I’m Engaging In The Chase: Rainbo Club

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To a passerby, casual observer, or someone not familiar with the area, one can walk past The Rainbo Club during the day and see a rundown, heavily vandalized building which looks like it went out of business sometime during the Ford administration.

There are bars on the windows, a gate with several padlocks barring entry to the front door, and a large neon sign simply reading “Rainbo.” I never had any intention of heading to The Rainbo Club last Friday. I had started the night at a hip new bar in my neighborhood where you could pour your own beers. I hated it. Everything about it was gimmicky, from the card you had to swipe while you poured the beer all the way down to the workers who would walk around and act like they were doing you a favor when they picked up your empty glass. I spent twenty dollars on two beers and was ready to call it a night when I got a message from my roommate.

“Rainbo Club. Half hour.”

It was 1:00 a.m. when I walked into Rainbo. The bar, which is really depressing to look at during the day takes on a life of it’s own when the sun goes down. The neon sign actually gets illuminated and the bars on the window and the gate at the front door give the bar a personality all it’s own.

This isn’t a place where you can get a gin martini. I mean, theoretically, I guess you could order a martini at The Rainbo Club but you’d get a lot of flack from the rest of the bar who are almost exclusively drinking Miller Lites and glasses of whiskey, neat. This is a bar that could be in any small town in the country. The couches and chairs inside of Rainbo are all different. Either this was done on purpose, or the owner of the bar went to a second-hand store somewhere in the city and just bought whatever he could find. I’m leaning towards the latter.

It’s almost VFW-like in its general aesthetic. Wall to wall wood-paneling, a fantastic jukebox, and while I cannot confirm this last little tidbit, I’m pretty sure you could smoke a cigarette inside and no one would bat an eye at you. Just a down-home, no-frills bar that was right up my alley. I sat on the couch, I drank beers with a couple of buddies, and was having a great time. And then from the corner of the couch I was sitting on I saw my phone light up. I hadn’t talked to a girl all night. But on this night, if a God exists, he was looking down on me (and my penis).

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This was the beginning of a very long, drawn out conversation between “Jenn” and I about whether it would best for her to come to my house or for me to Uber to her place. I eventually wore her down and talked her into coming to my place.

It was 3:30 a.m. by the time she got to my house. I had to be up at 11:30 the next morning to go to a birthday brunch, but that didn’t stop us from doing what people do when they meet on Bumble until about 6:00 a.m. A nice two and half hour romp in the sack with a (relatively) new mattress was a great way to end my Friday night.

When I walked Jenn out of my room and to the front door of my apartment at 10:00 a.m. with a hangover that would have killed lesser people than me, I figured I would never see her again. When you message someone at 2:00 a.m. and ask them if you can sit on their face, I think the absolute last thing on your mind is the hunt for a committed, monogomous relationship with a great guy.

Saturday afternoon saw me start binge drinking at high noon. What followed was a nearly 14-hour marathon of shotgunned beers, adderall, and phone calls/text messages to Jenn that I don’t really remember. I do remember this one, though, which unsurprisingly came at 2:00 a.m.

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I apologize for all of this vulgar language. I’m not sure anyone wants to read about something this explicit on a Tuesday morning but I wouldn’t feel right about writing this if I didn’t give you all of the facts. The screenshots are simply a part of the story that I needed to tell.

Much like the night before, I wasn’t actually in bed with Jenn until about 3:00 a.m. It was another long night, and I’ve spent the last two days recovering from the lack of sleep that I got this weekend. Am I going to call Jenn this Friday night to “hang out”? If I’m being completely honest with you the answer is probably not. I need to keep swinging the bat, but goddamnit. Last weekend was a lot of fun.

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Johnny D

fashion icon. @dudaronomy on twitter. e-mail:

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