This is a Blog: Stop Ignoring the Georgetown Saloon. Seriously.

Ok, I know I haven’t posted in over a week. And while I’m almost positive nobody noticed except the editor of Patch, who definitely already thinks I’m kind of a handful that probably isn’t worth it, I still feel like I have to explain myself to you.

I was going to tell you that I got sick with a throat virus that made the right side of my neck swell up so much that I dragged myself around the house in my pajamas dramatically exclaiming, “Guys, I have a GOITER I think. Your daughter has a goiter.  What do you have to SAY about this?” However, although this did actually happen, I can’t honestly say that it interfered with my blogging. 

What really happened is that I received an email from an old and dear friend from high school, informing me that his mother sent him the link to my blog. 

Obviously, this news gave me a full-blown panic attack, and I spent a few days hiding from my laptop and wondering whether to eliminate words like “sex” and “beer” from blog posts I’d already written but not yet submitted. Not because I think my friends’ parents are generally boring or stuffy. In fact, as I recall, my friend’s mother is a pretty fantastic lady. But I mean, her son was my homecoming date. I picked him up in a minivan, my braces shining romantically in the moonlight, wearing a dress that my brother recently found buried in his closet and mistook for a sleeping bag. 

In short, I feel like I probably need to be done sullying my image in the eyes of my friends' parents.

Eventually, though, I recalled a pearl of wisdom delivered to me at various times in my life by both of my parents: do what you love. So, keeping their advice in mind, I first sprawled on the couch and watched about 20 episodes of the Twilight Zone marathon and ate a lot of cake. Then, I remembered that “doing what I love” usually involves me just generally sullying myself. So, I'm just going to assume that when my parents told me to do what I love, they basically meant "write weird things on this Patch blog." 

Ultimately I feel I have no choice but to comply, because it’s THEIR HOUSE.

So, back to the NEWS.

Last week Patch reported that the . 

After reading that, I fainted, revived myself with smelling salts and like 17 packs of Skittles, cried in the shower, adopted a one-eyed cat from an animal shelter and named it "Fireman" after a notable Saloon regular, gave it away to a random child on the street because it turned out to be one of those psychotic cats that hates humans, and ultimately decided to devote this post to complaining about my own problems. 

Which are going to increase substantially because apparently, all of you are selfish and don't consider the consequences of your actions.

Don’t get upset. Ok, I’m sorry I called you selfish. I didn’t mean that. Let me put it another way.

Stop ignoring the .

It’s a cruel world out there. The appalling fact of the matter is that 27-year-old overgrown children who have recently moved back in with their parents don’t have that many places to escape to. And as there seem to be more and more of us bopping around these days and taking up space, we need enough places to go so that we don’t have to keep running into each other and having to make depressing small talk that ultimately circles back to our own personal failures. Also I think I read something recently about a theory, backed up by an impressive amount of science, that if too many 27-year-olds who live with their parents congregate in one place, the Earth will literally explode. 

And, despite my love for the , with its $3 margaritas on Wednesdays, its one or two bartenders who tolerate a shocking range of ridiculous behavior, and its intermittent, cryptic advertisements for “foam parties” that never happen, if it becomes my only escape I will stop showering and employ myself as a door-to-door vacuum saleswoman.

If the Lumberyard is a fist-pumping frat boy that loves margaritas and 80's music and wearing tank tops, the Saloon is it's weirder, cooler brother that loves drinking whiskey on the rocks and listening to The Band and Bob Dylan. It's dark and divey and 80 percent of the people there have serious beards.

Basically, it's amazing.

Don’t misunderstand me. My usual routine includes a weekly dosage of the Lumberyard. Surrounding oneself with people who carry with them an almost disturbing enthusiasm for drinking beer is pretty refreshing. I mean, they really get into it sometimes. Now that I think about it, what I’ve been referring to as “enthusiasm” might actually be rabies. I should look into that.

But sometimes I just want to sit in a dark corner and pretend I’m cool and order a  Makers Mark on the rocks and eat French fries without having to pretend I have any idea how to effect a normal, social interaction with a 21-year-old male wearing a tank top and sporting alarmingly creative facial hair.

And by God, the only place I want to, nay, can do that in, is the Georgetown Saloon.

So please, if you care anything at all for the sanctity of beards, whiskey dives, or freedom, stop ignoring the Georgetown Saloon. If you don’t care about any of those things, hopefully you at least care about cheeseburgers. They make good ones. If you’re a vegan, they can probably slice up a tomato for you and serve it on a fancy plate of garnish. 

They’re very accommodating.