Pizza Diarist's Big
Night on the Town

Ok, I admit, it's far too soon for me to be making eye contact with the opposite sex. So I did my best to keep my eyes trained on the bottom of a glass as much as possible. But when the beer was disappearing as fast as it was last night, you run out of things to look at.

I was sporting my normal uniform of bowling shoes, old man pants, fraying cardigan, and fur lined chesterfield coat. Add to this my new fur lined hunting cap and fur lined jowls, and you couldn't tell where the hat stopped and the jacket began.

Reflections was pretty empty when I first arrived and there's nothing sadder than being a newly single straight guy in a vacant gay bar on punk rock night. So I decided to slip unnoticed into the back of a pub around the corner for a drink. Or two. Or whatever. So I settled myself into a faux retro couch, leaned my head back against the trendy exposed brick wall, and proceeded to nurse my drink to death and wallow in my recent morose disposition. I figured my scowling would keep the hyenas at bay and the odour from not having bathed for a few days would give me some peace and quiet to think. I was wrong.

I guess I can't blame her for trying. The smell of vermouth that accompanied her blocked my defensive odour and she probably couldn't see straight enough to know that I was half her age. She was into older men and I fit the profile.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"Waiting for someone?"
"Yes." (no)
"Oh."
"..."
"I like your hat."
"Thanks."
"They make the best martinis here."
"..."
"*hick* Oh my. Excuse me!"
"I have to go."
"Oh.. well it was nice to..."

Even a vacant gay bar on punk rock night is better than this. I beat a hasty retreat.

Reflections was more my style. A smattering of a dozen or so sad souls, most of whom drinking straight from the pitcher. Between set blasphemous skits about baby Jesus' prowess at cunnilingus and a cover of "Taking Care of Business" but altered to "Taking Care of Christmas."

Bachman. Turner. Overdrive.

I beat a hasty retreat.

I end up passing out while watching the new Todd Solondz film. Nothing says Merry Christmas like getting hit on by a middle aged woman who thinks you're older than she is, Bachman-Turner Overdrive cover bands, and 12 year old girls in tube tops having sex with truckers in an attempt to become pregnant.