Geek Love

Is it a problem that we make the same resolutions year after year? They usually go something like this: Stop getting plastered every other night at happy hours that turn into seven-hour drinkfests and Stop behaving sluttishly while at seven-hour drinkfests. Is it any wonder that such resolutions seem to expire … um … right about now, less than a month into the new year?

For a brief, shining moment, though, we were good and stuck to our feeble attempt at some resolve, especially in the first days of 2005, when we journeyed to Lawrence to visit the Replay Lounge. While at an eight-hour happy hour (of course) the week before, our new friends April and Mike, Replay regulars, sang its praises. “It’s a smorgasbord of sin,” they chorused. They described scenes involving drink-induced loopiness, service-industry crushes inspired by the waitstaff and a gutterpunk crowd. Westward, ho! Off we went in the trusty Night Rangermobile down the hellishly dark Interstate 70.

Sadly, the promised smorgasbord turned out to be scant and picked-over. Newly christened Research Assistants Mike and April felt the need to apologize. “It’s usually not like this,” they said. No matter — the crowd was still respectable, thanks in part to the two bands that drew some KC scenesters that even we recognized. (OK, by “some” we really mean “that guy who sometimes makes us coffee at Muddy’s.”) To make up for our quasi-disappointment, we sidled up to the bar and took advantage of its Saturday-night special, Skyy vodka ($2.50 single, $4.50 double), then settled on its great back patio, a collection of wooden benches and heat lamps. Then the rain came, the temperature dropped to near-arctic, and everyone regrouped by the outdoor bar, which was protected by a roof and plastic curtains.

Well, everyone except for Kathleen, 27, Justin, 22, Rose, 23, and Claire, 22, who huddled under a sole umbrella. We slogged over to chat, and the conversation turned to random New Year’s Eve traditions.

“It’s a tradition in my family to change socks every hour, starting at 5 p.m.,” Kathleen said. “At midnight, we put on our most festive pair.”

Call Dick Clark! That sounds like a rockin’ good time.

“Did you make any resolutions?” we asked.

“I was going to but got too drunk,” Justin replied. A guy after our own heart, we thought.

“My crack is wet,” Rose injected, and, well, if that isn’t a cricket-chirping conversation ender, we don’t know what is.

We then ran into a familiar face: Mercury, the singer from Vibralux. We talked with him at the bar. His forelock tuft of hair was still dyed bright fuchsia, and he was clad in a fabulous black, furry coat. He held court from his bar stool (several people came by to say hello and pay homage), from which he unleashed a diatribe about New Year’s Eve.

“Really. Who cares? Who the fuck cares?” he asked rhetorically. “But I did get fucked after midnight.”

“Was it good?” we asked, a bit enviously. Apparently, it was.

Just then, a guy named Bobby, 22, stopped by.

“Is that ‘Bobby’ with a y?” we asked, starting to take notes.

“I’m not a stripper,” he replied, good-naturedly. “Hey, what are you doing? Are you compiling a dossier?”

The NYE conversation resumed. “I didn’t party for New Year’s Eve,” Bobby-with-a-y said. “Does that make me a male version of a spinster?”

“You have to have a lot of money to be a spinster,” Mercury answered.

“Or lots of cats,” Bobby said. “Like Emily Dickinson.”

“Emily Dickinson is my bitch,” Mercury said, then imparted a random factoid about how the poet was an avid gardener.

“You know who she should have married?” Bobby asked. “John Muir.”

(We must rescind our previous comment about how a wet butt crack is a conversation ender. Bringing up John Muir — which we don’t think has ever happened with us in a bar — is even more awesome.)

This highly intellectual conversational bent was the one thing that struck us as the night went on and as people got more lit. (Well, we were in a college town.) This impression was confirmed by Greg, 27, a Lawrence High School graduate of ’96 who works at the Free State Brewing Co.

“No one looks askew at you [at the Replay],” he said. “You can geek out.”

“What’s the most random conversation you’ve had here, then?” we asked.

Greg told us that he met a guy who invited him back to his house to read some of his poetry. The poetry was good, and Greg said he liked it.

“Then, the next night, I ran into him again here, and the guy was completely and totally wasted. He proceeded to berate and insult me,” Greg told us. “Apparently, I left too soon the night before — I had stayed for two hours! I liked the guy and respected him, but it got to the point where he was very belligerent with me.” Emily Dickinson that guy was not, apparently.

After last call was announced, we headed outside the entrance, where people had clustered.

“We can cruise the sidewalk sale,” said RA April’s friend Meghan. “That’s why they call it the Pre-lay Lounge.” We rejoined our RAs, who were laughing about a failed pickup attempt they witnessed.

“This guy went up to some woman and said, ‘I don’t find you unattractive, but I gotta go,” April told us. “Then, cut to guy making a beeline out of the bar.” Annnnd, scene. We made a beeline ourselves for our car, but we think we finally came up with the one resolution we might be able to keep: Get to Lawrence more often.