Student Life Archives

Dan Daranciang

Under the surface of a J. Crew/Ugg boot-sporting student body, there is a video game nerd contingent lurking at Wash U. Hell, if our sports page can do a feature on Halo 2, there can be no doubt. Well, for those of you hiding in the shadows, you might be aware that the biggest event in the industry, E3, is occurring in two weeks. At this convention all major developers, a large number of small developers and even a couple crazy video game inventors come out and show all of their coming products for the next year. I was allowed an early spin at some of the coming Nintendo games that will be released in the next year, so here’s a look at the new class of Nintendo games that will put Master Chief to shame.

Killer 7:

How anyone could claim that Nintendo is a company based around “kiddy” games after hearing even the title of this game is baffling. The game centers on a 75-year-old wheelchair-bound psychic assassin with multiple personalities that hunts down demons and absorbs their blood for power, making it one of the most confusing and David Lynch-esque games ever conceived. I am restricted from saying anything specific about game-play, but from what I played fans of old-school adventure games or light gun games will be pleased. And while semi-automatic rifles and riddle-based quests rarely cross paths, surprisingly, they mesh together quite well.

Geist:

This is yet another attempt by Nintendo to change their image, albeit a less successful exercise than Killer 7. In Geist, you play a (people familiar with Deutsch should have already guessed) ghost who is trying to gain revenge on the evil corporation that ripped his soul from his body. The game-play is that of a standard first-person shooter, but with a couple of twists; as a ghost, you have very little power over the physical world and must use your powers of possession to interact with it. However, to possess an animal of higher mental orders (i.e. dog or human) you must first sufficiently spook the animal into believing that you exist before you can take control. The concept of the game is great, but the execution is less than stellar. The graphics look reminiscent of very early generation PlayStation 2 visuals, which is inexcusable this late into the development cycle. In addition, the controls are a bit too stiff and hinder play. I was assured that this is a development version that still has a few months of work left, so hopefully these problems will be solved by the time the game is released later this year.

Donkey Konga 2:

Some people out there might still be under the impression that the standard six-button controller is the only way to play games. However, in the last year there have been a flood (since flood now means three) of drum-based games released. Donkey Konga 2 is a sequel to one such game, the obviously titled Donkey Konga. The controller is a pair of bongo drums that have sensors for left drum, right drum and clapping. The game is a veritable laugh riot when played with a group of people, but becomes a sad charade when played alone at 3 a.m. after a long night out on the town. While the first game suffered from very poor song selection (very few college students are willing to bongo drum along with Bingo), Donkey Konga 2 seems to fix this blatant flaw. The song selection includes some classics, a fair mix of modern hip-hop/rap, and one of my favorite bands, REM. Last week I suggested enjoying Kentucky Fried Movie with some friends and beers, but your time and beer money would be better spent with Donkey Konga 2. Once it is released that is.

Nintendogs:

The fact that this was my favorite game is somewhat embarrassing. The game is for the Nintendo DS, which people might remember from the cryptic “Touching is Good” ads that ran when it first came out. For those not in the know, the system is Gameboy-esque, but it also has a touch screen and a microphone, and is Wi-Fi ready. In Nintendogs the player picks out their favorite breed and gives them the most adorable non-real puppies ever created on a digital screen. The player can select to play with their puppy, pet the puppy or train it using the microphone. The game was amazing in its sheer adorability, with the puppies running around, fetching balls, fighting other puppies for said balls and running up to you to throw again. I almost cried from the overwhelming cuteness. This is a game for fans of the Sims who are tired of looking after a boring person and would rather play with a couple of endearing little dogs.

It crossed my mind that I should write an apocalyptic rant for my final column, prophesying the decline of musical culture and calling us all hell-bound heathens, hopelessly tuned in to mainstream FM radio and listening to people like Gavin DeGraw. But then I realized that I actually like Gavin DeGraw, so perhaps any elitist ire would be out of place. Still, there’s an ominous, doomsaying voice crying out in my soul (kind of like a cross between Nick Cave and the dude from Interpol, so you know it’s serious), and I need to put it into words. So here it goes:

Your musical taste is under attack. Even as I type there are forces at work bent on telling, nay, dictating to you what is cool. Unfortunately, their identity is no longer so clear. You used to be able to round up the usual suspects with ease: “TRL,” Clear Channel radio, Now That’s What I Call Music volume 67. As long as you had your favorite independent record store and a subscription to CMJ, you could rise above such conformity of taste.

Not so anymore. In fact, I don’t even know if such a condition ever really existed in the first place. It’s probably a myth. But the fact remains that now there are two very dangerous trends that threaten the sanctity of your taste, and they both revolve around what’s always been called “indie.” I’d even go so far as to say that the rise of “indie” music is probably the greatest threat to truly independent-minded music fans today.

The first is a double-edged sword: the reception of formerly underground bands into the major label scene. I’d just bore you if I took the time once again to illustrate the ascent of Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, and a host of others who have slowly infiltrated TV commercials, movie soundtracks, and frat party Winamp mixes. There are obviously a lot of positive aspects to this “selling out”: the fact that I can walk into Old Navy and hear some decent music on the PA being one example. But then there’s what I’d like to call “the great ‘O.C.’ hijacking”: the deliberate selling of a distinct “indie” look, a skinny, Lacoste’d Seth Cohen look with Death Cab for Cutie on the side. They’ve figured out that indie rock is marketable, and they’re using the image, however faked, to sell records. Hence the Killers. (Can anyone honestly tell me the difference between “Mr. Brightside” and Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle”? What are the Killers anyway, except mall-punk done up in designer clothes and eyeliner?)

The second factor at work is even more insidious, because you can always count on the corporate rock scene to be crafty and profiteering. I don’t really hold it against them. What’s really shameful is the traditional indie community. The iron grasp it holds on the lives of music listeners everywhere is just painful, especially since I see it every day, and most of all because I see it in myself. I’m talking about the powerful nexus of Pitchfork Media, countless webzines and the supposedly “alternative” press, who never fail to ape each other in one big echo chamber.

If anyone should doubt that their word is sacrosanct among the hipster community, take the example of the Fiery Furnaces, who were just recently at our very own Gargoyle. When their “Blueberry Boat” record came out, I waited patiently for a reviewer who would have the nerve to call it out on what it was, namely a hookless, off-key exercise in pretentious wankery. Among all the glowing perfect scores, it took the somewhat conservative reviewing hand of Rolling Stone to call a spade a spade. I had sold my copy back long before. The same goes for similar Pitchfork favorites Animal Collective (tuneless faux-folkers who probably weren’t even on drugs when they recorded their abortive record) and Bloc Party (an average band riding high on the incredible power of “post-” words). To be sure, this dull smiling and head-nodding on the part of the underground community has invaded my own writing in Cadenza: my new purchases are more or less perfectly in line with the rest of the Converse-sporting set. So do as I say, not as I do.

Before you leave thinking I hate everything, you should know that it’s perfectly okay if the Fiery Furnaces are your favorite band of all time. More power to you. But don’t ever capitulate to the dictators, the ones who question how anyone could ever *possibly* dislike their picks of the week. Just like whatever the hell you like, and be ready to share your own honest opinion. That’s what I’ve loved about Cadenza – former editor Travis Petersen’s passion for both black metal and Prince, Dan Carlin’s record club meetings, Jess Minnen’s jam band faves and Tyler Weaver’s partiality to cute, piano-playing songstresses (not to mention his outright contempt for critical darlings Wilco). These people have introduced me to countless great bands, and I can only hope that I was able to do the same. And they’ve successfully avoided the indie vacuum, where nothing original is ever uttered.

So, any last parting thoughts…? Well, of course – if I can allow myself a bit of blatant partisanship (which I’ve always been pretty good about avoiding). Cadenza is the best part of the paper, and hopefully always will be. It’s been sad to see it wither into a three-page-a-week shell of its former self, but there’s no changing that now. What’s important is that you’re still reading, and perhaps one day writing. It’s true that no one’s going to steal 200 copies of the paper over a movie review or band interview, but you could share with someone a bit of music that meant the world to you, and I know personally that that’s a victory in itself. And that’s sonic reduction.

Dan Daranciang

Emperor X
Central Hug/Friendarmy/Fractaldunes

Discos Mariscos
Grade: B
For fans of: Pavement, Guided by Voices, Death Cab for Cutie
Tracks to download: “Right to the Rails,” “Sfearion”
Bottom line: Matheny’s weaknesses are more remarkable than most bands’ strengths.

For every talented, artistically inclined group of musicians recording onto a digital medium, there are a dozen more whose labels pay for the full ProTools treatment in the hopes of making their albums sound as generic as possible. While the former camp uses the format’s flexibility to create soundscapes that would have been inconceivable in the analog age, the latter use it as a instrument to destroy the evidence of their heinous crimes against music. The result is a singer who hits all the right notes and guitars that are perfectly quantized to the beat of the song and flawlessly placed in the mix. It’s easy to listen to these releases and be more impressed with the software than the actual songwriting.

Chad Matheny, the man behind Emperor X, doesn’t fit into either of these categories. While not the most accomplished singer/instrumentalist ever set to tape, Matheny doesn’t hide his flaws behind software plug-ins. In “Central Hug,” he boldly places them front and center in the mix, impossible for even the least discerning listener to ignore. His voice slips in and out of tune, the drums occasionally stutter in their struggle to maintain a consistent beat, the analog synthesizers hiss and splutter, and the layers of rhythm guitar rarely mesh perfectly with one another. Far from ruining what could have been a perfectly passable album, however, Matheny’s stark imperfectionism helps create an album of surprising character.

Upon first listen, it’s easy to classify “Central Hug” as “lo-fi” alongside the likes of Guided by Voices or the Microphones. In reality, the album is recorded quite well: the guitars vacillate between dirty overdrive and blissed-out clean delays, the drums have a satisfying, compressed pop and the synths are tastefully placed in the mix in most tracks. In Matheny’s case, it is the performances themselves that contain that feeling of sloppiness and spontaneity. What he lacks in technique he makes up for in sheer enthusiasm. Album opener “Right to the Rails” builds to a satisfying climax accompanied by pounding toms, chugging guitars and Matheny’s frantic shouting. While his voice occasionally slips into a stereotypically “emo” inflection, Matheny reigns it in with the kind of absurdly impressionistic lyrics that you’d expect from an album with its title.

Of course, when an artist takes as many risks as Matheny does, there are bound to be more than a few missteps. The synth-pop beat of “Use Your Hands” begins to wear thin long before the song ends. Still, when a musician displays this much zeal for his art, it’s hard not to be captivated by the results, regardless of how amateur they come off.

Richard Chapman. Pier Marton. Bill Paul. Jeff Smith. My gurus in the film department. Tolerating me at my worst, accepting me at my usual, pushing (sometimes shoving) me toward my best. Anyone who dares mock me for spending my four Wash U. years studying – gasp! – film is an idiot. I know volumes more now than when first I stepped on campus, about what I love and what I’ll love to do. And Lori Turner, the glue that holds it all together? You’re every bit as essential as the rest of ’em. You cats are awesome.

Kathy Drury and Emily Fridlund. Curators of my first love, the written word, and the teachers who constantly reminded me why first love lasts forever.

Frank Flinn, Dolores Pesce, Tom DuBois, Ross McNary. Yeah, a couple of you aren’t even here anymore. But the ones that really leave their mark merit mention. Which reminds me…

All my professors from this past semester. You got to see me as the wheels came completely off the wagon. Sorry ’bout that; it’s nothin’ personal.

Ryan Adams, “Gold”; Leona Naess, “Leona Naess”; Over The Rhine, “Ohio”; Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, “Shake The Sheets.” Yeah, I said it. The albums that got me through college. This is the pop culture column – there’s gotta be some in here somewhere.

All my fellow film students, from Oppenheimer to Stadler to Molly to Brad and everyone whose name I’m now forgetting. Years from now, we’ll always have Brown 100 to make the local multiplex look fantastic.

Kristin Balzer. My leading lady and drinking buddy, ever the girl for late-night reflection and last-minute reshoots. Cheers to our (relative) working relationship, our awesome friendship, and – of course – “Dawson’s Creek.” (Even if you do like Pacey and Joey.) Say what’s up to Mike; I’d better be invited to the wedding.

Laura Vilines and Matt Simonton. My editor people right here at ol’ Cadenza. Creaky and forlorn she may occasionally be, but we pumped the weekly life into her. I’m gonna miss this fucking paper, but exponentially more I’ll miss you two. Keep up the (vaguely) countercultural legacy. And the sweet shindigs.

Robbie Gross, Sharief Gaber, Susannah Cahalan, Laura McLean, Anna Dinndorf. My non-editor people up in this piece. For putting up with our often lackadaisical meetings, for getting shit in (well, generally) on time. And, y’know, for being fun and fantastic.

My people all the way back at Koenig 3, ’01-’02. Y’all didn’t exactly see me at my finest, but it ain’t a thang. They’re tearing down our building now – blasphemy! Here’s one for snowball fights and late-night work and, y’know, that whole dealing-with-September-11th business. The best damn floor I could’ve ever hoped for.

Laura Shapiro. You couldn’t sell me on Gavin DeGraw, but you managed to bring me around on a far more insidious demographic: Scene girls. We’ll always have, sweetly and dorkily, the facebook. Tell Amsterdam we’re jealous back here.

Kaitlin Eckenroth. I owe you a lot, most prominently an explanation. Right now, I just want you to know I’ve missed ya. We’ve got time; we need to get coffee.

Sam Caplan. The last girl standing from the North Rosebury disaster. I love me some Chesnut, Castro and Coleman, but come on – you’re our bone-dry geek-glasses Architecture cheerleader. Stewie misses you. Get your ass over and say hello. And thank your boyfriend for all his work on that damn project.

Mel Langdon. So what am I supposed to do? If I say “my boy’s main girl,” you’ll get all relationship-conscious and smack me or something. If I say “thanks for making my deserving dawg incredibly happy,” you might literally kill me. If I say “you’re awesome for being awesome, for being hilarious, and being a friend,” well, tough shit. It’s true. All of it. Here’s a bold statement: you being from Omaha makes up for 311.

Beth Leonhardt (aka Milwaukee’s Beth). The little Wisconsinian ball of fun fury. That sounds ridiculous, but apropos. From our contentious debates on the nature of love to our preposterous failures in the realm of matchmaking. If that dude back Milwaukee way doesn’t get his head on straight, some more deserving chap will. In the meantime, you can always bitch to me – ’cause I’ve NEVER got relationship nonsense to whine about.

CTAMNDR. MWW.

Robyn d’Avignon. You. Are. Incredible. I can’t really imagine anyone else, like, straight-up offering me food the moment I step into their apartment, let alone making it from scratch before my very damn eyes. That’s just the sort of little thing that makes you the coolest kind of good friend and person I aspire to be. I’m fucking serious, dude. (I can say “fuck” a lot in here because I ain’t comin’ back.) I still have your Band CD, and your Smiths, and your Billy Collins, and your “God Of Small Things.” I owe you those back, and incredible amounts more. And yes, all my shit’s getting done.

Jessi Stein. Y’know, I feel really bad because it’s been one of those months and I haven’t seen you in forever. So yeah, I miss you. Thankfully there’s all those weeks between the end of work and the end of school, and so we’ll have our time to hang and chat and do all the things we’ve been doing since all the way back in our “Three’s Company” neighbor days. You’ve been one of the most loyal cats I’ve met since I came here, and you’re among the best friends I’ve got. And you with Lee Harvey Jeff? Glorious.

Steve Schmidt. Endurer of the most difficult shit I can imagine (not to mention the most difficult girl), inspiration for some of the hardest laughs I’ve had. You’d better keep in touch, dude, but before that you better make your way over our apartment way. Joe Ran-DA, Joe-RanDA!

Travis Petersen. Conor to my Ryan. Writer to my writer. Drinker to my drinker. Romantic (hidden) to my romantic (obvious). What else is there? Oh, yeah. My brother for life. This is starting to sound like a love letter, to which I say “Racism…”

James Schmidt. Because, y’know, I don’t even need to describe.

Everyone else. Thanks for reading. Keep reading Cadenza. I’ll see y’all at the Oscars. I’m out.

Dan Daranciang

Both students and faculty of the Performing Arts Department (PAD) get a twinkle in their eye when they talk about the A.E. Hotchner Playwriting Competition. It is at once a Golden Ticket and a Triumphal Arch: a lucky opportunity to realize a dream, and a celebration of a hard-earned and much deserved accomplishment. Beginning this Thursday and running through Sunday is the premier of this year’s Hotchner production, Brian Golden’s “Six Seconds in Charlack.” The question posed every year remains: why is this Performing Arts Department production different from all other productions?

Beyond the fact that the winner follows in a tradition of Wash U. playwriting competition participants that includes Hotchner and Tennessee Williams-a fourth place finisher once upon a time-is the reality that these are exceptional plays. Golden, who graduated in 2004, spent three years writing “Charlack.” The play has been through countless revisions. Written in the fall of 2002, the script was selected as a winner of the competition in the spring of 2003 as a 45-minute, two character play, and chosen to be produced the following year. Nearly three years after Golden started writing it in his introduction to playwriting class, the play now has four characters and runs close to two hours. “It’s been through so many makeovers,” Golden said. “There is only about one half of a page remaining from the first draft.”

Golden’s play centers on the mid-20-year-old characters Bard (Chauncy Thomas) and his girlfriend Penny (Lauren Dusek). Penny wants to set the two on a track to blissful bourgeois marriage complete with a job at her father’s law firm. Another girl in Bard’s life, Candy (Christena Doggrell), has different plans for him, however, and Bard must come to terms with her and his past. As Golden succinctly summarizes, “It’s a play about remembering who you are … something a lot of people my age are trying to do.”

In addition to Doggrell, Thomas and Dusek, the play’s fourth actor is Dan Hirsch, who plays three different roles. The set, designed by Pushkar Sharma, is inspired by a typewriter, a strong theme in a metatheatrical play. Salina Greene designed the costumes, Derek Dohler the sound, and Matt Kitces the lighting.

One characteristic of the Hotchner award is that it generates a good deal of admiration and praise amongst its participants. Jeffrey Matthews, the play’s director, is no exception. “The writing here is very strong and very poetic,” he said of “Charlack.” “It’s a very thoughtful play-very thoughtful and sexy and sad.” While a creative production of the play is critical to its success, Matthews emphasizes that the Hotchner award winner is more about the student than the PAD’s production. “The event’s really about Brian’s play and letting that happen for the student,” he added. “And he’s quite a craftsman. [The play] has got a little magic to it.”

While the weekend may be about Golden, the playwright is quick to express his gratitude to those who have made it possible. “It’s such a ridiculous honor, and flattery, and opportunity … to have people say, ‘This is a play we want to commit a year to produce,'” he said. If Matthews is right, the Hotchner won’t be the last time people will make a commitment to Golden’s talent. “We’re going to be hearing from him again,” he said. When asked what the future holds in store for him, the overly humble Golden smiled: “Any way I can find to tell good stories-that would be great.”

“Six Seconds in Charlack” will be performed Thursday, Friday and Saturday, April 28, 29 and 30 at 8 p.m.; and on Saturday and Sunday, April 30 and May 1, at 2 p.m.

Dan Daranciang

They say that the clothes make the man. But what sorts of clothes? What’s proper attire for a swanky bar might not fly at a sleazy dive, and vice versa. We decided to see just how people at the local watering hole would react to a smarmy, suit-wearing corporate type, and likewise how classy young socialites would respond to an unkempt dude in a Bengals jersey. So we, departing editors Matt Simonton and Tyler Weaver, dug through our drawers for the appropriate uniforms and set out to solve this question. We hit up three hip oases and three decidedly lower maintenance taverns and collected our data, facing disdainful looks, outright rejection and even the threat of violence. Here’s the story.

Saturday night

The Attire:

Matt: A tight-fitting blue canvas jacket, a green Special Olympics t-shirt with holes in the armpits, a wrinkled pair of khaki shorts, calf-length patterned socks and beat-up Chuck Ts.

Tyler: Baggier jeans than any proper socialite might wear, a backwards t-shirt, worn inside-out (tag visible), authentic #85 Cincinnati Bengals jersey, unzipped hooded sweatshirt. Water-resistant duck boots.

The Story:

We’re two drawling rural types out for a night on the town. One is on a mission to pick up the other’s spirits after his girlfriend dumped him.

The Ritz-Carlton in Clayton

The Drinks: 2 Budweisers, 2 Bud Lights, 2 indeterminate pink shots

We immediately make ourselves conspicuous by walking to the end of a dead-end corridor before sauntering into the bar area, strolling past the manager without a word. Taking our places at the bar, we nod to the tanned, Rolex-sporting young people and cigar-smoking over-50 set around us. The bartender is immediately friendly: “How you guys doing tonight?” We return his greeting and tuck into our Budweisers, loudly chomping on the salty bar mixture before us. Tyler explains, in a very exaggerated Southern accent, his job: to show Matt a good time. “Yeah, he’s havin’ some lady troubles, man.” The bartender is sympathetic, but adds some curious advice: “Hey, you guys should check out Blueberry Hill down on Delmar. I’ve never gone home hungry from there, even if the kitchen’s closed, if you know what I’m sayin’.” This is our first subliminal message telling us to get the hell out. “Yeah, there are always other fish in the sea,” Tyler adds. “Yeah, maybe even out there,” Matt observes, pointing to the wedding party assembled on the dance floor.

This likely qualifies as cause for alarm, since shortly afterwards two suits emerge from the back and level a close eye in our direction. Would these ruffians in their establishment attempt to mingle with their well-paying guests? To our surprise, the bartender produces two free mixed drinks along with another thinly veiled suggestion: “Here you go, fellas. To help you on your journey.” What a surprise: nice places will actually pay you to leave! This is indispensable information for the future. After downing the mysterious pink liquid, we settle up – one of our drinks completely absent from the tab (the things they will do to bribe you to get going!) – and hit the road. The night is off to a good start.

Cafe Eau at the Chase Park Plaza

The Drinks: 2 Bud Lights

Unfortunately, we only arrive in time to see some sort of white-funk band wrapping up their set. This place is full of the same yuppy trendsters as before; we may as well be a pair of flamboyant gays happening upon a Focus on the Family conference. The bar is closing at one (a scant few minutes away), so we have precious little time to work our backwoods magic. The bartender – “Joe” as we shall call him – takes interest in Tyler’s Cincinnati Bengals jersey: “Hey, is that a Bengals jersey, man? You know I was the best man at [long snapper] Brad St. Louis’ wedding!” Tyler, having momentarily adopted the lovelorn role, drawls about the coolness of this coincidence: “Aw, man, that’s awesome. This guy right here? The man. Right there.” “The man” is immediately pulled aside by Tyler for a picture. (It is, of course, the only good thing for him on such a night of “heartbreak.”)

The police start ushering people out, so we have to act fast; when asked where we should go for the rest of the evening, the bartenders offer up as suggestions East St. Louis and its strip clubs. Matt lifts one hairy leg up on the bar stool. “Do you think they’ll let me in with my shorts?” “Uh, I don’t see why not,” responds a curious barkeep. “Except the Cheshire. They have a strict dress code there.” There it is – our next destination.

The Cheshire Inn

The Drinks: Too mixed and many to recount

Unfortunately, the Cheshire, that English tavern to our south on Clayton, isn’t enforcing tonight – we get in without a second glance. As the night progresses, however, inebriated patrons take on the cause of proper decorum and, accordingly, become quite vocal in their disdain. “Sweet shorts, man.” “All right, nice attire…” Sneers and stares flow freely. Such criticism, though, quickly becomes the least of our troubles. Having picked up a female friend (dressed, appropriately, like trash) on our way to the Inn, it’s not 20 minutes before we’re subjected to the rather unsettling come-ons of a balding, 40-something Woody Harrelson lookalike. “Hey, man,” Tyler offers in Woody’s direction, “she’s got a boyfriend.”

It’s at this point that our new friend sticks his hand out over the table and pronounces that he, in fact, has a wife. Tyler, taken aback by such a bald promotion of adultery, musters up all the Method fervor he can and suggests, “Well, why don’t you go fucking hang out with her?” This idea, predictably, goes over about as well as our outfits. “Well, looks like I got a couple pieces of [excrement] to step on with my shoe,” observes Woody, and the vulgar jawing continues until the older man’s wife (mistress? daughter?) steps in and ushers his belligerent ass away. We can take a hint from fate; our remaining drinks are immediately downed and out the door we go. The first part of the experiment is over.

Monday night

The Attire:

Matt: Blue button-down shirt, blazer, tie, khakis, brown leather Alfani slip-ons.

Tyler: Striped, vaguely Italian button-down, sports coat, wool khakis, dark slip-ons.

The Story:

We’re annoying young executives who talk about golf and order expensive drinks. There is a strong possibility of getting our asses kicked.

George’s Route 66 Bar and Grill on Watson

The Drinks: Jack and Coke, Rolling Rock

We’ve searched long and hard for a place like this. (Our first choice – the gaudy, karaoke-centric Talayna’s – was closed.) The walls are covered with sports memorabilia, the jukebox is playing Robert Plant backed by the Black Crowes. Perfect. The half dozen barflies there aren’t interested in much more than the beer in front of them or their game of coin-op poker. We try to make ourselves noticeable, bantering about sales trips to Indianapolis (a “trash city,” as Tyler recounted, where he hooked up with a hotel bartender named “Joy”), lauding Rod Stewart’s three “Great American Songbooks,” making next-day plans for nine holes, and later-tonight plans for some coke-snorting. The only reaction, though, is a bemused look from the bartender.

Looking to ramp things up, we start a game of billiards and keep up the smarmy repartee, proceeding to play what is plainly the worst game of pool ever. The patrons look up only when Tyler skims the cueball off the table and into a nearby wall. We are obviously silly asses. On our way out, one guy steps back and makes way for Matt. “Go ahead,” he says, and another at the bar gives him a knowing look – stupid fucking snobs.

McLain’s Corner on Big Bend

The Drinks: 2 Bud Lights

You would be quite right if you thought McLain’s Corner is the mother of all dive bars. This tiny hole in the wall has little more than a friendly middle-aged waitress and a TV tuned to the “Late Late Show.” (They don’t care, either, underclassmen.) The only other people at the bar when we enter are a septuagenarian couple drinking hard liquor. This isn’t going to be easy. We’ve already expressed some frustration at our inability to play convincing assholes, and this quest grows ever harder once the old lady next to us begins to describe her cat “Coco” in adorable detail. “She’s got all this fur around her back legs, like a pair ‘a pantaloons – y’know, those Civil War pantaloons?”

Tyler is sunk by this, cooing in response to the cuteness and sharing details about Stewie, his own pet feline. Matt chimes in with the very sad tale of his childhood cat’s demise – hit by a car – and any pretense of arrogance flies immediately out the window. For the rest of our stay, we talk TV with the bartender, mock “Late Late” guest Suzanne Somers’ obvious plastic surgery and generally keep our yuppie tails tucked snugly between our overdressed legs. Things are falling apart; we just can’t be mean to good people. Only one option for mockery remains: that’s right – hipsters.

The Upstairs Lounge on S. Grand

The Drinks: 7 & 7, Bud Light

We like the Upstairs Lounge. On Monday night, they play some great music and the floor brims with happy dancers. It’s full of trendy idiots, yes, but the venue’s hard to knock. Nursing our drinks, we stand awkwardly at the edge of the bar and wait for people to stare. They do, thankfully, and we assure ourselves that the experiment is paying off. “Dude, check it out, I think that girl’s taking our picture!” “Aw, man, we’re SO out of place here.”

We are, but there is little confrontation to be had. No free drinks, either; we retire to a booth with fresh rounds and watch grotesque anime while the Lounge clears gradually around us. The lesson of our quest is becoming apparent: it’s no fun to be stodgy at bars of ill repute. Better to dress like trash: personal comfort, bystander discomfort and shots on the house.