Dive Quest: The Crawl

Starting off at Ray Kelly's.

Those of you who thought PrissyBitch stopped writing for us because her husband finally wised up and sent her off to rehab were wrong. She’s actually been busy applying to graduate schools, and helping other rich socialites raise money for stuff. However, things might change soon because she got into Yale yesterday…and we celebrated by killing off some brain cells.

We were going to head back to Oasis, but we didn’t want to die before she even got to go to her first class. Since we didn’t have a posse in tow, and we were celebrating getting into the Ivy League, we thought it was best not to go back to that little gem. Instead, we went down to Fairfield Avenue in Bridgeport, and started wandering. It didn’t take me long to realize that we were going to have one hell of a Dive Quest installment on our hands.

We started the night off at Ray Kelly’s Pub around 8 o’clock. The bar was mostly filled with unattractive old men, one kind of hot guy, his bearded friend, and some dude setting up his band equipment. Other than the creepy leers of the old men, it was OK at first. PrissyBitch’s Bass tasted oddly like a cider, but she was in too good of a mood to cause a scene. And when the bartender asked us if she looked like a mess, PB didn’t even make any snarky comments. But the music on the jukebox pretty much blew, and the threat of a live band making it impossible for us to talk was looming over our heads.

But then, right in the middle of our conversation, some guy sat down next to me and more or less yelled, “So where are you guys from?” As if people flock into Bridgeport from all around the world… Within the next 15 minutes he tried to get my phone number, asked me for a job — because B2B magazines are in great need of poets — and then touched my leg. You can imagine how that went.

So Prissy Bitch and I started plotting our escape, expertly coordinated to ditch the weirdo. We hauled ass down the Avenue, and ducked into a place called Little Joe’s Cafe. The bartender didn’t seem to like us, but they had free games of all sorts, including… EROTIC PHOTO HUNT! Also, there was what seemed to be a Lady Gaga block on the jukebox, and since she brings out our inner gay men, we were in heaven.

Unfortunately, some old South American dude kept interrupting our games to ask us if we wanted drinks…I think. He was hard to understand. The bartender didn’t seem to like him either because she kept yelling at him in Spanish to leave us alone. He didn’t really listen so we decided to try yet another bar.

A work of photobooth art.

This time we headed over to Lady Luck, which would be more aptly named Jersey Shore. The walls looked like they’d been painted by Chritian Audigier’s retarded brother, and rather than the sweatshirt-wearing dive bar dudes we’d been meeting elsewhere, everyone was wearing untucked dress shirts and had inexplicably uniform, greasy, black hair. The girls wore leopard print inappropriately, and a whole lot of stretch pants. Confronted with further proof that Fairfield County is turning into New Jersey, PrissyBitch and I decided to hop in the photo booth and take pictures with our iPhones. They also had Miller Highlife, on tap, in the bottle, and canned–which gets it a few points.

We’re used to standing out in bars, but we felt truly uncomfortable surrounded by all that tacky. So we headed across the street to Chubby’s Black Rock Tavern. As we stood outside waiting for PrissyBitch to finish her cigarette, we were invited in by some dude who said they needed pretty ladies inside, because most of the chicks looked like him. And that was how we met the only decent human being of the evening.

Inside we got to know our new friend — we’ll call him Kevin — who brought a parade of weirdos into our life, including some creep who told us to watch out for Kevin because “have you ever heard of John Holmes?” Creepy.

There was what looked to be an EROTIC PHOTO HUNT machine in the corner but some old guy was monopolizing it. Chubby’s redeemed itself by having Natural Light on tap (who does that?) and a rather amazing jukebox. We heard the worst/best song ever, “F*&k the Pain Away.” We also heard “The Gambler” and I played a little “Master of Puppets.”

The night more or less ended there. And we left feeling torn: Ray Kelly’s and Lady Luck were definitely not going to be winning any prizes, but we weren’t sure how to weigh the awesomeness of FREE EROTIC PHOTO HUNT against Natural Light, an awesome jukebox, and a crowd where one could feasibly find someone to have a drunken hook-up with.

Little Joe’s

Drink Prices: 4

Menu: 0

Erotic Photo Hunt: 5

Jukebox: 4

Clientele: 2

Bartender: 2

Likelihood of Waking Up with a Stranger: 0

Total Score: 17


Drink Prices: 5

Menu: 0

Erotic Photo Hunt: 4

Jukebox: 5

Clientele: 4

Bartender: 3

Likelihood of Waking Up with a Stranger: 4

Total Score: 24