So look it: as I’ve mentioned before, cruising for Strange isn’t exactly a forbidden hobby at bars nor will it ever be in danger of extinction, I reckon. Little – not even an attractive chick’s hand-held, beefy date – will stop a determined person (read: every other dude in the bar) from attempting to get with some hot piece of ass. The reality is that many men in bars try really, really hard - but ultimately fail - to conceal their lack of couth and real agenda. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it’s innate unfortunately – how us Neanderthals roll. It’s hormonal, despite what modern corporate etiquette dictates, and what current Rule of Law enforces. Though some guys may be terribly crass, most of us are pretty much harmless. But there are some who are born-and-bred, habitual line steppers. As such, they routinely toe the the line between attractive confidence, and terrifying creeper. So it was the other evening when yet another recent graduate of Cleveland’s Ariel Castro Academy, seemed willing to stop at nearly nothing to either (a) assault a lovely middle-aged guest of mine or (b) become forcibly acquainted with our mammoth bouncers and have his teeth splattered on the nearest curb.
There are Bloody Mary’s. Then there are other bevies concocted with a lil’ tomato juice, vodka, Tabasco, spices and a cacophony of fresh meat stuffs, sauteed vegetables, and or grilled organic tofu with rare, Bangladeshi, Autumn herbs shizzle. Basically, it’s some cracked-out, French Culinary Institute graduate’s idea of a meal replacement. Voila – you have lobster Gazpacho with a dash “Vocka…” err… uh… or some facsimile thereof.
What’s black and not blue, stout and wheaty, and plain old tasty as all hell? Why it’s the venerable Black and Blue! What’s that you say? When you’ve finally
matured and gained class tired of pisswater, do yourself a huge favor and ask your friendly neighborhood bartender for one of these delectible jamies. It requires you to have both Blue Moon (or any Hefeweizen really) as well as Guiness (or similar Stout) on drought.
Well, more like I knew The Monogamists. Sex and The City – Season 1, Episode 7. I know, I know… it’s not Throwback Thursday just yet. But what the hell. Pouring through some really old hard drives from yester-year, I dug up some vintage photos and video footage. Some of them – naturally – I really didn’t want to see (read: relics of relationships crashed and burned). Others, had me awash in smirks and nostalgia.
This is my Tip Bucket. There are many like it, but this one is mine (Vince D’Onofrio reference for those not versed on Stanley Kubrick flicks). Take a closer look… there are two C-Notes in there and they came from one person, as one tip, at the end of an otherwise (unusually) mundane Wednesday evening. Oh yeah! Though his B.A.C. was D.U.I.-level twisted after several hours imbibing, the wonderfully talented young gentlemen who bestowed me with such a generous gratuity, didn’t pay for a single drink all evening. You see, he happens to be an entertainer at one of the bars where I happen to work and took it upon himself to amass a tip collection from his fellow band-mates, for the purpose of taking care of yours truly.