Tour of Homos: Tripp's

Jonathan Joseph is almost always the Barney Stinson to my Ted Mosby, but his understudy if for any reason the reigning wingdog is unable to perform his duties is my dear friend, Homeless Dirty Bastard. HDB is Edith's boyfriend (the one who must have spit on Madame Z's mother in a past life) and is one of those "straight not narrow" kids that are populating the US these days. I attribute that to HDB's libido. In a pinch, he'll take what's available. Being a homeless beggar, he knows he can't also be a chooser (take note, Portlanders). HDB is actually one of the most patient and tolerant people I know. Which is one of the reasons our trip to Tripp's (hmm, that was unintentional but possibly unavoidable) did not end in bloodshed and black eyes.

Tripp's is located in an old house on Piedmont Circle that is practically Buddhist with all its incarnations. First life as a house then as a doctor's office then as a Martian space craft then as a bar. I may not be accurately reporting the order of that, but that is the fault of the bartender who relayed the history. Not because he was in any way dismissive or a terrible conversationalist, mind you. In fact, the opposite is true. I found him to be quite friendly and engaging. He even gave us a free shot for being first time customers. Granted, it was Cactus Juice, to which I learned the answer is no. The reason I don't quite remember what he said about the house was because he knew how to pour drinks at a gay bar. My gin and tonics (I had 4? 5? 62?) were served in tall regular drinking glasses and what I like to call GIIIIIN and tonics. Delicious. And cheap! And deadly. How I like it.

These beverages natrually necessitated a trip to the bathroom. If you'll allow me a moment of crassness, restrooms in places like this can be a crap shoot. At Tripp's there are two and both are clean and well lit. But only one had a real door. Riddle me this, blogosphere: Who came up with the concept of saloon door as bathroom door? And was there no one in the entire chain from design firm to manufacturer to installer that found this as unacceptable as I do? Is it to discourage the coked up fairies from doing blow off the toilet? Because that does not appear to work. And let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being on the verge of pissing all over your fur only to find a gaggle of chihuahuas in skinny jeans and open shirts having their own party in the bathroom. There's no door, jackasses, we all see you doing it anyway so get the hell out of my way!

Luckily, I did not come across this problem at Tripp's. Of the very small number of people there, most were fine and inoffensive. Two huddled around a bar top touchscreen game in the corner and didn't move till past closing. Another was a regular dog who worked and lived within walking distance. He was good natured, so we sniffed each other's butts and hung out a little. HDB, meanwhile, was lured in by the bright lights and loud noises from the mini-arcade room. One of the great things about Tripp's is its old Ms. Pac-Man cabinet and two pinball machines. According to Homeless Dirty Bastard, he played a lot of Ms. Pac-Man in his youth. It makes sense, look at that gussied up little harlot! Little known fact, those aren't the ghosts chasing Ms. Pac-Man in the artwork. It's a pubescent HDB's raging hormones. Those suckers are demented.

Anyway, I left HDB to fiddle with his joystick and sat with my new friend at the bar. We were having a nice conversation when I got a text message. Since it was near 2 a.m., I had a sneaking suspision who it was, but didn't know why HDB would text me from across the room. Then it became clear when I saw the message was just four simple letter, "help." I turned around and saw a pinball playing HDB literally cornered by two newcomers. Politely excusing myself, I made my way over and was able to assess the situation with ease. My poor hetero friend was being circled by the worst breed of faggot there is: trashy assholes who turn to meth to escape the pain of being so goddamn ugly. They were trying to get HDB to go home with them so I thought a little territory marking was in order. I put my arm around him and when asked how long we've been together we executed the "no, it was January because remember..." couple banter perfectly. This all backfired, however, when they then tried to get both of us to go home with them. I could tell these two were going to be formidable opponents.

I sent HDB to safety with a "go get me another drink" ruse and tried a We're-not-into-that manuever. It was quickly countered with a lap dance. These fuckers were fighting dirty. And I say that because they probably hadn't showered that day. The one on my lap was named Eddie, I remember because he wore a collar proclaiming that and the image of his writhing, scraggy form is scarred into my memory. I shifted to a dismissive tactic and blew the guys off to head back to the bar. HDB had actually gotten me another GIIIIIN and tonic despite the obvious near full one that was awaiting my return. This is when I started to suspect something might be wrong with my friend. But there was no time to dwell on that because the enemy had regrouped and was swooping down in a divide and conquer formation. Eddie grabbed hold of me and Eddie's white trash boyfriend got HDB. Their plan? Nibble on our ears. Things could have gotten ugly at that point but thankfully back-up arrived. Our kind bartender declared closing time and all but booted the methies out. After locking the door behind them, he turned to the rest of us and said, "Y'all can take your time."

With our foes vanquished, I could turn my attention on HDB. He was staring down at the bar in a manner that concerned me. "Maybe these gay pours are starting to get the best of him," I thought to myself when he went off to the bathroom and didn't return for some time. Going to inspect, I was relieved to see that at least he had the good sense to avoid the saloon doors and was in the real bathroom. Our increasingly more awesome bartender let him hang out in there for a while as I fed him some water. Turns out, though, Homeless Dirty Bastard didn't need the toilet until later. Tripp's had closed but we were still in the parking lot because HDB's state + motion + my truck did not equal anything I wanted to deal with. Finally, it all came up as he was leaning against the fence. By my estimation, his dinner consisted of French Onion soup with a giant bowl of Feta cheese.

I actually need to go back there. I had a good time at Tripp's.