Mosaic Tries Something New: ’90s Bar Crawl
MANAGING MOSAIC EDITOR
It’s Sunday morning. I awake with a jolt in a bed that’s not mine. My head throbs, my left elbow is cut to hell and the ache in my right hip rivals that of a 90-year-old woman. I groan in agony. What happened to me yesterday?
Oh wait, duh—The 90’s Bar Crawl.
The 90’s Bar Crawl is a wonderful event that roams from city to city, pandering to us “’90s kids” with discount booze and free stuff. Though I typically find the ’90s nostalgia wave to be fake and irritating, I will always take any excuse to dress up, get drunk and pretend like it’s a different decade.
Using my three remaining brain cells, I strain to retrace the previous day’s events like the world’s worst, most hung-over detective.
Now, the bar crawl took place from 2 to 10 p.m., and I had every intention of lasting. Going into it, I knew I really had to pace myself.
Surprise, surprise: I did not pace myself.
The finer details from the day are gone, but the prevailing memory is one of extreme intoxication. I’m a seasoned lush, but I’ve never been so drunk for so many hours. Is that a good thing? Not really, but am I still impressed with myself? Hell yes.
The day started innocently enough: my friends and I—dressed in our ’90s finest—pre-gamed to party jams of yesteryear, such as R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly.” We then stumbled out into the daylight, and off to Klondike Kate’s for registration.
Around here is where the darkness hits. Yes, that’s right: by the first bar, I was already drunk beyond reason.
On the dance floor, we were greeted by a packed room, pulsating with plaid. It’s as if, when curating their ’90s looks, everyone got together and voted “flannel” as the definitive accessory of the decade.
In our faded shirts and ripped denim, we looked like a crowd of baby Cobains.
We danced on stage for what felt like hours. Not well, I’m sure, but who cares? Sippin’ on gin (and tonics) out of my new, color-changing bar crawl cup, I felt free, uninhibited and very publicly intoxicated. The ’90s were great!
You know what’s not so great? Losing hours of memory to the abyss. After Kate’s, everything slides into blackness, with random bursts of fuzzy remembrance. I might have gone to Rooney’s, but I can’t be certain. Did I go back home for a spell? Who knows, anything’s possible! What doesn’t seem possible is that I remained upright and mobile, but somehow, I managed.
I now have a pretty good understanding of how zombies feel.
But all is not lost! My memory resumes at Deer Park, where it was beyond crowded. I made friends with a kind older couple: “Dirty Harry” and his wife, Mrs. Dirty Harry. Come to think of it, Dirty Harry might not have been his name. In any case, I bought Mrs. Dirty Harry a beer, and we were three-way best friends for 20 minutes.
After that, my memory slides back out. I can’t remember the vast majority of my night, but like the actual ’90s, it’s probably best to keep it in the past.