Sometimes the most fun to be had is sans alcohol. This is a new found skill set for me, and certainly not one that comes naturally as an Irish-Catholic spawn of naturally effervescent drunks.
In a past life working in radio, the afternoon cocktail was akin to what a yoga class is today. So as my liver says thank-you and takes a well deserved rest, I continue to play fly on the wall in situations never before imagined. The first step in any bar/pub/nightclub journey is always deciding which direction to head when entering a boozy circle of friends, this important piece lately is to find the drunkest of the bunch and chat about mind bending antics like "wow did I ever door ding the shit of this 7 series in the valet lot" then watch four or five of the group run out to look around.
My most recent outing this past week could have been a sociological study on that suburban trifecta: money, boredom and booze. The place: the ever busy Dio Deka bar in the ritzy burb of Los Gatos.
As hotel bars go, it's got a bit of antiseptic charm mixed with sparkly spandex clad ladies. Eye candy in various shades of large to extra large plasticized cleavage. Beautiful Barbie wanna bees to even out the gaggle of Y chromosome that seemed to be Neanderthal in origin. This is where the real fun of nursing a glass of wine while secretly making fun of mental midgets parading as the big swinging dicks of the valley.
This isn't the only enclave that is as inbred as it seems. Conversations with the well-heeled hotel bar patrons excitedly describing recent travels to exotic hotspots like Cabo and the ever popular and culturally deep seek out the yearly Magic Kingdom trek, which makes the pedestrian nature of this hotel bar even more surprising, as most of the wine list would make for an interesting pub quiz.
Think geographically challenged.
If this is shoal ground mentally speaking, Thursday night I ran aground.
Surveying the wreckage became less amusing and more like work as Mr. Neanderthal and his cave man club members came to rest wrists and empty beer bottles on our table ala a frat party with french cuffs. A few simple "can you please set your empty glasses and beer bottles upon the bar, as I'm not your barmaid" garnered curious sideways looks and stares. Maybe I used large words, or perhaps the request should have been delivered as a series of grunts and hand gestures.
The lack of manners combined with the lack of simple social graces painted the picture of the simple life, sans the whipet-esque Paris Hilton. I can't write about the who-said what's, who hooked up, or why I was even there. Suffice to say I would rather eat roadkill than return to the 95030 zip code anytime soon.
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