But Does He Have Beer Pong...?

I don't have a lot of time this morning -- motoring down to New Haven to placate the Rock Star -- but I wanted to report that I did not, in fact, drink alone last night, okay?

No, I don't actually have a friend or anything. And I didn't belly up to some random barfly. I just finally caved and went to the Oxford Tavern, is all.

I'd been avoiding it all week, because the last time I went it was the sort of dancy club that has an under-21 night, and I haven't been that sort of dancy girl in 20 years. But everyone kept telling me it has two tables, and when I was a dancy girl, the sorts of clubs I went to didn't have them. But then again, I was usually the only real girl in the sorts of clubs I went to, if you know what I'm saying. So it's possible that I'm no sort of judge.

Anyway, after I drove all the way across town to the North End Pub, only to find out that it's now the Roadside Bar & Grille -- and after the hostess there directed me back to the Tavern, I surrendered. I went back to the center of town, parked across the street from it, and watched. The first person I saw go in was middle-aged and dorky, so I went.

It turned out he was the janitor, but still.

The table I played on was new, and it took both bills and quarters. After a sucky game or two I hit a streak, played it out for a few hours, and knew enough to lay my cue down when it died. The bartender turned out to be the 21-year-old nephew of the boy who played Santa to my Mrs. Claus in the Nursery School Christmas Pageant.

They have beer pong there, too. Tonight. I saw it written on the dry-erase board. But it's okay. Dad's coming home this afternoon, and he has a pool table in the---

Hey now.

Dad.

Has a pool table.

In the basement.

Oh, I am a fucking idtio.




Yes, that was a typo, but it made me snort my yogurt, so I left it there. You're welcome.