartender, I know that once I’ve opened my tab, each trip to fetch successive rounds will be met with growing familiarity from you. I may even at some point during the evening think we are friends. You do have my credit card up there after all. Hell, you even know the little three-digit security code on the back. You could complicate my life with that information. But we both know you won’t even if I drink too much, take a cab home and leave my plastic with you. I know you will only close out my tab, add the gratuity you so richly deserve and safely stow my credit card until I return to claim it. A tab doesn’t understand the phrase “Let’s get a beer — and just one beer — after work.” A tab will instantly make you more attractive and interesting, especially after you’ve coolly uttered the phrase, “Let me get you a drink. I have a tab going.” A tab says, above all and forever: “Don’t worry about me, guy. I’ve got this.”
It’s like a bad toothache. You want to stop touching it, but you can’t. You have to know if it still hurts. Watching a bleach-blond puma* in a tube top throw herself at the guy in the bar stool next to her, using way too much tongue as they begin to make out, is kind of like that. I feel disturbed, uncomfortable. Then I hide my eyes embarrassed for her, embarrassed for being so close to it. Ten seconds later, I’d forgotten what it looked like and had to look again. I smack my friend. There needs to be another witness to verify this is happening. They are still going at it? And at a sports bar? Not the sort of game I’d planned on watching. OK, I confess. Yes, I have made out at a bar … possibly more than once (thank you cherry bombs and Kelly Clarkson). Admit it, we all have. But none of us are proud of it. So, please do the rest of us a favor before you decide to get your game on in public, locking lips with your date, significant other or that really cute dude you just met. Stop. Think of your surroundings. You’re in public. Translation: plain sight. Hand holding is cute. A quick kiss on the lips is acceptable. Keep it clean, and keep your hands and tongues to yourselves.
*Puma // a woman in her early 30s on the prowl for a younger man. Next stop: cougartown.
Tab Fare
A bar tab is a relationship. It’s a commitment. It says, “I’m going to be here a while, so please be here for me.” It carries the implication that even though it took me 10 minutes to wrangle your attention to get my first drink, dear bartender, I know that once I’ve opened my tab, each trip to fetch successive rounds will be met with growing familiarity from you. I may even at some point during the evening think we are friends. You do have my credit card up there after all. Hell, you even know the little three-digit security code on the back. You could complicate my life with that information. But we both know you won’t even if I drink too much, take a cab home and leave my plastic with you. I know you will only close out my tab, add the gratuity you so richly deserve and safely stow my credit card until I return to claim it. A tab doesn’t understand the phrase “Let’s get a beer — and just one beer — after work.” A tab will instantly make you more attractive and interesting, especially after you’ve coolly uttered the phrase, “Let me get you a drink. I have a tab going.” A tab says, above all and forever: “Don’t worry about me, guy. I’ve got this.”
