Outta Here!
Episode 1: Going Down, Down Under
May, 2006. Sydney, Australia – I’m sitting at a very plush, modern Italian style restaurant on the Sydney Harbour. My girlfriend sits across from me. I have the linguine marinara; she’s having a salad entrée. We split a bottle of Chianti. We haven’t seen each other in over four months.
Three hours prior, I picked her up from the airport. When we saw each other we embraced the way you would see a couple embrace in the golden era of movies. She’s visiting me during my semester abroad. I’ve missed her terribly. When we get back to my apartment I tell her to get dressed up for the night. We’re in store for a special evening. I am 21.
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Three hours prior, I picked her up from the airport. When we saw each other we embraced the way you would see a couple embrace in the golden era of movies. She’s visiting me during my semester abroad. I’ve missed her terribly. When we get back to my apartment I tell her to get dressed up for the night. We’re in store for a special evening. I am 21.
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As we mutually enjoy the sun set over the Monet-like waves, I tell her that the best is yet to come. The night club we are going to afterward is one of the best the establishments in Sydney. “It’s my favorite,” I tell her. I’m sure that she’ll love it too.
As we walk hand-in-hand after dinner along the creaking boards, I point out our destination – although there’s no need because one can hear the club from miles (or kilometers) away. Cargo Bar. The swankiest bar in the city. Nowhere has better music. Nowhere has hotter people. Nowhere has a better atmosphere. I tell her about the times I’ve had there. How I introduced double-dutch to the Aussies there. About the lounge they open upstairs after hours. She looks at me, lovely as ever. Her eyes glowing with excitement. I tell her I love her. I tell her I need her.
We get to the back of the line – my hand on the small of her back. I turn and again look at the last rays of sunlight flickering off the sea and I smile. This is the pinnacle of my life at this point. My head rotates to the front of the line again to assess how long it may take to get inside. I see the bouncer checking IDs. That’s when it hits me. My knees buckle. The linguini in my stomach churns like the sea only 15 feet (or five meters) away. A few blocks down I notice a bar called The Lounge. I casually mention, “Hey, you know what? I’ve never been THERE before. I’ve always wanted to see if THAT place was any good. Feel like stopping by? It looks cool.” My words are met with dismay. I was my own worst enemy. Why in Christ’s name would she want to go to The Lounge when Cargo Bar is dripping of sex right in front of us?
My mind flashes back to three weekends prior.
Cargo Bar was poppin’. I’m having the time of my life but around my fifth hour at the establishment, a bartender decides that I should not be served anymore. Was it the derogatory names I was throwing at her as fiercely as Daryl Strawberry used to throw haymakers at undercover officer disguised at prostitutes? Was it when I demonstrated the new moves I learned in Judo class that day on an unwilling participant? Was it my refusal to tip? Or was it the vomit I almost got into the restroom toilet minutes ago? Only the Lord knows the answer to a question like that.
Needless to say, I was not a happy patron. Profanity flies out of my mouth like Bobby Knight when asked to lead his team in a pregame prayer. I tell the bartender that the place sucks and that I don’t need it. I make my way to leave under my own accord but then stop short. The realization hits me. I DO need that bar. I need it BAD. My friends are still there. It’s fun. What was I going to do? Go to some corner dive and drown my sorrows in domestic drafts? FUCK NO! I would be doing plenty of that after graduation when I’m 25, 26… 41 – working on my second marriage with 2 rotten kids and a scumbag stepson named Roger.
I pull a Mission Impossible move and slide behind a pillar hoping I was out of the bartender’s sight. “It’s late now,” I think. “So the upstairs lounge might be open.” I slink my way around the perimeter and see the purple staircase (that’s correct, the bar was so posh that they had a purple carpeted staircase that led to an after-hours lounge). I make my ascent and the anticipation in my body is at a boiling point. I’m now inches (or centimeters) from the bouncer at the top when I hear his walkie-talkie go off. “Don’t let that cocksucker into the lounge. He’s gotta go.” I did not have psychic powers back in 2006 but my drunken intuition told me that the cocksucker they were referring to was me. The bouncer tells me I’m not allowed entrance. Forlorn, I make my way back down and see my good buddy who understands my plight. I nod my head as he puts his arm around me and respond with something along the lines of, “Go fuck yourself, asshole.” He tells me to chill out and he’ll buy me a drink. EUREKA! Of course! The answer is so simple. If I can’t buy drinks, others will have to buy them for me!
I sit in the corner alone but with my chest swelled out with pride as my friend brings over a fresh 7 and 7. As the cold, perspiring drink gets closer; my smile extends from ear to ear. I grab it in the same manner as a homeless Philadelphia man would grab a stolen can of soda from a street vendor. Before the frigid glass touches my lips, my arm is jerked almost out of its socket and I am expelled from my seat. The front door bouncer, whose real job is training to become a WWE superstar, is calling me every variation of the word “dirtbag” known to humanity and forcefully ushers me to the door. My friends see me going past them getting treated like a bitch. I feel as impotent as the Poles felt when Hitler decided to crash their party.
Just then, a lightning bolt surges through my body. I become possessed by the spirit of The Rattlesnake, Steve Austin, and rip my arm away from the beast’s clutches. A diatribe of hate pours out of my mouth. I look at the bartenders – middle finger. Look at the bouncer staring at me – middle finger. Look at the bouncer on the purple stairway – middle finger. Look at my buddy who bought me a drink – middle finger. Look at the bums giving each other handjobs underneath the boardwalk – barf, then – middle finger. And in the midst of all these middle fingers and f-bombs the idea came into my head that I needed to show the bar PHYSICALLY how upset I was over this situation. A barstool crosses my eye. I grab it. And with all the power of Mitch Williams’ mullet, I heave that son of a bitch as far it will fly… which is right into a couple’s table who were enjoying a lovely evening. My bravado immediately turns into regret as the bouncers give me the old Rodney King before lifting me off my feet and throwing me onto the streets – a la DJ Jazzy Jeff. I lie dead in the gutter, waiting for one of those bums to give me a handjob.
I return to from my flashback to the current time and place. My girlfriend holding my sweaty palm as we get to the front of the line. She gives the bouncer her ID but he’s not even acknowledging her. His eyes are locked on mine.
He shakes his head, “She can come in but you’re not allowed in here, mate.”
“Excuse me?” I play dumb.
“Not allowed in here by the request of the owner. Not after the stunt you pulled the other night.”
I’m not following. “What are you talking about? I’ve never been here? You must be talking about some other Chug Monky born on February 9, 1985, who is 6’2 with green eyes, who lives in Havertown, Pennsylvania and for some reason cannot control himself in Australian bars.”
“Look, get out of the line or we’ll have to throw you out,” he commands.
This charade goes on for a number of minutes until I realize that it’s useless and my girlfriend now knows that I’ve done nothing more than act like an intoxicated donkey running amok through the streets of downtown Sydney over the past 4 months. We go to The Lounge. We have an awful time. Years later, we break up. Probably because she was tired of never being able to get into anywhere with me.
Now, many of you might wonder why I decided to tell you this story. Isn’t it a story of embarrassment? Shame? The classic case of not being able to be a big boy? The answer to those questions is YES. But it was that story that I told first when I returned to the States and saw my friends. It was that same story that we laughed about every late night session for the remainder of my time down under. There is something about getting kicked out of bars that Delaware County citizens not only get their jollies from, but sometimes seek out. We all have a great story. Someone pisses in a glass and tries to offer it to another patron – gets the boot. Someone slides across multiple tables of food and drink – gets the boot. Someone collapses through a window onto another couple’s dinner – gets the boot. DelCo representatives love getting kicked out of bars and love hearing about others getting kicked out of bars.
It is in that vein that I would like to begin “Outta Here!” the DelCo Kickout of the Week column. I’ve been around. I’ve seen my fair share. Now it’s time for me to share my wealth. So whoever you are and wherever you are – Pick up your glass and pound your drink. Here’s to your presence neither being requested nor required at an establishment of your choosing. Now smash that glass on the ground and give that bouncer a piece of your mind.
-Chug Monkey
As we walk hand-in-hand after dinner along the creaking boards, I point out our destination – although there’s no need because one can hear the club from miles (or kilometers) away. Cargo Bar. The swankiest bar in the city. Nowhere has better music. Nowhere has hotter people. Nowhere has a better atmosphere. I tell her about the times I’ve had there. How I introduced double-dutch to the Aussies there. About the lounge they open upstairs after hours. She looks at me, lovely as ever. Her eyes glowing with excitement. I tell her I love her. I tell her I need her.
We get to the back of the line – my hand on the small of her back. I turn and again look at the last rays of sunlight flickering off the sea and I smile. This is the pinnacle of my life at this point. My head rotates to the front of the line again to assess how long it may take to get inside. I see the bouncer checking IDs. That’s when it hits me. My knees buckle. The linguini in my stomach churns like the sea only 15 feet (or five meters) away. A few blocks down I notice a bar called The Lounge. I casually mention, “Hey, you know what? I’ve never been THERE before. I’ve always wanted to see if THAT place was any good. Feel like stopping by? It looks cool.” My words are met with dismay. I was my own worst enemy. Why in Christ’s name would she want to go to The Lounge when Cargo Bar is dripping of sex right in front of us?
My mind flashes back to three weekends prior.
Cargo Bar was poppin’. I’m having the time of my life but around my fifth hour at the establishment, a bartender decides that I should not be served anymore. Was it the derogatory names I was throwing at her as fiercely as Daryl Strawberry used to throw haymakers at undercover officer disguised at prostitutes? Was it when I demonstrated the new moves I learned in Judo class that day on an unwilling participant? Was it my refusal to tip? Or was it the vomit I almost got into the restroom toilet minutes ago? Only the Lord knows the answer to a question like that.
Needless to say, I was not a happy patron. Profanity flies out of my mouth like Bobby Knight when asked to lead his team in a pregame prayer. I tell the bartender that the place sucks and that I don’t need it. I make my way to leave under my own accord but then stop short. The realization hits me. I DO need that bar. I need it BAD. My friends are still there. It’s fun. What was I going to do? Go to some corner dive and drown my sorrows in domestic drafts? FUCK NO! I would be doing plenty of that after graduation when I’m 25, 26… 41 – working on my second marriage with 2 rotten kids and a scumbag stepson named Roger.
I pull a Mission Impossible move and slide behind a pillar hoping I was out of the bartender’s sight. “It’s late now,” I think. “So the upstairs lounge might be open.” I slink my way around the perimeter and see the purple staircase (that’s correct, the bar was so posh that they had a purple carpeted staircase that led to an after-hours lounge). I make my ascent and the anticipation in my body is at a boiling point. I’m now inches (or centimeters) from the bouncer at the top when I hear his walkie-talkie go off. “Don’t let that cocksucker into the lounge. He’s gotta go.” I did not have psychic powers back in 2006 but my drunken intuition told me that the cocksucker they were referring to was me. The bouncer tells me I’m not allowed entrance. Forlorn, I make my way back down and see my good buddy who understands my plight. I nod my head as he puts his arm around me and respond with something along the lines of, “Go fuck yourself, asshole.” He tells me to chill out and he’ll buy me a drink. EUREKA! Of course! The answer is so simple. If I can’t buy drinks, others will have to buy them for me!
I sit in the corner alone but with my chest swelled out with pride as my friend brings over a fresh 7 and 7. As the cold, perspiring drink gets closer; my smile extends from ear to ear. I grab it in the same manner as a homeless Philadelphia man would grab a stolen can of soda from a street vendor. Before the frigid glass touches my lips, my arm is jerked almost out of its socket and I am expelled from my seat. The front door bouncer, whose real job is training to become a WWE superstar, is calling me every variation of the word “dirtbag” known to humanity and forcefully ushers me to the door. My friends see me going past them getting treated like a bitch. I feel as impotent as the Poles felt when Hitler decided to crash their party.
Just then, a lightning bolt surges through my body. I become possessed by the spirit of The Rattlesnake, Steve Austin, and rip my arm away from the beast’s clutches. A diatribe of hate pours out of my mouth. I look at the bartenders – middle finger. Look at the bouncer staring at me – middle finger. Look at the bouncer on the purple stairway – middle finger. Look at my buddy who bought me a drink – middle finger. Look at the bums giving each other handjobs underneath the boardwalk – barf, then – middle finger. And in the midst of all these middle fingers and f-bombs the idea came into my head that I needed to show the bar PHYSICALLY how upset I was over this situation. A barstool crosses my eye. I grab it. And with all the power of Mitch Williams’ mullet, I heave that son of a bitch as far it will fly… which is right into a couple’s table who were enjoying a lovely evening. My bravado immediately turns into regret as the bouncers give me the old Rodney King before lifting me off my feet and throwing me onto the streets – a la DJ Jazzy Jeff. I lie dead in the gutter, waiting for one of those bums to give me a handjob.
I return to from my flashback to the current time and place. My girlfriend holding my sweaty palm as we get to the front of the line. She gives the bouncer her ID but he’s not even acknowledging her. His eyes are locked on mine.
He shakes his head, “She can come in but you’re not allowed in here, mate.”
“Excuse me?” I play dumb.
“Not allowed in here by the request of the owner. Not after the stunt you pulled the other night.”
I’m not following. “What are you talking about? I’ve never been here? You must be talking about some other Chug Monky born on February 9, 1985, who is 6’2 with green eyes, who lives in Havertown, Pennsylvania and for some reason cannot control himself in Australian bars.”
“Look, get out of the line or we’ll have to throw you out,” he commands.
This charade goes on for a number of minutes until I realize that it’s useless and my girlfriend now knows that I’ve done nothing more than act like an intoxicated donkey running amok through the streets of downtown Sydney over the past 4 months. We go to The Lounge. We have an awful time. Years later, we break up. Probably because she was tired of never being able to get into anywhere with me.
Now, many of you might wonder why I decided to tell you this story. Isn’t it a story of embarrassment? Shame? The classic case of not being able to be a big boy? The answer to those questions is YES. But it was that story that I told first when I returned to the States and saw my friends. It was that same story that we laughed about every late night session for the remainder of my time down under. There is something about getting kicked out of bars that Delaware County citizens not only get their jollies from, but sometimes seek out. We all have a great story. Someone pisses in a glass and tries to offer it to another patron – gets the boot. Someone slides across multiple tables of food and drink – gets the boot. Someone collapses through a window onto another couple’s dinner – gets the boot. DelCo representatives love getting kicked out of bars and love hearing about others getting kicked out of bars.
It is in that vein that I would like to begin “Outta Here!” the DelCo Kickout of the Week column. I’ve been around. I’ve seen my fair share. Now it’s time for me to share my wealth. So whoever you are and wherever you are – Pick up your glass and pound your drink. Here’s to your presence neither being requested nor required at an establishment of your choosing. Now smash that glass on the ground and give that bouncer a piece of your mind.
-Chug Monkey