Friday Friday, gotta get down with Friday

[LMNO]

Friday saw the two of us on a bit of an adventure.  Loosen the tie, ditch the jacket, hit the bars.  Have a drink, get a little food, have another drink.  Place starts getting a little douchey, head to another bar.  This one's pretty fancy, gotta admit.  Against principles, we wait in line to get in.  Before and behind, self-centered men and women gabble and gossip about trivia.  They get basic facts wrong, not just about the news, but about basic physics and, quite amusingly, biology (although if Melinda could do that, she'd be very popular at parties). 

We get in, are shown to the bar, we set up shop.  These bartenders are, well.  Hipsters, yes.  But useful hipsters.  I don't care if they call themselves "mixologists" or have earlobes stretched out to the size of silver dollars; they know how to make a fucking good drink.  And another drink.  Maybe three, maybe five.  Ambience is good, dark wood, chalkboard drink menus, bugs under glass (must remember to take pictures for Kai).  Good music.  Really good music.  The stuff I grew up on: Post-punk from 1985 or thereabouts.  Wire, Gang of Four, The Fall and... Wait. 

"Holiday in Cambodia"? 

This isn't right.  The fucking Dead Kennedys are being played as background music for a bunch of ex-sorority chicks shrieking out their past glories, and desperately posturing Financial District scumbags?  I won't stand for this.  No, I will stand for this.  I stood up, palms on the bar.  I sang along.  "Pol.  Pot.  Pol.  Pot."  She stands up, grinning wildly, joins in.  "Pol.  Pot.  Pol.  Pot."

I'm starting to bounce on the balls of my feet  "Pol.  Pot.  Pol.  Pot.  Pol.  Pot."  She makes a fist and begins hammering the bar.

"POL.  POT.  POL!  POT!  POL!  POT!"

I grab a fistful of cash, throw it on the bar.  I look around wildly, and see horrified faces.  The herd is spooked.

"POL!  POT!  POL!  POT!  POL!  POT!"

We run out the door.  The bartenders are laughing. 

We head into Chinatown for dumplings and beer at midnight.

[Doktor Howl]

You're too soft on these people, LMNO.  The chanting was a nice touch, but you should have grabbed a bar towel, rolled it up, and started hitting those fuckers on the neck while you sang.  Or maybe just glass a couple of the bastards.  It's the only way they're going to learn.  Sure, you may croak a few, but what of it?  It's not like they're going to chase you when you make your exit.

Ask yourself, "What would Sonny Barger do?"...I know that you and I can never be as Holy™ as he was, but we can at least strive for his level of perfection in the art of dealing with the tragically hip.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

  That, sir, sounds like my idea of a good time, only minus the mess and the wailing.