Rochester Institute of Technology - Techmila / Ramikin Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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over and buy another drink. He rests his gaze on our casual dancing couple. It’s a slow tune, and they’re not exactly dancing anymore. 1 wonder if its legal, but I whistle softly in appreciation. Tom shrugs, and goes back to drying glasses. He's seen it all before. As I return to my table I wonder if they had enough light to get a good look at each other. the California Brew Haus Beer drinkers’ heaven! The sign on the wall at the California Brew Haus proudly proclaims “The World’s Largest Selection of Beer Under One Roof. Ho shit. One of the four bartenders handling the 70 foot bar claims they have about 250 beers from all over the world. I’ve lost count, but as I empty a bottle of Sapporo beer, brewed in Tokyo, I envision a grandiose project; work my way through all 250 kinds of beer .., what a world tour! In my pleasant albeit fuzzy state of mind the notion looms as large an accomplishment as crossing the Sahara on foot. The idea of crossing the Sahara in any fashion serves to make me thirsty again, and I leave Japan and move on to a Philippines beer. Ban zail Here’s to Pearl Harbor,” I slur at the bartender, “Don’t know her, he replies, and moves on to service another customer. A bumper sticker pasted above the long and scarred wooden bar will inform you of the fact that Rugby Players Eat Their Dead, I never played rugby, so I’m content with a pretzel stick, I ask the bartender if 1 can take the unique empties I’ve accumulated home with me. He says sure, but they must go out in a bag, and eyeing my growing collection of bottles finishes with i got all the bags in the world, so it’s no problem.” I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I’ve had enough beer when I reach towards my ashtray, and reflexively knock the ash off my pretzel stick, I decide its time to take a respite from my drinking project, 1 stroll Into the back and there are enough pinball and video screen games to stock a respectable arcade. I sit in a fuel dragster simulator game, and for 5,25 I’m involved in an incredible auto disaster. Fortunately, I don’t have to drive home tonight. Mext to me two couples are gyrating to the juke box. The Brew Haus has a friendly atmosphere. Everyone is here for some great and hard to find beers, and a relaxed good time. 31

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School? Work? The most articulate of the three looks at the pen in my hand, Tm a bum . , , write it down,” he says. Tm still reeling from that one when I get back to Elvina at our table. Well, whaddayaknow? Some guy has her pinned, arm across her chair, blocking any escape attempts. .She spots me and looks a bit panicky. The guy looks up, takes a hint, and leaves. “How’d that happen?” I ask. He just came right over,” she explains, “and said. ‘First of all. I’m drunk.1 Then he sat down and said ‘Secondly, I’m not trying to pick you up.’ ' We laugh, Well,” I say, Here’s your drink.” What shall we drink to?” asks Elvina. I raise my glass. Here’s to the bums,” EHiotf s Nest “Hi whazyemame wannadance?” The line rolls off his tongue like a foreign language as he strikes a who cares-anyway stance in front of one of five young ladies seated around a table. This is Elliott’s Nest. With a oh-well-I-have-nothing-else-to-do-for-the-next- three-minutes shrug she gets up and they walk to the dance floor. They face each other for about five seconds, and maybe their eyes meet, and then they are dancing, but apparently dancing with anyone who chances to get in front of them. Boy meets girl. Elliott’s Nest is veiy popular with some RIT guys. The reason is simple. Women go there. My pal Kim and I have watched the entire encounter. He is a good one to have along. He’s taught anthropology at RIT. We discuss how dark the place is. Like a stone age cave perhaps . , , “It’s not exactly a swinging singles bar,” muses Kim. “The way this place is lit,” he continues you can’t see who your opposition is. You don’t really get your first good look at her until you get to the exit lights.” I am forced to agree. We’re sitting in a raised gazebo placed in the center of the room. From its tent cover top hang two Tiffany lamps, providing the barest minimum of illumination. I can almost make out the features of the people at the next table. I give up and, like everyone else there tonight, 1 feign some interest in the band. They are really quite good, so it’s relatively painless. Behind the bar 1 notice Tom, the bartender is pacing back and forth like an anxious bobcat. I go 30

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] realize I’m thirsty again. Should I have another beer? 1 consider how far the Philippines are from Ireland .. . yeh; I've got some serious drinking ahead of me. the Red Creek Inn How can the Red Creek get away with demanding a cover charge eveiy night of the week except Sunday? Check out the entertainment and the answer is apparent. Red Creek is a showcase club for some of the hottest, but as yet undiscovered, new bands anywhere. And the audience is hip to it. One night this year Frank Zappa, after playing to several thousand space cowboys across town, was found relaxing in a dark comer of the Creek. Just checking it out. Red Creek’s average clientele is a bit older than most of the other cabarets' in Rochester. Many are slightly faded hipsters, remnants of the non-conformist sixties; guys with unstyled, past shoulder length hair. The dancing is freer, looser, less self-conscious. Everybody is dancing, but nobody is doing the busstop here. The Red Creek prides itself on its diverse menu, and its capable bartenders, I can vouch for the latter. .. It’s a warm night and the crowd is dancing to a band from down south who receive cheers for such insightful lyrics as, I used to go to highschool ... 1 didn’t like it much , ..” So everyone’s boogying, and I’m thirsty, see? Over the bar there’s an ad for a fresh strawberry dacquiri. O.K. HI try almost anything once. The bartender skillfully blends the fresh strawberries and other ingredients and serves the drink in an extremely tall, frosted glass. It's absolutely fabulous! “You sir, are an artist!” i exclaim. He grins. Red Creek has sort of a schizo character to it. A stucco wall divides the interior into two parts. Music and dancing are on one side, with tables serviced by harried waitresses, and the bar plays pinball machines on the other side. The passing of day into night metamorphosizes these rooms. By day the Creek is a restaurant that serves up pretty mean chili, frequented by students and working class alike. The atmosphere is quiet and relaxed. But when the sun falls from the horizon (poetically speaking of course; who ever sees 32