Friday, November 04, 2005

A couple of nights ago, rather than going back to the bars that we always seem to wind up at, a group of us decided to go Village Idiot's successor, The Patriot Saloon. I remembered reading on Shecky's something about cheap beer and old drunks, and something about boobs. I can't remember. But we really just went for the cheap beer. So it came as a little bonus when we arrived to find a blonde in her mid 20's wearing a bikini top manning the bar. She had clearly been trained to greet the drunks with a wink and a friendly remark, rather than the terse "What can I get you?" Her southern accent completed the package, and it was clear that the majority of the bar was either thinking about her, or trying not too. The fact that she was the only female in the bar was probably helping her tips, too.

We sat a table and had a pitcher, and then another. We talked about the weekend and Star Wars, but eventually, as will happen most times you get a few guys together to get drunk, the conversation turned to girls. A friend of mine has a body that I, in my inebriation, compared to the table by banging the glass down on it. As in: her stomach is (I kid you not) as hard as a wooden table. A heated discussion about the amount of pudge one expected and needed ensued. Although I loudly expressed my displeasure at "kissing a stomach that feels like a pane of glass" and my argument was eventually defeated, I'll maintain the standpoint until the day I die.

The trip back to Brooklyn I was consumed with thoughts about what we find attractive and why. Boobs are free to see the light of day in some cultures, but in others, females are allowed only to show their faces. Here, we have a kind of "whatever" policy on clothing that suits me just fine. If you can get away with wearing it, then people will. And they do. But why is it that sometimes it's exciting (like in a bar full of guys) and sometimes not (like walking around naked at home)?

I don't know what the moral of the story is, except that I'm pretty sure I'll never really understand myself. And if I can't ever understand myself, I can pretty well guarantee that I'll never understand girls. Instead I just pretend that I do. So far it's working pretty well, but I'll warn you: If you ever decide to go to the Patriot with me, I'll probably accidentally check out the bartender. Sorry about that.

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