2004-12-03 - 11:15 a.m.
Vignettes From the Bar.
Last night during the Thursday Night Drinking Club, my good friend Mike tells me he can’t wait for his mid life crises to start. He’s looking forward to shaking things up a bit (he’s 44).
He’s not going to have a mid-life crises. He’s actually quite happy, but he is hopeful that if he ever does, it will be one of the more colorful, enjoyable ones, as opposed to say, selling your house and all worldly possessions and living in the woods as a smelly old hippie.
We mused on what his crises might be.
“Well, if you want the truth” I offered “I think you will finally come out of the closet, dye your hair platinum, pierce your nipples, grow a goatee and take up with a pubescent Latino cabana boy named Raphelle. You spend several months driving around the southwest in a pimped out mini van until finally they police find you roaming the desert, naked and in a drug induced daze. Raphelle has taken all your money and left you for dead.”
His wife wasn’t amused. The stuck up, annoyed looking girls a few barstools down shot me confused, pissed off looks.
My lovely wife, popping fried calamari into her mouth like popcorn, stated she thought he’d just one day snap and go postal at the workplace until the police gun him down in a hail of bullets a-la Butch Cassidy and the Puruvian Army. “It won’t be pretty” she concluded. “You’ll loose control of your bowels as they riddle your body with bullets.”
Mike was annoyed. He’d thought we’d spin tales of him taking off to the islands with some 20 year old sexpot.
Nope. We’re real friends. We’re not going to bullshit you and blow happy, cheery smoke up your ass. Even if we thought he’d win the lottery and run off to the islands with a supermodel, we’d never give him the happy satisfaction of indulging such a fantasy.
Sue, our own desperate housewife whose husband never comes out with us, perked up and offered that he should grow a moustache and get a Harley. She eyed Mike up and down and put her hand on his thigh. “You know, maybe take to the open road with... with, you know, who ever….” She tried to hold his gaze. Mike looked like he was going to spit beer out his nose.
“Maybe you just get a tattoo? A cool one, like a hula girl or an anchor” Matt, the most level headed and least imaginative of the group stated.
Mike’s wife said she could live with that and ordered another round.
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