No need.

Not my scene, man.

I don’t know if I ever really had a scene. There were bars and pubs where I could have been found lurking in during class time, either quietly observing or making too-loud, too-broad proclamations. But a scene? I don’t know.

Whatever “my scene” was or would be though, I’m sure this isn’t it.

It’s too damned everything in here. The patrons all talk at each other while scanning the room, trying to figure out what the key to getting it all is. On tap you have a choice of Guinness, Strongbow, or perhaps you’d fancy one of seventy-two martinis. A girl in 80’s day glow drag is dancing, nay, performing, and with such a carefully rendered aura of one who doesn’t know anyone’s looking. There’s a certain stench that no one’s commenting on as well –what is that?

Here I am, ever so slightly grey and fake, with a glass of black beer and a nose full of dog whistles…

…and the women in here all have names like racehorses, and the men are all frustrated with their hair…

But I just smile when I’m spoken to, and swirl my drink around a little, because it’s getting clearer every day that all my judging and gauging was never very cute.

-marko

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Author:
marko
Published:
26.08.06 / 12pm
Category:
Random