Note to self:

Remember that accompanying Himself uptown for a beer on a Tuesday evening is a mistake.

The "usual" crowd who, although not socially acceptable are rather interesting in bizarre ways, are replaced by pseudo-people. You know, the "just off the golf course" stool loungers.*

The overdressed and over-madeup wannabe yuppie females in the cute pink tees and khaki bahamas and eye shades.

The Successful Male Siding Salesmen who are married to the wannabe yuppies. They always look to me as if they're Wannabe Males.

Those of us who just wanted a beer and some conversation find ourselves moving further and further into the corner, all the while keeping backs against the wall in case of a Yuppie Explosion.

There was so much joviality, back-slapping, guffawing and polite tittering (by the male wannabes) that a feeling of imminent doom came over me.

What if the floor collapsed under the weight of huge egos?

What if the whole lot succumbed to shipping fever or some rare tropical malady and stampeded wildly around the premises?

What if one of them decided to actually speak to us?

I will admit I look at those people with a jaundiced eye. I've known the whole bunch my whole life (ugh ugh ugh.) They married people from their classes, hang out with the same people they hung out with in grade school, eat the same foods, tell stupid jokes, are totally clueless about what's going on in the Big World outside this little burg.

What is really scary is they could not possibly care less. They really and truly do not care. How boring.

We gotta get out of this place.


* They're just frightfully White.