To discuss a second night in H-Vegas with other bloggers

I returned to H-Vegas last night.
It was a bit symbolic, since my first trip to Harrisburg at the beginning of the month was my first weekend of blogging. I was such a newbie then, so optimistic about the world, so naive about the dangers lurking and intrepid about blogging all the time.
Now, three weeks later, I'm a crack-ridden one-armed prostitute slinging around a dumpster baby. Oh, my fault. That's week four.
This week, I'm still optimistic.
I found a group of Harrisburg-area bloggers who have a monthly meet-up, presumably to talk about blog traffic, HTML or some other type of crazy online business in which my only conversational options would be to discuss how mentioning Alicia Sacramone's crotch has boosted my visitor total.
Fortunately, the meet-up, held at The Abbey Bar if anyone cares, turned out to be other regular people who made me feel a little less weird for writing my thoughts on a Web site and hoping people would read it. So, if I met you last night- it was great to meet you. What was your name again?
I do recall meeting a funny woman, Sara, who has been successfully blogging for several years about Harrisburg nightlife.
I didn't want to embarrass her at the time by citing my extensive online experience, but for years as a child I blogged about the nightlife in my small hometown of Portersville,* except back then I called it "passing notes on the church bulletin to see where the church barbecue was being held." Those were some crazy, Bible-filled nights. Sometimes, we'd even read Songs of Solomon. They talk about sex in there! (Guess Jesus missed that one...)
Being that I hadn't talked to a live woman outside of work in a while and the dead one is deteriorating quickly in the trunk of my car, I took advantage of the opportunity to talk to Sara (who, like most of my target blogging audience, is attractive and taken, so check, and, check).** I'm pretty sure my tale of my dog humping pillows was a winner, so the kid's still got it. For those counting at home, that's Andy 1, Checks-online-dating-services-and-watches-The-Notebook-alone 0.
I do hope to make it back to these monthly meetings, since it's nice to actually talk to people face to face instead of just through Twitter. That is, of course, unless my new church has a barbecue.

* Don't try to Mapquest it. It's very, very small. When I moved out, that reduced the population by half.
** I'm hoping Sara reads this and laughs. Otherwise, her boyfriend is likely going to come after me. And, well, I weigh 170 pounds and wear cardigans.

To discuss what happens in H-Vegas...

I spent last night in Harrisburg, which I've since learned goes by H-town, H-Vegas and the 'Burg, among others. From what I saw, it shall heretofore be called Ho-ville.
I met up with my quasi-cousin (called that because she and I only found out we had an aunt-in-law in common a month ago, so we're not sure if we're related or not) to go bar hopping. I've never been much of a bar hopper, probably because I'm not much of a drinker, and even more, I'm not much of a spender. I am, however, a single, young male, so I've been told this is what I should be doing.

Things I learned since last night:

1. Trendiness is relative. When I go to Wal-mart at 3 a.m., I feel relatively trendy, due in part to the straightness of my teeth, the color coordination of my clothes and the lack of an urge to buy huge t-shirts with animal prints. When I go to Ho-ville, there are scores of 20-somethings wearing trendy clothes that they likely can't afford, drinking $8 mixed concoctions and talking about trendy things, like global warming, Darfur, pollu....oh, who am I kidding, they're talking about boobs. But, still, in a trendy way. I have yet to figure out how to be that kind of trendy. From what I can tell, for the girls it involves wearing very, very low cut shirts that will wardrobe malfunction enough to make the FCC have a heart attack, and tanning a lot. For the guys, it involves gelling your hair enough to make it a weapon, pouring on cologne and pointing at "bitches."
   
2. A guy who looks like George Costanza, down to the tie, khakis, glasses and eagerness to be accepted, should not sing "Pour Some Sugar on Me" for karaoke. No panties will be thrown. None.
3. I had better come to grips that I'm working in a niche market. I talked with Quasi and her friend about interior design, drank a Smirnoff Ice, and sang "New York, New York," (to rave reviews and raucous applause, mind you). There is no amount of football talking, weight lifting or stubble growing that will make me seem less gay. So, as a straight guy, my market continues to be, "Hey, have you always wanted to date a guy with all the qualities of a gay guy, but without the love of other guys' crotches?"
4. All bars use the same iPod mix. AC/DC. Bon Jovi. Poison. Journey. Which makes me wonder- if you went to a bar in, say, 1975, what did they play? Was Sinatra's "Come Fly With Me" considered the "Don't Stop Believing" song that everyone starts singing together as soon as it starts? I don't even really like Journey, but damn if I don't sing that song every time it comes on. It has like 3 key changes to it. It's like the guy's trying to reach God by the final note.
5. Ramen noodles could, arguably, end world hunger. For the first time in years, I had a package, with Quasi, and I forgot how much I love that salty goodness. And it costs, what, 10 cents? I can't even think of anything else that costs 10 cents anymore. When the guys who created Ramen were brainstorming, what was the thought process? "Let's create the cheapest food product possible that will lure people in with its powerful taste... that way, we'll make almost no profit AND falsely lead people to believe they are eating dinner when in fact they are eating salt water." Mission accomplished, gents.