THE ALLEY BETWEEN ATLAS AND THE BACK DOOR — I didn’t expect to have a big day, but Saturdays like these are meant to be savored.

ACT I

Friday’s big show wore me out, and I still had hours of grading in front of me to finish up the semester. I mentally told myself we wouldn’t be socializing on Saturday, but gracious weather and friendly neighbors got the better of me.

I stepped outside in the late afternoon to get some grilling in, as thunderstorms were slated in the forecast around 6. I threw a Smithfield pork tenderloin on direct heat, and I didn’t even get my first sear into the meat before neighbors Emily and Eric brought over some lawn chairs (and their ~14? month old dog Schenley) to hang out for a little bit. I sometimes see the three across my yard, as they rent an apartment with a rear-kitchen view into my backyard. The only thing stopping us from hanging out is a legal side street, which really just means looking both ways before saying “hello!”

Eric and Emily had just gotten back from a two-week vacation to Spain, during Easter season no less. As compared to the more subdued, pastel nature of Easter in the United States, Easter in España brings anything from elaborate festivals to brutish day-drinking. Emily told me she had to tell a stranger off from pissing in the alley behind their hotel (imagine something less of a Best Western parking lot and more of a stereotypically romantic, rustic cobblestone breezeway).

Though they are from Pittsburgh, Schenley’s parents are true Hoosiers when it comes to sharing. Emily poured me a giant plastic glass of bottom-shelf champagne (the best) as I finished cooking my slab of meat.

[A brief editor’s note on Indiana cuisine culture: I cooked a packaged pork tenderloin, which should not be compared or confused with the traditional “pork tenderloin” sandwich common across the entire Ohio River Valley. Trying to grill such a beloved, breaded thing would be absurd, criminal even, but don’t get it twisted just because the two dishes share a common nomenclature.]

I finished my tenderloin and the Pitt-faithful went back to their place for a bit. I joined them about an hour later to watch the NFL Draft and chat about college sports as a thunderstorm rolled through the neighborhood. It was relaxing enough just to sit on a friend’s couch with a drink in my hand and watch heavy rain and sudden flashes cross by outside their window, for a change.

ACT II

I woke up in my bedroom after a brief nap.

11 o’clock. Saturday night.

Party time.

I shouldn’t really be hinting in the blog how many days in a row I’ve worn the same shirt, but I will say that I threw on my favorite party clothes — Hakeem Olajuwon jersey, longhorn overshirt, ball bearing necklace — and got downtown with a clean face like any discerningly foul modern bachelor.

I started my night at the Atlas Ballroom, which is hands-down my favorite bar among a select few I step foot in these days (The Bishop, The Tap, and Nick’s English Hut being the common exceptions). Perhaps it says something about my vices that I know everyone at the bar to a personal level, but the crew at Atlas feels like a second family to me. At any point, I know I’m getting some combination of Brett, Guiness (one N), Andrea, Elise, Zach, or Marie.

On Saturdays in particular, I get to see the newest face, “Jordan,” who works the door on busy weekend nights. As I was passing through the door last night, I waved at her and called her “Air Jordan,” for some reason.

I hopped around the Atlas for a bit like a fruit fly, popping inside for the tunes and outside for the fresh air as the weather dictated, as we got more of that politely tamed rain as I mentioned on Friday. Even at its hardest downfall, it was reasonable to stand outside with a nice cold PBR. Perfect weather for gallivanting Hoosiers.

Fittingly enough, I ended up seeing a lot of the folks from Friday’s show outside along the College Avenue rail. I chatted Tommy’s ear off about going to WrestleMania last month, and Tina told me more about the secretly best convenience store in town. Ty and Hali showed up dressed in a cute cowboy-esque couple’s outfit for some reason (“no reason!”) and it cracked me up. Ty had on cow-print pants, and Hali wore a threaded hat like Woody or Jessie did in “Toy Story.”

More people need to dress up wacky when they go to bars. No, we’re not talking bar crawls. Just dress weird for the fuck of it. Life will reward you.

Speaking of which, my housemates were across the block from me at this time, celebrating the 9th anniversary of the beloved gay bar “The Back Door.” (Incredible name.) Ali and Miranda were each wearing track suits and fake mustaches (part of the night’s larger “Dressed to the Nines” theme) to celebrate a local queer icon who goes by “Smoove,” who frequently wears tracksuits and a little hair on their lip.

I don’t know a lot about Smoove (pronouns included at this time), but I do recognize them as a sort of queer benefactor about town. Smoove is also a bit of a rabble-rousing troll for good. When Ted Cruz desperately came to our relatively Bleeding Heart town for last-second votes in the 2016 GOP primary (huge mistake!), Smoove apparently dressed up as an alter-ego and brought belittling signs like “Tom Cruise 4 Gay President.”

You gotta love that sort of unhinged energy. You can’t buy it. You can’t fake it. It only manifests in people who can wield that power.

I sat in the tented Back Door canopy with the tracksuit mafia as rain began to come down harder. I had more PBR and laughed with my two closest pals, who made fun of me (good fun) as usual. Miranda took a fake mustache and put it on my real mustache. I took it off and put it on my forehead for a super-duper unibrow.

You know, real clowny shit that makes everyone smile.

The sort of stuff Saturdays are built for.

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-moose

Editor’s note: We’re going to be experimenting with headline structure in the next few posts. The “morning coffee” series was intended to be a loose collection of assorted thoughts — appropriate for a dated headline — but I think individualized headlines that detail the specific stories therein might be more suitable going forward. We’ll see. It’s not that important, but I’m fickle about these kinds of things.