Going out in shorts and a sweatshirt

This weekend my sister was in town for the holiday and after our prayer was completed, we went out to a bar her friends had chosen. She was leaving the next day so we figured this would be a good time to hang out, grab a beer and chill.

Very often my sister and her friends choose great places to hang out and have a good time. Places of less than stellar repute, but great drink specials and possibly even free hot dogs are often the preferred location for this group.

But this weekend, the choice of The Ginger Man proved to be a bit higher on the reputation scale but with significantly fewer drink specials, no hot dogs and a seriously high level of trying too hard to have a good time.

I was wearing my favorite multi-color Adidas low-tops, a pair of well loved plaid shorts and a Brooklyn Cyclones sweatshirt and was the only guy in the place not wearing either a button down, polo shirt or designer-T with a blazer over over-priced jeans. Granted a guy did come up to me and say “great hoodie, man.”

This place felt like a bar out of the “Look at my striped shirt” nightmare that made the Internet rounds a few years back. I mean there was a line for the men’s bathroom. On any fall weekend, a bar (which this was, not a gastro pub or club or beer hall or anything else; it was nothing more than a bar with too many beers on tap to possibly be fresh in the keg) should have football on TV. This would have cut down on the number of Blackberrys and iPhones that were constantly in the hands of those “gentlemen” leaning on the bar.

Granted the back area where we were hanging out had fewer striped shirts per capita and we did get to enjoy the comfy couches, not all was lost in this trip.

The part of the evening that pushed me right over the edge was this guy—-complete with bouffant, too much cologne, expensive-tapered jeans, low-cut-man-boots, a fitted blazer and pastel shirt with just one too many buttons undone—-turning to my lovely wife and flirting with her as I finished reaching over the bar to get our change. “Enjoy that Goose Island IPA, I brought it here,” he says. “Next time you should try this one; it is [some name I forget because I was trying to figure out how I could kill him and get away with it]. Want to try mine?” At this point my she said no, flashed me a look and I was starting to position myself between this tool and my wife.

He proceeded to tell us he was the [big name beer company] rep for the bar and that he was trying to get [big name beer company] to mass produce this very expensive and exclusive beer for wider distribution, but because he was such a great guy he had it put into his account because he cares. Thank you [big name beer company] rep, you did a great job. Needless to say it was good thing I was holding my seltzer water (my stomach was not so pleased with Rosh Hashanah eating choices) in my right hand or he would have had a broken nose...I mean maybe.

The true saving grace of this place was that my sister was there and having a good time with her friends, so we were able to just chill and enjoy the time at The Ginger Man. It was fantastic to see her and her crazy bunch of overly intelligent friends (who more often than not make great choices about bars).

Oh and the house beer there is awful.