Saturday the Monsignor and I went out for some bhangra dancing. This was a prominent feature of Providence life, but not here. One bar in Wrigleyhell, Spot 6, just started a monthly bhangra night. That's about it.

Spot 6, it turns out, is divier than most of its W-hell kin. It's dank and small and devoid of furniture (or, most of the time, a bartender). I ordered a vodka gimlet but received an 8-oz glass of vodka with a slice of lime. "We don't have any more Rose's," the bartender told me. Nobody was there except for a half-dozen Indian guys more committed to their suits than the dance music, plus two aging bleach-blonds reminiscent of the Vegas hookers from the Simpsons. Meanwhile, the TV in the back was showing the Notre Dame game. Some of the local junior Trixies showed up and I began to give up hope.

Things suddenly improved, though, when a massive family appeared and all ages started dancing up a storm. Also, it turned out that one of the junior Trixies was actually an expert bhangra dancer.

We stayed out as long as our ears could stand it, then moved on to Johnny O'Hagan's, where our ears were assaulted by all-too-expert covers of "Space Cowboy," "Sweet Home Alabama," -- during which the girl in front of us yelled "YES" after the "does your conscience bother you" line -- and "What Should We Do with a Drunken Sailor."

I am so glad I don't live there anymore. 

¶ 10:46 AM