Thursday last week at around nine pm I felt like a couple of coldies at my local boozer. Angie wasn't working, so I couldn't indulge myself in Pink Squirrel-type banter. And Miles, who shakes a very good classic martini and is unusually adept at jokes at other people's expense, was pre-occupied - pre-occupied with his own search for country pie by the looks. Tending bar must be a top-ten way to access bulk trim.
So I happily chatted with the guy next to me and enjoyed my drink. India Pale Ale, with its aromatic, honeyed nose and nifty back-of-the-throat kick perfectly hit the spot.
At the beer-apex, around two drinks, I swivelled around and noticed that the bar had turned into something God-awful. It looked like the trade show from hell, with unctuous males panting to make a sale, and cock-sure females knowing they were in the dickie seat. Yes, you guessed it. Thursday night is Ladies Night, and the exhibitors and prospects were pouring in the door.
The idea's simple. Females drink (tiny pours in plastic cups) for free. Males pay full-price-plus (and sip from a regular glass.) Honey-bees home to flowers; whales swim to breeding grounds; salesman promise the world. It's the same old game, with a little less smokescreen.
Quote of the night came from the token cougar in heat: Oh Lord, they're not much older than my son. I just hope he won't recognize mine in the morning.
Stiff drink picture from here [link]
Edited because I was too clever to check the spelling of 'unctuous'.
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