Baileys
I'm sitting in my favorite beer bar, Baileys, listening to DeVotchka and watching people, nursing a strong ale. I forget the name of the beer, but it's good.
It's crowded here, and that makes me a bit sad. I forgot it was St. Patties day weekend, and there will be drunk assholes downtown from Thursday morning till Sunday night. Portland does it's drinking holidays up right.
There's an eclectic mix of people here. A man I can't stop glancing at, in a wheelchair, drinking his beer through a straw, and with the softest looking beard. He's young, and sitting with a group of other young, trendy, pretty adults. I wonder what his life is like. He seems happy, and his friends seem to be genuine and sweet. But it's two couples and him. And I can tell he's got a bit of a crush on the girl his buddy is with. She's cute, skinny, and has an interesting face. And with his very handsome friend. See now, this is what romantic comedies SHOULD be about. She should... what? Fall in love with him? Overlook everything about him that society says makes him weak?
Fuck yes. I've always HATED the story of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The idea that ugly is unlovable... drives me nuts.
Ah, and then there's the blonde sitting up at the bar next to me. She's laughing much too loud, and her too tight jeans look like they had a night of dirty, dirty fucking with a bedazzler. Her dyed blonde hair is lovely, but the crows feet and sinewy neck muscles give lie to her studied youthfulness. And it's depressing me. She's cute. She's with a hot guy, who keeps looking at me. SHE keeps looking at me, and raising her eyebrows when she catches my eye, and then turning, touching her man on the arm, and laughing desperately. I'm sorry lady. Find a man who either loves the cougar in you or appreciates that your beauty is aging, if not gracefully.
And then, the hipsters. Oh, always the fucking hipsters. They infest this town, like cockroaches. They scurry away from the door whenever you walk into what used to be an awesome dirty old man dive bar, hissing in consternation at your outfit. They roll up their single pant leg, which I'm convinced is a mating signal for hipsters. "Hey there skinny lady with GIANT FUCKING STUPID GLASSES and terrible fashion sense. Do you see my pretentious "fixie" and single rolled up too tight pants leg? It indicates a willingness to mate with you in a haze of Pabst fueled passion, and then leave you in awkward, pretend shame the next morning after smoking an American Spirit together in your futon bed. But do not worry, skinny, fashion challenged lady. I will not brag about your luscious vulva to my friends. That would indicate I thought someone was good enough for me, and we can't have that. Your tiny breasts with their sensitive nipples are safe from my friends lascivious, second hand leering."
Good times. I'm tempted to start making fun of the dried up yuppies, but I'm starting to feel a little cruel. And since I have a date tonight, that might be a bad idea.
It's crowded here, and that makes me a bit sad. I forgot it was St. Patties day weekend, and there will be drunk assholes downtown from Thursday morning till Sunday night. Portland does it's drinking holidays up right.
There's an eclectic mix of people here. A man I can't stop glancing at, in a wheelchair, drinking his beer through a straw, and with the softest looking beard. He's young, and sitting with a group of other young, trendy, pretty adults. I wonder what his life is like. He seems happy, and his friends seem to be genuine and sweet. But it's two couples and him. And I can tell he's got a bit of a crush on the girl his buddy is with. She's cute, skinny, and has an interesting face. And with his very handsome friend. See now, this is what romantic comedies SHOULD be about. She should... what? Fall in love with him? Overlook everything about him that society says makes him weak?
Fuck yes. I've always HATED the story of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The idea that ugly is unlovable... drives me nuts.
Ah, and then there's the blonde sitting up at the bar next to me. She's laughing much too loud, and her too tight jeans look like they had a night of dirty, dirty fucking with a bedazzler. Her dyed blonde hair is lovely, but the crows feet and sinewy neck muscles give lie to her studied youthfulness. And it's depressing me. She's cute. She's with a hot guy, who keeps looking at me. SHE keeps looking at me, and raising her eyebrows when she catches my eye, and then turning, touching her man on the arm, and laughing desperately. I'm sorry lady. Find a man who either loves the cougar in you or appreciates that your beauty is aging, if not gracefully.
And then, the hipsters. Oh, always the fucking hipsters. They infest this town, like cockroaches. They scurry away from the door whenever you walk into what used to be an awesome dirty old man dive bar, hissing in consternation at your outfit. They roll up their single pant leg, which I'm convinced is a mating signal for hipsters. "Hey there skinny lady with GIANT FUCKING STUPID GLASSES and terrible fashion sense. Do you see my pretentious "fixie" and single rolled up too tight pants leg? It indicates a willingness to mate with you in a haze of Pabst fueled passion, and then leave you in awkward, pretend shame the next morning after smoking an American Spirit together in your futon bed. But do not worry, skinny, fashion challenged lady. I will not brag about your luscious vulva to my friends. That would indicate I thought someone was good enough for me, and we can't have that. Your tiny breasts with their sensitive nipples are safe from my friends lascivious, second hand leering."
Good times. I'm tempted to start making fun of the dried up yuppies, but I'm starting to feel a little cruel. And since I have a date tonight, that might be a bad idea.
Comments
Post a Comment