Don't go back to Rustville

Over the weekend I got a chance to leave the walking down a country road life and head into the big city of Scranton. I can tell you’re chartreuse with envy. I took a walk downtown and realized like a rock star, as we know from our Running on Empty primer, that all towns basically look the same. Well, maybe not all towns, but certainly all the ones I’ve ever been to in the northeastern rust belt area. It made me realize why I left the Syracuse area years ago. Everything is just so gray. The buildings, the weather, the people; it’s just slightly more than depressing. And so, if you’re keeping track at home, cross Scranton off the list of possible places to move to once my aunt and uncle throw me out of their house in mid February. I’m trying not to panic, but that’s another entry.

On the Saturday night while I was in the big city, we went to the lone gay bar in town, the 12 Penny. (Named because apparently you can fit that number of pence end to end on his roll of coins) I had high apple pie in sky hopes for the evening but soon realized it was just like every single other bar I’ve been to in my whole life and fairly depressing when it came right down to it. I don’t get it. I like being around my people. I like being around alcohol. I like bars. And yet, you put them all together and it’s unnecessarily unfun. I never could understand that. (Much like the French paradox: the French are funny, Sex is funny, comedy is funny; so why aren’t French sex comedies funny?)

I have a morally casual attitude at the best and worst of times and yet there wasn’t one guy there I wanted to talk to. (Okay, maybe the owner, but he’s taken.) It was such a claustrophobic space that no matter where I was, I was in the way. And the music? First it was over an hour of dreary Nickleback crap and then it was time for the gay cliché playlist. Dancing Queen, Believe, I Am What I Am, I Will Survive, etc. (I’m thinking of having a pride t-shirt made that says I Will Survive “I Will Survive”) Anyway, needless to say, I didn’t have a good time.

But there was one singular grace of the experience. I sat at the bar and saw the most remarkable thing. An ashtray. Apparently, there’s at least one place in the world the second hand smoke Nazis haven’t conquered. It was weird having a cigarette while at a bar and it took me some time to get used to. Fortunately, four or five bourbons later I got back into the full swing of it.

Just in time to escape “Last Dance” and disappear into the refreshing air outside.