Sean B. Fitzgerald It doesn’t go something like this, it goes exactly like this.

Boycott

I'm done with bars.

I make that statement as if it's true. As if I'm really going to avoid bars for the rest of my life. But as God is my witness, I'm going to try. I'm just so sick of them. Where I live, there is a string of bars/clubs on one road right off the Hudson River. Every Friday and Saturday, people from all over the county (and perhaps Northern New Jersey) jam every single square foot of each bar until 4 in the morning. And for some reason, like the lemming that I am, I follow suit.

For this reason, I am convinced I am half retarded.

I don't think I've ever had a good time at a bar. Every time I make the decision to go to one with my friends, the ideal scenario pops into my head.

Tonight's going to be great. I'm going find a nice place to sit at the bar, strike up a conversation with a beautiful girl, maybe dance for a little bit, and see where the night goes. I'm the man.

Like a person with Alzheimer's, those exact thoughts enter my thick skull. As if I had never been to these bars before. But like a race-horse with blinders, I head into the first bar (not after waiting in line outside for 25 minutes) expecting as much.

Packed? Check

Scent of stale beer and vomit? Check

Bad Music? Oh you betcha!

And for some reason this doesn't deter me. I make a beeline for the bar to get a drink. And by "beeline" I mean a series of dance steps cutting in between people, getting pushed from behind, and constantly having to say "Excuse me, sorry, excuse me, right behind ya, watch out, in your way, excuse me".

Forty minutes later, I reach the bar. By that time, I'm sweating and more thirsty for a water than a crappy light beer. So I order my drink and maybe a few for my friends if their lucky. We make our way over to a corner.

Now, we wait. For what? I have no idea.

I guess I'm expecting Kate Beckinsale to spot me at the bar and walk over to me. Hey, I've been scoping you out all night. We should get out of here. At that point, we'd walk out where my Ferrari would be waiting and drive off into the night.

Back to reality.

I would occasionally sip my $6 beer. Maybe I would spot someone I know and have an awkward conversation for a few minutes. My friends would make an intelligent observation about the bar. We would laugh. We would move over a bit so the barback could get through with a case of beer. And we would yell "What?!" every time someone said anything due to the ungodly decibel level of the music (Probably Black Eyed Peas). This series of events would occur every so often until 1-2 in the morning.

Who knows, maybe a girl makes eye contact with me. But if I investigate it further, I realize that she's staring at the good-looking guy right over my shoulder. Or she has a lazy eye.

Naturally, all of this is AWESOME! WHAT A NIGHT! WOOOOO! I'M SO GLAD I MADE THE DECISION TO GO OUT TO THIS BAR!

I guess I'm just an eternal optimist. Every weekend I am utterly convinced that I'll find "The One" at some shady string of bars in a New York City suburb. And maybe she's there. But she's sinking in hair gel from the guidos who are trying to bed her.

Ugh, I'm finished with bars. I haven't have a good time at one in about...give me a second....hold on...let me think....never. I've never had a good time. I've wasted hundreds of hours at them since I've turned 21 (I waited until I was 21 because I'm lame). During those hundreds of hours I could have been doing something more productive. And compared to being at a bar, anything else is more productive. Watering a plastic ficus is more productive.

A buzz is not worth being there. If I was guaranteed to have a meaningful conversation with an attractive girl as soon as I walked in, I'd slap down a C-note every weekend. Granted, that's a very parochial form of prostitution, I still think it would be effective. But no, I open my wallet for a few hours every Friday and Saturday and have nothing to show for it. Lazy-eye girl isn't doing it for me.