I'm emotionally fragile and could crack at any moment. Be gentle. Please. I'm wearing a brand-new tie, what I think is tasteful solid color gray silk, and what I think is a crisp white shirt. Looking for opinions. Gentle, gentle please. Other people dress up like this. I think. But it's like there is a curse that hangs overhead. It's dangerously close to Holloween. All right. I'm masquerading as a white-collar professional.
This is part of a plan. I came in here dressed to the nines (funky odd number) in an attempt to interact with a better class of people. That's not a value judgment. If you happen to be an out of work so and so, dressed in the clothing your mother bought you for Christmas, please disregard this appeal for help. And don't take it personally that I'm no longer open to friendship with persons in positions as low as mine. This is a mission.
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The bartender is taking forever to wait on me and there is hardly anyone here. The few people at the bar are twice my size, have sway with the police, and the gift for conspiracy. I know most of them are wealthy, and they're all effecting the grunge look. And they seem to all know each other. They have signals. It's a fern bar. Well, it's an upscale sports memorabilia bar. But it's not full of sweating jocks. It's an upscale bar in an embattled Pittsburgh neighborhood. Dangerously close to nice.
The bartender is approaching, finally, with a mean sarcastic smirk on his face. Perhaps people already know me here. I can't help looking Middle Eastern. Succeeded in buying a bottle of Rolling Rock. A cold one, as the hoi polloi calls a beer. Lifting it up to drink, condensation drips on my lap. On my shirt. On the conservative solid color necktie. A book of matches in my pocket spontaneously combusts. Smoke is coming off the pocket of my black polyester slacks. People are looking at me.
This is part of a plan. I came in here dressed to the nines (funky odd number) in an attempt to interact with a better class of people. That's not a value judgment. If you happen to be an out of work so and so, dressed in the clothing your mother bought you for Christmas, please disregard this appeal for help. And don't take it personally that I'm no longer open to friendship with persons in positions as low as mine. This is a mission.
.jpg)
The bartender is approaching, finally, with a mean sarcastic smirk on his face. Perhaps people already know me here. I can't help looking Middle Eastern. Succeeded in buying a bottle of Rolling Rock. A cold one, as the hoi polloi calls a beer. Lifting it up to drink, condensation drips on my lap. On my shirt. On the conservative solid color necktie. A book of matches in my pocket spontaneously combusts. Smoke is coming off the pocket of my black polyester slacks. People are looking at me.
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