Pink Glitter-Encrusted Origami Thing Hanging From a Rearview Mirror

Behind me at the light, gridlocked in traffic, she’s leaning forward, digging for something in the center console of her late '90s model Cavalier. While she does this, the little pink origami thing with glitter all over it suspended from her rearview mirror swings back and forth, repeatedly bouncing off of her face. I guess it was possibly made by her daughter? She tried to blink it away, but failed. She came up with a tube of mascara, took off her glasses, moved her bangs, and applied it to her eyelashes using that same rearview mirror. At this intersection, the last one before the road ends and you enter town, all of the vehicles tend to pile into the right lane, leaving the left lane almost entirely empty. I did this too. I was the last car to fit past the light. Not wanting to block the intersection, she darted around me into the left lane, went down about a dozen car lengths, and cut back into the right lane. I could see that she was missing at least one hub cap from the passenger side of her car. I suppose I could do the same thing, cut in front of a bunch of people and probably get to work a little faster. I’m not above that sort of behavior. I do it all the time. I’m just not in that kind of hurry to get to work.

Pool at the Moose

My wife and I were waiting for the Girl From Moscow upstairs at the Smiling Moose. She was late as a result of some car trouble. Mechanical, and presumably traffic also. Time was elapsing. Irritation was growing. Mood was souring. Beers were draining. We called. She’s still coming. We decided to play pool to pass the time. We slipped our quarters into the table, racked the balls, and played. She broke, barely. We are each terrible at pool and loving it, two games. Each of which was long and drawn out and played very badly on both sides. It was wonderful. The Clash played on the jukebox. Actually, it seemed like somebody programmed up most of London Calling. Awesome! We forgot about the time, the Girl From Moscow, and trying to sleep with her. We made fun of other people in the bar. It was full of hipsters and posers and kids who want desperately to be punk. Eventually the Girl From Moscow arrived, and she looked beautiful. We all talked about her on-again off-again dipshit boyfriend and all of the asinine things he’s up to. I couldn’t have cared if you had paid me. I would make a shitty therapist. I’m sympathetic and try to be helpful, but the whole thing looks really simple and obvious from here. We talk. We leave. We walk her to her car to confirm that it’s still in working order. It is, and we part.

Brewski’s

This bar sucks. It’s a sad little dive bar that could have so much soul. There are a few great, gnarled old men in the front, cheap shitty beer, and throngs of pretentious pseudo-punk, quasi-artsy, hipster asses littering the place. Everybody under 35 in the bar works in advertising, and consequently has no character, soul, warm blood, or content whatsoever. They don’t eat or shit. They don’t even really even need air. There are more hot, horny, glittery-tank-top-wearing Public Relations girls than you can count, and a bunch of snappy-looking, well-dressed, presumably well-paid, fit guys who desperately want to look intelligent, refined, and sensitive, but also strong and tough, all at once. That’s a lot of bases to cover. Good luck with that. I suppose that’s the most effective way to bed a lot of PR chicks. Neither my wife nor I have much tolerance for these types, attractive as they might be. We’re just here to hang out with my friend Dana. A friend of hers, to whom I have just been introduced, begins trying to pick up on my wife right beside me. He shakes my hand, and darts off with a smile once he realizes she’s not having it. I’ve got at least lean 50 pounds on him. I just don’t understand that. Do I look that nice? Motorhead’s “(Don’t Let ‘Em) Grind Ya Down” finally comes on the jukebox. I think I picked that one an hour ago. Every time I come here I promise myself that I’ll never come here again. I was ready to leave, and now I’ve got to wait for my song to finish.

Drug Bust at the Office

There was a drug bust across the street from my office. It was great. It happened ten minutes before the end of the day, right when everybody was about to clear out. Mine was just one of about two dozen faces pressed against the window, watching. Of course I got there a few moments too late to see anything cool happen. Some unmarked cop cars had just pulled over a navy blue, late '90s Lexus on Penn Avenue. It was as big as a boat, with tinted windows and giant chromed rims like convex satellite dishes. Apparently, I missed the part where the cops arrested the guy, confiscating his gun and two bricks of something. All sorts of plainclothes officers were milling about, taking pictures and looking around, in the trunk, under the hood, in the seats. Eventually we all lost interest and left. I didn’t see the guy, but I empathized with him. He had brought it upon himself--all choices have consequences--but getting busted like that has got to be shitty. All of our interest, watching through the relative safety of the glass, seemed very self-righteous to me. We love to watch the bad guy, the man who lives without the same moral yoke that we’ve all taken up ourselves, get taken down a few pegs. We like to watch with our pseudo-moralistic, self-righteous, slave morality…from behind glass. It feels good to see the wolf castrated and kept behind the door. It seems to validate and confirm our virtue and the correctness of the decisions which we’ve made. Doubtless, he’s probably not a very nice guy, but I’m not convinced that we are either.

Slow Going

This night has been slow going. It’s been one empty, disappointing bar after another. As if eventually we’re going to find one that’s got all of our friends inside. As if all our friends don’t live in different corners of the country now. Like bars are lottery tickets, and increasing the number that you accumulate somehow increases your chance of winning something. Like there’s something to win at all. We even stopped to eat dinner to postpone our inevitable surrender and return trip home. We called some friends who still live in Pittsburgh, the ones who haven’t moved away yet. Not much luck. The Girl From Moscow is out tonight, though. She’ll be making her way down to the Moose with some friends. That’s encouraging. It still doesn’t mean that we’ll see her. It means that we might. She’s unpredictable. We’ll sit tight and wait. We’ve got nothing else going on. We shoot pool, badly. This bartender knows what my wife and I drink. He’s great. He sees us approach, and grabs the appropriate bottles, and we all smile and laugh, and we tip well, and we drink. And the Girl From Moscow arrives with Richelle and Jon, and we’re pleasantly surprised. She looks beautiful. We’re not surprised that she looks beautiful, but that she arrived, and I don’t know why she’s always wearing so many clothes, and she gives us each a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. They order drinks, and we continue working on ours. Somebody’s terrible selections are playing on the jukebox. We all talk and have a good time. Everybody is cool, and everything I’ve drunk is beginning to catch up to me, and I’m buzzing, and it seems like the purpose of everything I endured during the week was to lead me to this moment, and it seems like it might have been worth it. And I manage not to say anything stupid the whole time. I'm proud. That’s quite an accomplishment for me. They stay for about an hour, and then they head off to a club. They ask if we would like to come along, but we don't. It’s not really our kind of place. We’re not really club people. I look stupid in leather pants. They take off for the club. We wait a while to straighten up. Then we walk out the front door, into the drizzle, and go.