The Gingerbread Man, 130 Heister St., has a bad rap as a "frat bar," and a rather boring joint when it comes to nightlife. But on my first (yes, first) visit there this weekend, however, I'm not sure what all the negativity is about.

Sure, the place was sparsely populated until about 11:30 and some of the patrons' raucous conversations and dance moves were hard to ignore, but I can't really hate on a place with good wait service and bar food that doesn't prematurely induce vomit. And what better way to wash down a couple of tasty $1 mixed drinks than with a slice of pizza on a classy ceramic plate?

Aside from the satisfactory food/drink combinations, the bar's real redeeming quality was the visual assault that made up the "entertainment." One giant TV mirrored the same, loud program as multiple small ones. And what was it, exactly? I'd say the most schizophrenic combination of music videos ever.

It first caught my eye when I saw Olivia Newton John's '80s classic, "Let's Get Physical," complete with sweatbands, spandex, feathered bangs and a fat man on a treadmill. I will never look at Grease the same way again.

The '80s theme continued with some of my favorite party songs being played out in a rather disturbing manner. Take, for example, Eric Prydz's "Call on Me," whose video is nothing more than a workout class set to the tune of soft-core porn. I'm talking thrusting, bending and otherwise moving in outfits that should never be worn by a human being again. I think my friend said it best when she remarked, "It's T and A, and I love it."

After a couple more innocuous videos came a truly classic Eminem and Nate Dogg video, "Shake That," which scarred my view of animated characters forever more.
Whatever, the pizza was still good.

Anyway, I tell you all this to juxtapose it against an old favorite of mine, Café 210, 210 W. College Ave., which didn't exactly live up to expectations this weekend.

First I was confronted with a $3 cover charge for live entertainment I'm not sure actually existed. I'd be happy to pay that for the awesome ambiance it has with outside seating in the warm months, but not the impersonal indoor atmosphere any other time.

And yes, I did get a Jack and Coke pitcher for a mere $5.25, but this was eclipsed by the bar's inexplicable decision to make last call at 1:15 a.m. I think my friend was about to commit a felony with a blunt force object when she heard this.

And people ask why a few of my editor friends and I used to frequent Sports Café, 244 W. College Ave., after putting the paper to bed for a few wind-down drinks last semester. It's mostly because they understood the concept of a 2 a.m. closing time, announcing last call just 10 minutes before and letting us finish until a quarter after. Some of us can't afford to start drinking at 9 p.m. on a weeknight, for goodness sakes. R.I.P., Sports Café, R.I.P. And keep dancing, Olivia.