It was somewhere around the Clark/Division stop on the Red Line that I first realized that the New Year was about to become a reality; that the end of this godforsaken bastard of a year was about to come to a grinding, writhing conclusion at nearly every bar and nightclub around the nation, let alone the world. The birth of the new year would be a water birth, covered in all the vices and liquors of a fouled world polluted with greed, envy, and a sense of terror at forthcoming doom.
This would be 2012, the end of the world as the Mayans predicted it. The Mayans were so certain of this inevitable apocalypse that they themselves ended it early, choosing to be invaded by conquering forces from far off nations that they couldn't even begin to conceive of and letting themselves be washed off of their corner of the map like blood in the streets, leaving only a series of conspicuously modern-looking ruins in convenient tourist trap locations throughout that region of festering boils called Latin America. Never mind that we failed to predict their own demise, we'll let those ignorant bastards have it. When the end comes, all will be made right again. Just you wait and see.
But enough of our imminent demise. First, the drinking.
It's a New Years tradition amongst my more steadfast friends from college that we gather each year in Chicago and tear up the town (as best as a couple of relatively loose-minded Midwestern college grads with liberal arts degrees are able to, which you'll see explained shortly) like it's never seen before (except for the 100,000 other Midwestern college grads with similar ideas, and in some cases, more money; again, you'll see that shortly). Currently, we are in the third year of this tradition happening successfully, although the number of participants in question varies from year to year, as well as the participants themselves. It's sort of our way of staying in touch with each other, while still enjoying our capacity to life, liberty, and the pursuit of overpriced alcohol. In terms of what we actually accomplish each year, we're actually a rather tame group, further burdened by the fact that most of us just don't do things like this anymore. Consequently, our stamina ranges so far apart from each other that our nights are marked by a complete passing out of everyone at the end of the evening.
In short, the night ahead, the first of 2012, was marked by a relatively early conclusion (for those of our age group, mind you. It would still be considered fashionably late by those of another generation, say, our parents for example).
The preceding night (the 30th, for those keeping score at home) involved an evening out at a nearby club as a sort of testing of the waters. We would be going out drinking, it was best to observe what this was all about. No sense in rushing these things off half cocked. Gathering at our friend's house (who for the purpose of anonymity of the blog shall be referred to as The Professor), there was little of what is called pre-gaming involved, for we are but poor starving artists who have little money to share. What beer there was to be had was not of the sort involved for such events. No, such pre-gaming would normally involve the "getting drunk as quick as possible in order to forget feelings and where we put our extremities in the night-time" beers, of which most of us have sworn off. (Insert ad here for Nati Light, a marvelous combination of flavor and taste, in that it has the flavor of piss water and no social taste at all. In short, perfect for frat parties.) No, pre-gaming with the young professional crowd (or yuppies as the term goes) involves the quafting of Sam Adams Seasonal Lagers, purchased in variety packs so as to add spice to our lives. Spice in bottle form.
En route to the club, hereby titled "The Holiday Club", we did pause to offer one of our strawberry cigarillos to a homeless man perched on an apartment building's front step. Surely such a gracious act would show that we are kind people, and our karma would reflect upon us for the coming days. Our benefactee did in fact enjoy the cigarillo, and offered his thanks. ("Strawberry! Shoot, I'm gettin' dinner tonight!") Satisfied with our offering, we proceeded to the club.
As clubs go, this one was distinct for lacking any distinctive characteristics at all. It looked like nearly every single dive dance hall that I've ever been into. The bars were bland and lacking in character, the pool table was isolated and surrounded by the same four guys in polo shirts I've seen in a hundred bars around the country, and the dance floor was appropriately tiny with a massive projector to show music videos that you've seen 100 times over. Even the beer special was Pabst.
In short, just perfect for our needs.
Your average Midwestern yuppie seeks comfort in their everyday life. Familiarity is a plus. This is not just true for Midwesterners in general, for for all youth of our generation. As much as those claiming to be "hipsters" seek the bold, daring, newness that many have searched for since beatniks first began churning out coffeehouse poetry in the late 40's, the en masse of our youth look for the things that we know to be safe, that we know to be fun, that won't hurt us or treat us wrong. Even when we do try new things, they need to resemble the old, or come from trusted sources. New and different frightens us on an evolutionary scale, and though we profess to love new things, we secretly yearn for "same old same old".
Why am I explaining all of this? To give the only reason for there to be so many "80's nights" at clubs around the country. How else could you otherwise explain people overzealously cheering for A-Ha?
As mentioned briefly, the drink of choice for this establishment seemed to be PBR, Pabst Blue Ribbon, the Official Beer of Punk Rock. The only distinguishing element between this and your average light beer of choice is probably calories; your typical can of PBR apparently has the calorie content of one pork chop. (With or without gravy or some other sauce is up for question, though I tend to think that if you're really trying to calculate your calorie intake of PBR in a given night, you're in the wrong part of town my friend.) In order to fully disguise myself amongst the onrush of twenty-something hipsters, for whom PBR is their nectar, their lotus leaf in a can, it took several cans on my part in order to achieve a passing toxicity so as to appropriately celebrate the second to last night of 2011. I figured that by doing so, it would be possible to mingle with the other patrons of the club, speak with them, gain their favor, etc.
Sidenote #1: It has become a realization of mine that I am fully ready to once again embark on the dating scene. Yep, no more light dating before moving to Chicago, no more awkward flirtation that never will go anywhere, all of that is finished. Time to spring myself upon the single ladies of Chicago once more, subjecting them to any and all torments that the night may disclose.
(Which, to be honest in speaking for myself, is limited. Though I might profess to be a wild and crazy guy, in reality, my associate of journalistic endeavors (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons) tends to draw attention away from anything I might actually hope to accomplish in public. Unfortunate me.)
Passing off this information to my friends, one of the goals of the night was to enable me to contact one of the girls in the club who looked as though she would be single, strike up a conversation with her, and get to the point of getting her number. The only flaw in what would seem at first to be a simple plan, tried, tested and true after decades of experiments in bars around the country, rested in the simple fact that I have no idea whatsoever what to do around the opposite sex if we are not forced into everyday encounters for at least three months. This problem became elucidated whilst on the dance floor. Struck by the sudden influence of PBR, I was given a boost of self-confidence, as well as inspiration in the form of an attractive young woman wearing what everyone else referred to as "those hipster glasses". Dancing around, I felt uplifted. Surely this was the night that I would talk with the girl, we would bond, and months of glorious dating would happen. It would be the best thing ever!
"I did it!" I exclaimed to the Professor as we danced to "Take on Me", "I figured out how to talk to girls!" Moving towards the group as my friends eyed me skeptically, I began singing along in a pseudo-falsetto, overcome by the emotions of the event. As I moved closer, I paused. Suddenly, the Fear came upon me. I realized that not only was a pseudo-falsetto rendition of "Take on Me" not the way to attract a girl to dance with you, it was in fact a social deterrent! Word would spread, and the streets of Chicago would howl with madcap laughter as every woman in the city became notified through the private grapevine that there were fools to be seen at The Holiday Club in Lakeview: come and mock them!
"I lied!" I cried in retreat, "I don't know how to talk to girls at all!" I rushed behind a nearby table as my friends, my bastions of support, howled with laughter at my sudden reversion to reality.
At least my idea was better than what my other friend (whom we shall call the Strongman for this evening) suggested, and eventually carried me out: flinging me bodily into Hipster Glasses while she was dancing on the floor.
Needless to say, this did not end well either.
Flashing forward to the next night, I was rushing to Clark/Division from my local place of employment, a semi-ritzy, semi-formal, chain restaurant that specializes in seafood, wine, and assorted other elements the upper-middle class can afford to snoot down upon when it suits them. Along the way to this club, my associate and I paused for a quick cocktail of dubious contents. I would be going to my party dry, and he would be proceeding to some of the seedier establishments in River North and needed proper preparation for what was about to go down that night. (I'm sure his account will someday grace this blog, but until then, it's best left unsaid what goes on in the back alleys of the North Side of Chicago on New Year's Eve.) A couple quick Bloody Mary's and we were away.
We had frequented the Luxbar at this time last year, when we were of a larger party, and not quite sure of what we were looking for. Fortunately for us, Luxbar specializes in not knowing exactly what type of crowd it is catering to on any given night. It can be a casual dining restaurant, it can be a swank bar, it can be a club. Unfortunately, it never seems to choose exactly what it wants to be, and the result is a muddled mess that attracts a varied crowd that would otherwise never choose to fraternize beneath the same roof on any given evening. In other words, perfect for what we were planning for the evening.
Upon my arrival, I relayed a wish of Happy New Year's to everyone before tucking into a mixture of Scotch, beers, Long Island's, and other assorted cocktails and drinks. (Note: when drinking Scotch, be aware of what you're asking for. Generic Scotch (Your Johnnie Walker's of the world) is essentially no better than your average cheap whiskey for its content, its taste, and its aroma. However, the one thing that Generic Scotch will do better than other types of whiskey is get you politely drunk with little after effects better than cheap whiskey, which can send you either into a melancholy stupor or into a raving frenzy. Depending upon your general constituency, of course.) The lamentation of the time was again that New Year's Eve is a time for couples, woe is me, blah blah blah fetch me another drink etc. Though there was a contingency among the group to try and set me up with the waitress for our table ("She's really nice! And cute!"), I passed. Anyone with the tenacity to work on New Year's Eve in a busy bar full of slobbering, drunken lunatics is a fearsome creature of their own right, and should not be trifled with lightly.
I turned my attentions to the nearby crowd. (When I say nearby, I mean literally right behind me. For a time, my strategy of the night to meet new people was to obstruct the passage around the bar with my body, force a confrontation, and then see what I could make of the resulting conversation. Short answer: nothing. Long answer: a WHOLE lot of nothing.) As the clock ticked down, I made a passing reference to my desire to obtain one of the plastic hats that your average party goer on New Year's always seems to have their hands on. They're like pigeons in that they become so abundant that you really don't think twice about them until you either A) find one hurled in your face, striking you in the eye (Happy New Year indeed.), or B) you hear an unpleasant crunch underfoot, look down, and find that you've trodden upon one, crushing it beyond any measure of recovery. Nice job, dick.
"I must obtain one of these hats", I remarked casually, to no one in particular.
"OHMIGOD, I want one too!"
I turned, this time to find a skinny, theoretically anorexic bar floozy clinging to my left arm, wearing some kind of silver dress that seemed to be made of sequins and sheer fabric, with a faint detectable odor of turpentine.
"My name's Selena," she belched into my ear. Gods, you have truly handed me the finest of the finest on thsi evening.
"Good evening. I think I know where I can get those hats at," I retorted, casually wiping away her scent which was beginning to envelop me in cocoon-like fashion. "We were here last year, and they seem to keep them down in the basement."
"Can you get one for me please? I'd really like a hat this year," she whined, as she pulled the biggest trick in the book of the dating world, allowing her eyes to balloon to the size of saucers, looking straight into the soul of the man. (This is not as difficult a trick as it sounds. Most women know that the soul of a man is a dark, dark place where the id reigns supreme. In this instance, she was not terribly far off.)
"I'll be right back," I championed, "Don't you go anywhere!"
"Oh, don't worry, I'll be right here," she promised, as she continued that damned eye trick.
Vaulting down the stairs, I heard echoes of "Get her number!" from my table of friends, who were all enjoying my lack of endeavors as the night's entertainment, along with the rest of their cocktails. Reaching the foot of the stairs found me in the middle of the general dining area, filled with elderly couples looking for some evening kicks, middle aged yuppies trying to remember the thrill of it all, and young, drunken stragglers who were searching for the nearest open available bar space, which consisted of a shifting, amoeba-like space that flowed around the bar, generally based around where waiters most needed to get to at any given point.
"Pardon me," I said, grabbing a waiter who had been making a bee line for the kitchen, "Do you know where I might find some of those plastic hats?"
"Over there in the box," he replied, looking for the easiest way to brush me aside. I have no time for this wacko, he was thinking, (clearly read on his face) there are things to do, and I just wish all of these fuckheads would find a regular bar to get in. I don't work for $4.95 an hour for this kind of bull shit.
"Which box? You see, I'm trying to get these hats for my friends - "
"HERE!" he shouted, prying himself away, running to the nearest box, and throwing five or so chintzy plastic hats at me. Before I could even collect myself to stammer out a reply, he had already ran back into the kitchen, safe from the clutches of the depraved yuppie.
Taking little offense at his apparent rudeness (something I wouldn't fully comprehend until well into the next morning), I made my way back upstairs, where surely enough, Selena was waiting for me.
"Excellent!" she cried out, seeing me with about five hats awkwardly perched on my head and a giant shit-eating grin on my face. "Thank you so much!" With that, she grabbed a hat from my head, wormed her way back into the crowd, and disappeared from my life without so much as a condolence peck on the cheek as the clock ran down to midnight.
At this point, the Loathing set it, more clearly than I have ever understood it before.
Depressed, I turned myself back to my Long Island, waiting out the inevitable midnight hour, before starting to make my way towards the exit with all of my friends. As we were heading towards the exit, however, I was once again stopped, this time by a young gentleman with a particular strong scent of alcoholic fumes emanating from his mouth.
"Dude, I will pay you for one of those hats," he moaned. Apparently, hats were hard to come by.
"Ten bucks," I shrewdly bargained.
"You serious, man?" he complained. I said nothing. There was a pause of about ten seconds.
"Fine," he conceded, chucking a ten dollar bill my way. "Happy new year."
All of a sudden, all of the mysteries of our capitalistic society that had previously dumbfounded me rang clear as a bell. It was as though a golden dollar sign had struck me on the head, blinding me with currency. By the time we had made it to the door, I had made a cool $25.00, paid my respective debts for the evening, and more than made up for whatever lost future awaited with Selena upstairs. (Who, I might add, was surrounded by at least ten different gentlemen of various repute by the time we were making our way down the stairs. Two of them had bought hats from me. Ah, vengeance.)
Sidenote #2: It becomes clear to me now that I haven't fully explained one of our new year's traditions that will come to bear heavily on the story, so allow me to explain. Each year, we gather as many free floating balloons as possible from whatever club we are in, gather them into a bundle, and hand them off to whichever bachelor among us is the closest to getting married. The fact that we've only done this one year prior to this evening does not strip it of its rights of tradition. It just places this story fairly early in what I'm sure will be a long established and well regarded rite of passage for our group. But I digress.
As we made the way out the door, large cluster of balloons in hand, (Aren't you grateful for tangents?) we noted that the streets of Clark and Division were packed with festive party-goers, most of whom had decided, like us, that the clubs they had been in were not worth their time. Consequently, they were lined up outside of about ten or so similar nighttime establishments in order to gain entry. Never mind that it was already half an hour into 2012, there was booze to be had! Such is the mindset of the barhopping young adult; no matter what the time, there is always time for another round, so go to town.
While gathering on the streets, the second part of our annual tradition began. In order to force our way past the gaggles of yuppies lining the sidewalks and, at times, obstructing passage, a cry went up from the group (ours, that is) of "He's getting married!" with all the fervor and zealotry as though the Bachelor of this moment (In this case, the Strongman.) had just proposed to his fiancee that night. With echoes of "He's getting married" shouted into the streets, we set off.
The trick of clearing your path, and to getting your way in general, be it politics or bar-hopping, is to simultaneously draw attention to yourself while maintaining a general feeling of goodwill. This is a fine line. Too much in either direction will either lead to your being assaulted by those seeking to pummel the nearest drunken buffoon, or a casual indifference that will result in the addition of half an hour to any trip you are trying to take. This includes train rides. (Don't ask, it just happens.)
This is where "He's getting married" becomes genius. People like to celebrate the newly engaged. It's a time of great festivity. When it happens on New Year's Eve, already a time of great festivity, it doubles the occasion. It's as though everyone consciously seeks to mark your friend's beginning of Life's Great Rite of Passage, the entry point into the true Young Adult Lifestyle. Consequently, by exclaiming that your friend is getting married, you have not only gotten the attention of everyone around you, but drawn them into the celebration. Everyone loves a free invite to a party, and feels the need to go along.
Because of that general mindset, we had absolutely NO TROUBLE clearing the sidewalks of Chicago. Leading The Strongman by the hand/balloon string, we nearly strolled down Clark Street, surrounded by cheers in what I'm sure is the closest thing to a ticker-tape parade that most of our group will ever experience. Hand shakes and slaps on the back abounded. Cheers went up. A joyous occasion. Accepting their goodwill, we made our way back to the subway, continuing our cheers on the El, where friends were made, and more drinks were had, before finally settling down in The Professor's Study (apartment) for the evening.
(I won't lie, I don't quite have memory of our passage home beyond getting on the train, although I've been assured by my associate that there is a story to be told. More on that later, I suppose.)
If one had to conclude anything from our exploits, it's that yuppies love a good party. They love it to fill all of their preconceived needs, to meet all expectations, and to conclude when they see it fit. Our group needed it to finish early; those out front of the clubs needed it to be prolonged well into the morning light. My associate, for all I know, is still enjoying the after parties. What can be said is that New Year's Eve in Chicago is indicative of the young middle class mindset that this is an evening where everything is planned out for you. Parties and events are preplanned, and for whatever price you need, your entertainment will be provided to you. That sense of entitlement permeates throughout our generation, echoing through time honored refrains like a call to arms. It seeps into our very souls, punctuates our day to day actions. Without it, we are nothing, and our entire generation is smashed underfoot like a cheap plastic hat. Which you just paid $5 for, even though I grabbed it for free downstairs.
Happy New Year, everyone.
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