Smoky bar equals sore scratchy throat.

Smoky bar equals stuffy nose.

Smoky bar equals EVIL.

Seriously, I really hope this town is able, at some point in the very near future, to pass the "controversial" no smoking in bars and restaurants ordinance. I do not like having to dry clean the clothes I wear out to hear a band. People do not have a right to smoke in close, public places. I'm sorry, they just don't. My friend Betsy always says that she would like to carry a squirt gun and shoot water on the smokers, and when they said "What are you doing?" She'd say, "Oh, am I invading your personal space and comfort with my obnoxious discharge?" Of course, Betsy actually said it wittier, but you get the point.

Anyway, the bands were eh, and some ugh. Christopher ended up knowing the bass player for one of them -- though frankly, the thing didn't really look like a bass, but like a doctored up wooden carving with part of a tuba affixed to the neck -- and they even dedicated a song to him. I swear.

We also encountered this completely obnoxious character, who I managed to insult right off. (That was always my problem in bars during the years when I frequented and tended them; you can't control the people you're in close proximity too and the booze frees the tongue and insults are bound to result.) He was floofing around with his glass and splashed water on us. I ask who did it and Christopher points out this twig with Farrah hair and a pretentious black frock coat on. I say, "It's always the ones with feathered hair." Christopher, of course, relays this to the twig. He then asks me if there was ever a time when feathered hair was in. I say, it worked for Farrah Fawcett, but historically, things tend against feathering, you know, fashion-wise. Whatevah.

Turns out the whole water splashing thing is this guy's lame-ass scam to try and horn in on other men's women. He tells me he's trying to make his boyfriend jealous as one point. I watch him repeat with various other people, the flicking of water and ask what's wrong with him. Christopher tells me if I talk to him again, he'll deck the guy.

Much hilarity.

Then there was the guy who had the seizure, and all the hip kids who might rock out, by you know, nodding their heads, and the poor schlub trying desperately to score with someone, anyone from a table of fashionista Japanese girls. (Japanese girls always have the cutest coats and scarves.)

Colin and I serial-killer spotted, and then eventually we came home.

OH, there was a girl who looked a lot like Kelly there. So we gave her a note that said you look like a friend of ours named Kelly Link, you should read her book, Stranger Things Happen. She and her friend giggled with delight and she tucked the note into her purse. As we were leaving, they said hi and we stopped to chat and it turns out the sort-of doppelganger's friend is currently reading The Melancholy of Anatomy by Shelley Jackson. Small world, huh?

We like giving notes to people. Or making lists.

This morning I read all the Say... stories we've got so far and put them in piles. We have some really good stuff. And then I read more of Affinity, which is a good read, as all girl love prison stories must be. Now, I'll put my mini-hangover aside and we'll go see About Schmidt, finally.

Later, there will be writing of my own. In my newly put-together office. It is nice having things newly put-together.