Promises in the Dark

To the date who recently referred to me as "refined," I offer the following.

Yes, I can put on a cute LBD (albeit a $3 thrift store find) and go to a garden party on Northside.

I can admire my hosts' recently and beautifully manicured landscape whilst sipping California wine and discussing architectural integrity.

But after mingling with a yard full of cultural movers and shakers for a few hours, nibbling on perfectly prepared hor d'oeuvres, I can also scoot.

Because, you see, I had a date in the East End.

He had a hankering for Asian food but the first two places we tried no longer existed.

That set the stage for going to one of my favorite East End stalwarts, Carini's, a place I've been many times.

And you know why?

It's not for the corny murals painted in 1986, nor for the arbor hanging with plastic grapes.

No, I love Carini's because they're up front about being a good place to tryst.

It says so right on the website: "Partitioned booths assure privacy and uninterrupted quiet."

We made the most of that, so when asked if we wanted a front booth or corner booth, told our server we wanted to be out of the way just in case my husband came in.

The look on her face was priceless.

Over a bottle of Ruffino Chianti Riserva, we swapped stories while I inhaled an Italian hoagie and he went through three courses.

It was our young server's first shift in a while and after only six hours, Melissa was eager to be off enjoying her Saturday night with her boyfriend.

When I politely asked about him, I got an earful - how the BF's dad had shot his Mom and then himself, how he got mean when he drank too much, and how he had the coolest car because it has diamond-crusted bumpers.

Oh, yes, and he'd gotten stopped by a cop riding a lawn mower, which she interpreted as him getting picked on.

Just another East End love match.

Once properly sated, my date and I went looking for some Saturday night fun of our own and we didn't have to go far to find it.

The parking lot of the Sportsman's Restaurant and Lounge, another place I've been more than a few times, was packed with trucks and muscle cars and with our windows rolled down, we could hear live music.

And not just innocuous music, but a Guns 'n Roses/Journey medley.

Sweet Jesus.

My date looked at me with a satisfied grin and said, "Well, this could be some good entertainment."

That's when I took my refined self in my little black thrift dress and sashayed into the Sportsman, a place that has a closet-sized non-smoking room with no one in it and cobwebs practically the only occupants.

In the enormous main room, we paid our $5 cover for the privilege of seeing Sweet Justice up close through clouds of smoke.

At the bar, I was happy to see Patron, my date got a beer and we moved close enough to see this powerhouse of a classic rock cover band who seemed to be stuck squarely in the '80s.

But not even the '80s I experienced because there was no New Wave, no alternative.

Sweet Justice was all about some Night Ranger, 38 Special, Foreigner, all music my date had played with his band in high school.

And just so you know, this was not a band who reinterprets classics, oh, no. They played them note for note with the only difference being they had a female lead singer.

Easily, my favorite thing about her was the way her blond hair was constantly being blown back from her face like she was in a perpetual music video.

My date had been right; this was entertainment of the highest order.

The dance floor ebbed and flowed according to the song, but I never convinced him to get out there with me.

We did do a little shared swaying during "Hotel California," but mainly to make fun of the trite and tired song.

At one point, he left to get us more drinks and within 45 seconds, a guy came over to ask how someone like me could be all by myself.

Someone like me? Someone who wasn't smoking? Someone who didn't look rode hard and hung up wet to dry? Someone who didn't have on jeans?

I explained that my date had gone to get me more Patron (a mistake, I realized, when I saw his eyes light up at this information) and would undoubtedly be back soon.

"I'll give him five minutes and then I'll be back over here for you," he said, tipping his cap and moving on to the next refined victim.

My date returned and a Saturday night for the ages continued until the inevitable, Sweet Justice sang their final cover of the evening.

You haven't had a Saturday night until you've listened to Tesla and Pat Benetar while men in shirts with their names on them ogle large women with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

I can't remember when I've had so much fun listening to bad music.

The only downside of an East End love match?

That refined, little black dress is going to need a Silkwood shower to ever be wearable again.