Nightlife

Nightlife. My city is rather odd in this respect. On the one hand, it has a surprising amount of places to go after hours, but the caveat is that the only real thing you can do is get drunk. Now, I've got nothing against getting drunk. In fact, I enjoy a good drink and time out laughing, socializing, and participating in general debauchery. The only issue is the ratio of bars to, oh, I don't know, dance clubs, pool halls, and other establishments where you can get your drink on, and do other things as well.

Since hitting a bar is more or less a given on a night out in my city, this poses the next question: Where? 90% of the bars downtown are all clustered together on a waterfront street that stretches as far as the eye can see. Drinking establishments on this strip come in all sizes and flavors, from blue collar working class bars, to obnoxious frat boy bars, to neon-striped martini bars, and everything in between. The problem is they're all clustered together in this one street that is a constant venue for a parade of drunken idiots of all sizes and genres. You should see the police presence thirty minutes before last call. You'd think that martial law was about to be enacted. So while there are plenty of options on this street, they're all squished together in a clusterfuck of beer drinking morons and state power. Obviously, this isn't my local of choice when I want to get my drink on.

This has led me back to one of my older haunts, a hipster bar called the Whiteheart. I love and hate this bar at the same time. On the one hand, it's the only bar on its street for a good half-mile, which results in a homogeneous population and a relatively calm environment. On the other hand, I hate this homogeneous population. The bar is directly across the street from an art college, so 90% of the patrons are young, hipster, "too cool for school" socialites who walk under a palpable cloud that they're the hottest thing in fashion this season. Just wait until you start a conversation with them. You're struck by an overpowering urge to rifle through your pocket in hope of finding a needle that you can use to pop their straining bubble of ego and overvalued sense of self-worth. But I digress. They're better than the frat boys.

So what's a drink of choice on a cold night downtown? I have to confess that sometimes I get the overpowering urge for a "girly drink." Granted, I've only had an Alabama slammer once in my life, but then again, I really enjoyed it. If I'm feeling in the mood for a femme drink, my usual poison of choice is a white Russian. God damn, I love those things, especially when chased with a PBR for the surreal combination of tasteful class and white trash. Oh, and always remember to tip well - it'll come back to you in the form of bigger drinks.

Hedonism

Hedonism has cultivated a fairly negative reputation in the West, especially in the United States, where it's come to represent such unflattering meanings as "lazy," "selfish," "excess," and - in the more conservative necks of the woods - even "sinful." Hedonism began with a great reputation, starting with the Greeks, and then adopted by the Romans, spreading to Egypt and other locals. Then Rome fell, and the Church, as usual, ruined everything.

Hedonism simply means the pursuit of pleasure. On the face of it, when you take a step back and shake off the lens that society has placed in front of you since you were a toddler, what's so bad about pleasure? There's a great saying about sex that I'll paraphrase (while forgetting the name of the author), "In America, sex is an obsession. Everywhere else, it's a fact." Of course, carnal pleasure is only one very small slice of the pleasure pie, but it's what always gets everyone up in arms the most.

A successful hedonist indulges in pleasure with moderation and balance. It's very Eastern, in a way. Pleasure should be actively sought everywhere, whether in lunch, an evening cocktail, a massage, a vacation, sunbathing, or a sensuous lover. We're the only modern democratic state, to the best of my knowledge, that doesn't have vacation days mandated by law. We're obsessed with perfection: getting the perfect body, climbing the corporate ladder, running the treadmill of tasks to reach goals in the dream of being "successful." Politically correct pleasure, as an ideal, is always something that's in the future. It's an abstract goal that we're constantly striving for, putting off day-to-day pleasure in the hope that by the time we hit retirement we'll be able to get a hearty slap on the back from some unknown approving hand and some sort of acknowledgment and recognition of our "success" in life. It ain't gonna happen.

A friend of mine suggested I read "The Hedonism Handbook" by Michael Flocker. It's part meat, part fluff, part history, and sprinkled with tidbits of wisdom on every page. I'll quote from a passage:

On a recent trip to Barcelona with a friend, I was amused to find that many businesses really do close shop for several hours in the middle of the day. The happy and friendly residents of the city tend not to go out to dinner until nine or ten in the evening, and it's customary to head out for a drink some time around midnight. My friend and I were told by the hotel staff that no one goes to dance clubs before two in the morning. Armed with typical American skepticism, we assumed that this meant that the clubs don't really get hopping until about two in the morning. Cut to: Two American tourists standing alone in a cavernous dance club at 1:45.

To the swarthy and sexy residents of this seaside city, it seemed only logical that the hours between midnight and two were for socializing at bars. Then when the bars close at two, if the urge to dance is stronger than the urge to retire, off you go. And so it went, usually until about six in the morning. After several nights of such debauchery, my friend and I found ourselves in conversation with the manager of our hotel. Naively, we asked him, "How does anybody get any work done if they close the businesses in the middle of the day and go out partying every night until the early morning?" The look of pity on his face spoke volumes. He smiled and confided in a most delightfully resigned manner, "You know, in America you are all in this mad race to be number one. And you know what? You win! You can be number one. Here, we would rather enjoy our lives."

This statement was simple, but the truth it touched up on was a significant one. The frantic race to be number one is a sad and desperate compulsion. Whatever happened to just playing the game? Don't parents teach that to their children? When did the rules change? When did it become a disappointment for an Olympic athlete to win a silver medal? Is happiness reserved exclusively for the one individual who places first, and everyone else is expected to shrink back in shame and disappointment? Who's the genius who came up with that perspective?

This concept is shockingly foreign to me, and it raises a lot of questions about life, personal goals, and happiness. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pleasure. Pleasure is fun - but I'd never really adopted pleasure as a philosophy. Reading this book has forced me to re-examine my own life and to look to the future with a different eye. Of course, we all need money and steady work. I'm very thankful that I have the opportunity to pursue a college education, and I'll definitely be seeing it through - but it's made me question what I do with my life after graduation. And more importantly, how I spend my free time.

This book isn't the end all, be all of hedonistic thought, but it's a good place to start for a neophyte such as myself. More updates as they come. For now? I'm definitely penciling evening cocktails into my schedule.