When Barbara and I go out for a drink, we go to one of two places. Most recently, it was the Lone Palm, a bar that should be subdued because of its name. You can tell that it wants to be; something about the long wooden bar and small tables with white candleclothes feels vaguely noir-ish, like you might go there for an illicit rendezvous. But the music is always just a little bit off, and the presence of a television ruins the ambiance as televisions always do. The Lone Palm is good enough to give glimpses of how great it could be with just a little tweaking.
We purposely went early to avoid the late-night crowd, but as it turns out, inebriated hooligans had beaten us there. As soon as I began ordering my drink, a blotto Brit stumbled up and began ranting about the flahtness of the be-ahhh to the bartender. Wait your turn, I wanted to tell him. Decided to let it go. (Serenity now!) Then things went from bad to worse. This group of men had clearly been drinking for a while, and they were doing that boorish yelling-in-unison thing that dudes sometimes do while watching sports. Except there were no sports, and we couldn't figure out what had them so riled. Then one of them wiggled his pelvis up to the stool he'd been sitting on, and he began violating the innocent furniture with clumsily violent thrusts.
Our suitably frigid glares were for nought, and I thought about slinking over to them and giving them a falsely flirtatious smile and asking them if they wouldn't mind keeping it down. Then I realized it would be better to mind my own business, particularly because these guys were rip-roaring drunk. See, getting smarter all the time, even if my ears may have suffered permanent damage.
We purposely went early to avoid the late-night crowd, but as it turns out, inebriated hooligans had beaten us there. As soon as I began ordering my drink, a blotto Brit stumbled up and began ranting about the flahtness of the be-ahhh to the bartender. Wait your turn, I wanted to tell him. Decided to let it go. (Serenity now!) Then things went from bad to worse. This group of men had clearly been drinking for a while, and they were doing that boorish yelling-in-unison thing that dudes sometimes do while watching sports. Except there were no sports, and we couldn't figure out what had them so riled. Then one of them wiggled his pelvis up to the stool he'd been sitting on, and he began violating the innocent furniture with clumsily violent thrusts.
Our suitably frigid glares were for nought, and I thought about slinking over to them and giving them a falsely flirtatious smile and asking them if they wouldn't mind keeping it down. Then I realized it would be better to mind my own business, particularly because these guys were rip-roaring drunk. See, getting smarter all the time, even if my ears may have suffered permanent damage.
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