Grubby at PokerWorks

Thursday began as a precursor to the drunken blogger weekend that would descend onto Chicago 24 hours later.

Went out with coworkers to the Village Tap, where true to my heart, we ordered girlie shots.

Yeah, do I go to Lane Bryant to buy the brassiere that opens in the front or the back. If they’d been playing Kelly Clarkson, I’d have been all set.
It began when someone received a text message from a guy he didn’t know in Las Vegas inviting him to a party, saying not to worry, he’d be bringing plenty of Washington Apples so “prepare thyself.”

Prepare thyself? Apples? What kind of party was this?

We finally figured out it was a drink and ordered a round (awful), then Buttery Nipples, then some kind of orange and blue curacao, before abandoning and going with Jameson, SoCo, and Patron.

I always like seeing people say no to tequila. Usually the reaction’s pretty visceral and there’s some good drinking story buried in their past.

We lost the only woman in our group, then headed to L&L, where one of us was kicked out after the first round for seemingly nothing.

He showed his empty bottle, motioning he wanted another to the old bartender as she passed by several times. She never made eye contact.

She finally said, “You’ll have to speak up.” She then kept walking.

On her next pass, he asked for a beer, she brought it to him and gripped it in her ice claws, managing to snarl, “$3.50.”

He took out his wallet and she left, still holding the beer. When she returned, he put out three dollar bills and a quarter. She said, “It’s $3.50.” The other quarter had fallen off, and he picked it up and tossed it toward her.

She snatched up the no tip and said, “Thanks for the generosity.”

As she continued down the bar, he yelled after her, “Thanks for the service.”

She then returned with his money, slammed it on the counter, and said, “Here’s a refund, now get out.”

I was sitting right next to him and was afraid to order another beer. I had already been chastised for trying to use a credit card. “ATM’s in the back,” she said.

We downed our drinks, grabbed our group, and left.

Lucky that Chicago has so many bar choices.

A corner bar on Clark St. called Station Bar & Grill beckoned, with screwdrivers containing fresh squeezed orange juice.

North was treating us well, so we continued up the street until noticing some girls dancing. Passing by the entrance, a guy pulled us into Fiesta Cantina.

An excellent choice, with two hot female bartenders (plus a random guy bartender), three girls dancing, and few other people.

The hottest bartender was rated an 8 for Chicago but a 5 for Las Vegas.  I would’ve kept her at 8 all around just for personality.

Now as anyone knows, “grubby don’t dance” is tattooed on my two left legs. But that doesn’t prevent me from enjoying watching other people.

The girls on the dance floor were said to have been dancing all day, the hot bartender with the flat pierced and tan belly said. She made reel ‘em in motions toward the girls, and when we didn’t take the bait, she walked out of the bar area and pulled one of us to the dance floor.

The bartender danced provocatively, pretending to whip him, pumping her ass, holding up the shoulder of his shirt, and sucking on her finger.

Even the dealertainers at Rio Las Vegas don’t dance with patrons, let alone allow you to dirty dance with them.

On the other side of the bar was a punching bag called The Boxer, which takes the space of an arcade game. For $1 a punch, you can hit the bag as hard as you can and see your score. As simple as it is, the thing’s ingenius — guys are competitive, guys want to show off, guys are mostly at bars, and $1 for a couple seconds is much more profitable than 50 cents for a game that lasts 5 minutes.

The punching bag was going for awhile, the girls and my coworker were dancing for awhile, and I nursed another Blue Moon while eyeing a plate of half-eaten buffalo wings.

I’m not sure whose they were, but the hot bartender pulled it from the end of the bar and placed it in front of me.

Anytime food is set in front of me is dangerous. I don’t eat very fast, but like a marathon runner, my stomach paces itself to go the distance and I’m unaware of anything else around me until that plate is empty.

The rest of the night was a blur, but those wings were delicious.

***

Speaking of blurs, the next night was an impromptu midwest Vegas blogger get-together at Donkey Puncher’s. Everyone but me hadn’t been able to make Vegas but were here in Chicago, many for the first time.

But more on that tomorrow, as soon as my darn Internet connection can stay up…

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 20th, 2007 at 8:06 am and is filed under Uncategorized.