R.I.P.: Jake's Dilemma
My friend Lincoln introduced me to Jake's Dilemma some time last year. It's on Amsterdam and 81st, but for the half price happy hour drinks, I'll travel uptown to get my drink on. They also had some nice pool tables, a lounge area, and enough social variety to keep it interesting. I even spied a few lesbians there once.
Hoping for a cathartic conversation and some eye candy, Lincoln and I met up at Jake's last night. He warned me that the pool tables had been removed in order to make room for more drunks, but imagine our horror when we discovered BEER PONG tables in their place. This horror wasn't properly conveyed over the ROAR of drunk frat/sorority kids playing said idiotic game. Mostly, our eyes shot fire. What the hell happened?
"Jesus christ, these girls sound like chickens on meth," Lincoln observed. I nodded in abject sorrow. This bar had quickly become a place where no lesbian would tread--at least not the kind I liked (sophisticated, over 27, drinks after 5 PM). Lincoln took a long look at his pitcher of cider and said, "I don't need to finish this." I breathed a sigh of relief as I hopped off my barstool and grabbed my coat. If the door was a revolving one, we would have whipped it right off its tracks.
A block away, we found a bar in which people were sitting, talking, and sipping their drinks. They were wearing clothes that button, sans giant undergrad logos and attached hoods. They were not throwing objects into their beverages for sport. "This looks... normal," I ventured.
For our troubles, we were rewarded happy hour prices until 10 PM. Then Lincoln discovered that the bar had Molson on tap. Elated, we hunkered down for a salvaged night of adult-like behavior. "I can't believe I'm too old for my favorite bar," Lincoln bemoaned.
Enjoying the sensation of speaking in a room not robbing me of the rest of my hearing, I opined: "It's not age, man, it's class."
Hoping for a cathartic conversation and some eye candy, Lincoln and I met up at Jake's last night. He warned me that the pool tables had been removed in order to make room for more drunks, but imagine our horror when we discovered BEER PONG tables in their place. This horror wasn't properly conveyed over the ROAR of drunk frat/sorority kids playing said idiotic game. Mostly, our eyes shot fire. What the hell happened?
"Jesus christ, these girls sound like chickens on meth," Lincoln observed. I nodded in abject sorrow. This bar had quickly become a place where no lesbian would tread--at least not the kind I liked (sophisticated, over 27, drinks after 5 PM). Lincoln took a long look at his pitcher of cider and said, "I don't need to finish this." I breathed a sigh of relief as I hopped off my barstool and grabbed my coat. If the door was a revolving one, we would have whipped it right off its tracks.
A block away, we found a bar in which people were sitting, talking, and sipping their drinks. They were wearing clothes that button, sans giant undergrad logos and attached hoods. They were not throwing objects into their beverages for sport. "This looks... normal," I ventured.
For our troubles, we were rewarded happy hour prices until 10 PM. Then Lincoln discovered that the bar had Molson on tap. Elated, we hunkered down for a salvaged night of adult-like behavior. "I can't believe I'm too old for my favorite bar," Lincoln bemoaned.
Enjoying the sensation of speaking in a room not robbing me of the rest of my hearing, I opined: "It's not age, man, it's class."