Tatiana Talks

A Dayload, Or I’m Not 22 Anymore

So there are a handful of bars in this city that I won’t step foot into without a lot of protest -- I hate saying never, so I won’t. But it is pretty darn close. At the top of that list is Finnigan’s Wake. Sure there are reasons to go to Finnigan’s, like you are under 21, for instance. Or you are running with the Santas. Or you just turned 21, so you are too old for frat parties, but you miss them all the same.

However, the Duchess managed to lure me there this weekend, with the promise of lots of hot cops. It seems the evil FW was hosting the FOP’s Annual Survivor’s Benefit.

It was just as I remembered; sticky floors, watered-down Miller Lite and trashy-looking girls for as far as the eye could see. The Duchess and I walked around the outside and the forty-seven bars inside, found Salty and then went back outside to look at all the beautiful babies we were sure were waiting for us.

But, here’s the thing. There were no hot cops. They were all short or not cute or way old and I started to worry that either Philadelphia PD discriminated against the good-looking or all the good looking cops were on duty.

As the day progressed, the crowd got cuter. At first I thought it was the Miller Lites. We soon learned from a couple of coppers from Los Angeles, that there was a cop football game that just finished. So it seems all the hot cops also play football. I ask you, does it get better than this?

And maybe it was because I was in Finnigan’s Wake surrounded by a lot of hot, football playing men that carry guns and handcuffs that I would never see again. Or maybe it was all the flat beer. Whatever it was, I found myself making like an 18-year old frat rat and actually enjoying myself. I even danced with one of the boys in blue from the left coast.

So it would seem some rules are made to be broken. I mean with the exception of not recognizing The One in time to twist my face into indifference (and instead in my inebriated state, saying hello, then recognizing him and then stammering oh, uh, sorry and turning away), I would say the evening (err, day) was a complete success. I even managed to pick up a couple of tips by observing professional badge bunnies in action. So the next benefit I will be ready.

Plus, the slip-up with The One really isn’t so terrible. It is not as if I will see him any time soon. And if I do, he won’t say anything about how drunk I was -- an unspoken vow to never speak to each other again does have its advantages.

As for the hangover I had been anticipating since Thursday (see, in addition to the FOP benefit, I was also at the Bishop Collar’s 10th Anniversary and then the Field House for Marie’s guest bartending gig), it wasn’t half as bad as I would have thought. Maybe I am not as old as I think.