I Went To The Bar . . .

This is part 1 of a 2 part series of me behaving like an idiot out on the town and why it is better for me to play games at home. The events in this story are mostly true according to my brain. Enjoy!

There are about 4 unfinished rambles that have either hit a wall or disgusted me. Woe is my artistic vision. I've been debating on writing up this story, but I figured that it might be fun to give you a snippet in the kind of trouble I sometimes get myself in, and part of the reason I don't go to bars often.

I went out with my cousin and one of her friends. They are a bit younger than me, but two girls that have good heads on their shoulders for not having full developed prefrontal cortexes (meaning the complete ability to make executive judgement has not fully developed, which doesn't happen until around age 25). Outside of that, they were funny and fun. Of course, there is a protective nature that comes out with hanging with your younger cousins causing one to lurk about (wait, do I lurk?).

Let's skip the boring parts. So we are fast forwarding to later in evening. bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (that's the sound fast forwarding makes in my head.) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (taking pictures of homeless man) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (getting called old) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (drinking) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (someone noticing all my gray hairs)bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz . . .

The evening endedish at Barcadia, which is awesome outside that it is a little too swank for my taste, but they had amazing video games. I was talking to a female and in mid-flirt I had a nerdgasm for a retro The Simpsons arcade game. I had spent many of hours at arcades in my youth pumping that game full of quarters. Needless to say the female lost total interest (very use to it). Yet, I had a brilliant time playing as Homer and fighting hordes of yellow people.

After playing a bit, the girls had enough to drink, and it was time to send them back to the place they were staying. Herding them outside, I got them a cab. I have not taken many cabs in the city, heck I haven't taken many cabs in the U.S., but I have taken many, many cabs in India. This is an important piece of information because in my inebriated mind, one could only use cash for cabs. This was fact. Pay no mind that for the past year the local news has been covering how it is now mandatory for all taxi drivers to have a credit card machine in their taxi. So I gave the girls cash, and emphatically pressed upon the taxi driver not to try to rip them off or I would make like a Wookie. I don't think he felt threatened. Didn't he realize I was inferring that I would rip his own arms off and beat him with said arms? He smiled and promised to get them home safely.

Sending them off, I felt like I had my big boy underoos on. I got my own taxi. Heading down Magazine street, I saw a bar I enjoy. I grabbed the cab door, swung it open, and rolled on the pavement like Jackie Chan. Dusting myself off, I swaggered sauntered into the bar.

Here ends part one.

Until I ramble on again . . .