It was St. Patrick's Day, 1990, and the Weaverville, Calif., bar was rockin' all around me. I'd just arrived from Oregon, in my trusty Mazda truck, checked into a hotel and beat feet for a bit of music and dancing.
So there I sat at The Sawmill's bar, conversing with a really unattractive guy. I was drinking beer, and I wasn't holding back, either.
I have to give myself a lot of credit, though. At a certain, crucial point in my imbibing, I actually said to myself: "If I don't get away from this guy now, he's going to start to look good."
I most definitely did not want him to start to look good. So I slipped off the stool, and with a tip o' the hat, sashayed into the crowd and started a conga line.
Sadly, this was the first time I'd ever consciously recognized that certain, crucial point in time to avoid certain embarrassing experiences. More on those never!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment