Plenty Trepidatious

A civic leader strokes his manhood whilst a woman hood strokes Commie Girl!

But the Hard Rock wasn't terrifying at all. Sure, there were pretty girls with good hair on dates with dumb guys who make lots of money. But there were also lots of neato people, like chanteuse Coleen Rider and's handsome Doug Skoro. The place wasn't at all jammed with the normal monstrosities who think a chain restaurant is a destination; plus, the stage now sits high and wide up front instead of being jammed into a tiny hole at the wrong end of the bar, and the drinks weren't too dear. My vision of 10 minutes in and then back out screaming with a whole column's worth of boors went unfulfilled. Thank God. (Last time I hit the Hard Rock, it was filled with debs in pink tube tops; surely, you understand the horror?)

Instead, the cantas of El Mysterioso strained through the crowd. It was lovely; it was tuneful; it was en espaŮol. Then it got really loud, and the few old people who'd been there for dinner did funny little hip dances (hands over their ears) back to their tables. Did the blondes cover their ears? No, the blondes stood firm, ears naked—perhaps because there was nothing between them. Ha! That was a good one!

Ha! Bet you thought this week's column was actually going to be about the physicists' convention, didn't you? Didn't you? Well, it wasn't! I'm sorry. But check back next week for my dinner with Isabel Allende!
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