Specifically, about writing in a bar.
Specifically specifically, about writing in a sports bar.
It’s something I do from time to time.
- I’m pretty much like many writers. Broke. So I don’t have cable. I also don’t have cable because I hate the stranglehold Cox seems to have on the cable industry ’round these here parts.
- I love baseball
- Baseball, it turns out, is surprisingly difficult to watch without the use of #1.
- Along with baseball, drunk-watching is one of my all-time favorite spectator sports.
It goes without saying that I see and hear some interesting things whilst sitting in a sports bar. Some of these I’ve written about in the past.
One time, I’d gotten up to use the restroom. When I came back, three half-trashed college boys had moved all my stuff so they could sit at the bar together. I would have moved if asked even semi-politely despite my infantile response to dick-swingin, chest-pounding alpha males.
On my way out a little later, I tapped the nearest one on the shoulder. He looked me with eyes that said, “The shank of this evening will find me with my head in a toilet.” I said, “Don’t touch anything that belongs to me. Ever.”
I’m not a particularly intimidating physical specimen. I’ve been told, however, that I have crazy eyes. Maybe it’s true, cuz this kid turned white.
More recently, I was sitting at the bar with a vacant chair on either side of me. Two more strapping “Hail Fellow Well Met” types came in. One proceeded to tell me, “You need to move so we can sit together.”
I wondered, at the time, why in a bar, two guys have to sit right next to each other, but at the movies, they have to have an empty seat between them.
Anyway. I looked at the lad and said (not asked), “Need.” Just then, the bartended said, “There’s two seats over here guys.” It’s probably only a matter of time before I get punched.
It’s been pointed out to me that, given my relatively dim view of humanity in general and my loathing for alpha male frat boys in particular, watching sports in a bar may be an unwise life choice.
Probably true. But baseball.
Besides, it’s not always so confrontational.
Just yesterday, a woman said, “Someone forgot to finish your tattoo.”
Ha. Ha ha. Ha.
The guy she was with said, “It’s Alfred Hitchcock Presents, ya drunk.”
Clearly a romance to span the ages.
Perhaps my favorite quote so far has been from yet another simian, testosterone-addled frat boy who “whispered” to one of his fellow apes, “Hey, check out the old dude writin’.”
I guess he deserves points for correctly identifying what I was doing.