A eulogy for the casual hang

Happy hours, karaoke nights, random run-ins—all gone because of Covid

The other day, I was alone, yearning for a beer. I wasn’t looking to get rowdy, just wanted a beer. A big frosty glass of a crisp lager. Maybe two. Something to toss back during these lovely spring days, when the sun’s shining but the air still feels sea-soaked. I should probably pick something up from the liquor store, I thought. But then my brain told me: Wait, you could go to a bar.  

What an idea, I thought. I could go to a bar. That’s what people used to do to satisfy their beer-cravings, right? The revelation was wild—like you’re 16, newly licensed and realize you can just drive anywhere. 

What would it take for this to happen? I would have to stand up, comb my hair, put on clothes that make me look like I care. I’d then have to decide on one of the establishments I used to frequent, drive there, find parking, and then use my two legs to take me from the parking spot to the bar—presumably a far distance (because San Diego). Inside, I’d ask for a drink, and then hand over my money. At which point, given I’ve done everything correctly, they’d give me a beer. Easy enough, right?

Wait, but let’s not forget about the small talk. What if the bartender asks me how I’m doing? What if they want me to elaborate? What if there’s another barfly riding solo, looking for conversation? Ugh. Kill me. 

I pull out my phone and look for potential bar buddies, but who would be ready to meet me at a bar right now? By the time we go through the rigamarole of setting a time and location, the whimsy of the situation will have passed, replaced by logistics and organization. 

I put the phone away. I’m not opposed to going to bars by myself, but if I’m going to drink alone, why not just do it at home where there are cats and an endless supply of half-baked crime documentaries that drain my critical thinking skills like a nasy little mosquito suckling on my brain. 

It all just seems too much. Too much effort, too much coordination, too much motivation. If I remember correctly, things like “going to a bar” weren’t always difficult, and I can’t tell if this new trepidation comes from two years of pandemic reclusiveness, or if [blink-182 voice] this is growing up. 

Before Covid, I probably spent an average of three nights a week out at bars. There was always a concert to see, a friend's DJ night to support, or just a casual happy hour. And when there wasn’t an occasion, I could rely on the fact that I’d run into someone I knew—be it a bartender or a chummy acquaintance. It wasn’t about getting drunk, not really. Bars were a tether to a social life that gets increasingly hard to maintain as I get older. They were hubs for the casual hang.  

But what does a casual hang look like anymore? Personally speaking, it’s non-existent. My karaoke night is gone; and my trivia team—once a weekly get-together—has only met once during the brief respite before the Delta variant. I haven’t even played with my band since the first lockdown. 

Friends have moved away. Friends are having kids. Other friends are having more kids. More than a handful of people I know have quit drinking—and you know, good for them, but how does that help me?? 

I’m far from blameless in this shift, too. I’m following a path toward a new career in teaching, and the amount of work required to get my credential—not just homework, but a part-time job to support it—has pretty much grounded me on most nights. I go to bed at 10:00 p.m. and wake up at 5:00 a.m. to lesson-plan and write this newsletter (I know my parent-friends are rolling their eyes right here at this comparatively pathetic grievance). I started this pandemic as a garbageheap degenerate and I’m now a garbageheap degenerate with responsibilities. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get back to the pre-pandemic levels of sociability, and even though my liver and wallet are probably stoked, my heart is sad. 

Perhaps everyone’s else’s social lives are thriving, and I’m in the minority. But if so... how are they doing it? Grabbing a beer after work was a thing to do, but when many of us are still working from home, where’s the motivation? Do people still do happy hours?  And now that a new Covid variant will emerge as the last one recedes, each concert, show or event demands a higher amount of scrutiny. Is seeing this band worth the infection?

I know it sounds crass to talk about the loss of a social life when some people have lost so much more (6 million deaths worldwide), and I’m sorry. Just consider these the thoughts of a man fighting the onslaught of age, growing up, beating on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the increasingly sad present.

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AWKSD GUEST LIST

The Guest List gives AWKSD subscribers the opportunity to see live music for free. Just reply to this email and let me know which show you want to see, and I’ll hook you and a friend up. First come, first served.  

Friday, Mar. 25

Lala Lala, Elton Aura @ Soda Bar: Lala Lala plays chill, dancy indie pop that somehow feels like it’s haunted by the spirit of stoner garage rock. It’s simultaneously laid-back and urgent; sad and happy. Not sure how they do it, but there’s a lot happening in Lala Lala’s songs. 

Monday, Mar. 28

Kyle Gass (Tenacious D) with Trainwreck, Digital Lizards Of Doom @ Soda Bar: When Tenacious D’s first album came out, me and four friends sat in my car in an empty K-Mart parking lot and listened to the whole thing straight through. Then we listened to it again, thus beginning a multi-year obsession with Jack Black/Kyle Gass/Tenacious D. I haven’t really kept in touch with The D since then (apart from watching drunk bros sing “Fuck Her Gently” at karaoke), but I can’t deny how impactful Mr. Gass’ was on my teenage years. 

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Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.