Thursday, May 5, 2016

Genius Website

                  Check out my new Pub Crawl Liz designed website. My paintings are going fast so don't miss out on our fire sale.

              brucecameronelliott.com

         Peace and love art lovers.

Beware Of The Nerd!

           One of the joys of being a political junkie is watching establishment candidates lose. Tuesday was especially fun. The mopes and out and out creeps who support these loathsome political creatures are particularly interesting to observe. This year the Republicans seem to have cornered the market on professional-loser types, and none more freaky than the Cruz supporters. Not only are they remarkably stupid looking, they have been able to deceive themselves into thinking their candidate is not a charlatan. They are not worldly,  have no interest in truth, and crave simple minded answers to complicated questions. The Trump supporters are less interesting; they are garden variety racists and misogynists. They need scapegoats to blame for their pathetic lives. Having a smart black man in the White House for eight years is more than they were meant to bare and so they blindly follow billionaire Trump.
           Cruz is a cautionary tale: He's a type we all knew in grammar and high school. Back in the 50's, before computers, the nerds wore slide rule holsters. It had something to do with math. They wore their pants above their belly buttons, were either real fat or real skinny, hung out with other nerds, were terrible athletes, and shunned by girls. Of course they were picked on by their less academic fellow students. Gym class and locker rooms had to be a nightmare for these Cruz-type kids. The consequences of tormenting these  socially unskilled kids is that because they were typically overachievers, eventually they became bosses, lawyers, professors and yes, politicians. And they seldom forget. So they spend the rest of their lives trying to get even with the popular, socially skilled kids that ended up getting all the good pussy in high school and college. (By the way, any pussy in high school was good pussy.)
          The day before the Indiana primary, Trump, pointing at a National Inquirer photo that was supposed to be of Cruz's Neo-Nazi father with Lee Harvey Oswald, said: "Well, isn't this interesting, what was lying Ted's dad doing with Oswald just before he assassinated JFK?" Trump might be a bumbling idiot, but he has a talent for getting under peoples skin, especially Republican politicians. Cruz always takes the bait when Trump goes after his family. It's easy to see why -- Cruz's wife Heidi had to be rescued from her car at the side of a Texas freeway when she was having her first nervous breakdown. One of Trumps daughters is either autistic, or incredibly prescient. The ten-year-old clearly hates being in the presence of her father and barely tolerates her unstable mother. So Cruz's family is a delicate problem for him. 
         Cruz's attack on Trump Tuesday afternoon was everything you could ask for in political theater. Okay, not so much theater, actually it was more vaudevillian. Cruz's vocal delivery is a parody of the technique used by today smarmy television evangelists .  He used "pathological liar" a lot in his attack on Trump. He referred to an interview Trump did on the Howard Stern show years ago were Trump bragged about being a "serial philander," and his "personal Vietnam was fighting all the venereal diseases" he's contracted over the years. While he was attacking Trump, Cruz's  wife Heidi, standing next to him, was looking like she was about to burst into tears, while on his other side, running mate Carly Fiorina, looking like she'd just received her monthly electric shock treatment, stared at him with a peculiar mixture of hate and adoration. It was a boffo performance.
         Later that night when Cruz gave his concession speech - as well as his announcement that he was quitting the race - there was a great shot of him, while attempting to hug his Neo-Nazi father, hitting his sad sack wife in the face with a glancing blow from his fist, followed up by a nicely placed elbow to her cheek. So now the Republicans are stuck with Trump. 
          On the Democratic side it's starting to look like Bernie's positioning himself to be this years Ralph Nader. Nobody like Hillary, certainly not her husband; perhaps her daughter likes her and a few of her aids, but other than that people simply tolerate her. I personally wouldn't find her so appalling if she'd just be her hard-assed self. When she yucks it up she makes my skin crawl. And her phony laugh is vomit inducing. Although I agree with most of Bernie's positions, I realize in todays political world they're strictly pie in the sky notions. And Bernie's not a guy you'd like to sit next to on a flight to Australia. He's a scold, and lacks any semblance of a sense of humor.  However, the stakes are simply too high this year to be a purist. If the Republicans are able to put a couple more young fascists on the Supreme Court we are doomed. One percent of the people in the US presently control almost fifty-percent of the wealth. A Republican Supreme Court would have that at seventy-five percent in ten years. So we are stuck with Hillary. It's a simple choice, really. She's pro-choice, believes climate change is real, and most importantly will appoint a liberal to the Supreme Court.
          Purists sicken me. Voting is a tactic. Demonstrating is a tactic. Handing out literature is a tactic. Educating people is a tactic. Raising money is a tactic. You do what you can do. And above all you keep yourself informed. Half the eligible voters in the US don't vote. On one hand this is a good thing because most of them are morons, on the other hand it's a bad thing because if they voted their self-interests rather than their prejudices, there'd be an entire Congress of Bernie Sanders. Unfortunately Bernie and his followers don't seem like they're going to be happy until they smear  more shit on vulnerable Hillary. This we don't need, she's weak enough without taking more flack from her left. 
        Whatever happens, if the American people elect Trump to the presidency, we will once and for all show our true colors to the world. I don't think this will happen, though; I think even if ninety-percent of white men vote for Trump, seventy percent of women, and seventy-percent of minorities will save us. In a few years white men will be a minority. That will be a good thing.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Bitches Beware, The Clock Is Ticking

          Perhaps my all time favorite poem is Andrew Marvel's "To His Coy Mistress." The only line I have a hard time with is "vegetable love." Really, what the fuck is vegetable love supposed to mean? 

                  But at my back I always hear,
                  Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
                   And yonder all before us lie
                   Deserts of vast eternity.

                     Then worms will try
                     That long preserved virginity,

           Those last two lines would not apply to any of the non-virgin ladies I've known over the years.  The ending is perfect:   

                     Had we the world enough and time,
                     This coyness, lady, were no crime.

           The great poets all seem to understand the vagaries of love. John Gay, for instance, is right on the money with:


                     Fill ev'ry glass, for wine inspires us, and fires us
                     With courage, love and joy.
                      Woman and wine should life employ.
                      Is there ought else on earth desirous.

             It is difficult, however, when you find yourself walking out onto the stage for the final act and the bitches don't find you as handsome and charming as you once were. This is a problem.

                *

             Last night there were no seats at the bar when I walked in so I sat in the window. Street Jimmy joined me. He seemed melancholy until I told him about Hawkeye accidentally locking  Kim in the back room of the bar while she was bar tending. The smile that swept over Jimmy's face was infectious. "Did he do it on purpose."
             "No Jimmy, it was an accident. He didn't know she was getting beer. When she yelled he couldn't hear her because he's deaf. The bar was noisy so nobody heard her pounding on the door…"
            Jimmy was laughing. "Hawkeye fucked up, how she get out?"
            "She didn't have her phone. There's a bar phone in the back room, but she couldn't call the bar on the bar phone and she didn't know anyone's number so she called her parents and they called the bar…"
            "How long she in there?"
             "A long time. Lee and Black Adonis were laughing their asses off when Lee got her out with his key."
             When Hawkeye reported for work a few minutes later Jimmy took triumphant delight in taunting Hawkeye for imprisoning Kim in the back room the previous night. 
              Johnny Ale, who was subbing for Mike, brought Jimmy a sandwich from Pot Belly along with the one he purchased for himself. Johnny had to avert his eyes from Jimmy, "if I watch Jimmy eat I'll lose my appetite. and by the way Jimmy, did it ever occur to you to say thanks…"
            Jimmy, with a huge mouthful of sandwich in his mouth, said, "thanks, Johnny…"
            "Jimmy," I said imploringly, "use your fucking napkin. You've got white stuff all over your mouth and hands. Jesus Christ," I added judiciously, "I've never seen anyone eat like you. You should be in a goddamn highchair with a fucking bib on."
            Jimmy seemed to divine an attempt at sarcasm at his expense, but chose not to reply. After he finished his sandwich he described catching the thief that stole the delivery guys bike in front of Jimmy Johns. "He make me look bad. These niggers come from somewhere else an' be pullin' shit an' make it hot for us. I tell the niggers , go back where you come from."
          "The Jimmy Johns delivery guy must not have locked his bike. That was stupid. You performed a good deed, Jimmy, the guy needs his bike to make a living."
            Johnny Ale said the deliveryman bikes are worth at least six-hundred bucks. 
            Jimmy said one of the new bums in the neighborhood was particularly suspicious looking. "He a big guy with a bald head. He look like a rapist."
            "How do rapists look?"
             Jimmy paused and looked meditative. Jimmy has seldom indicated any strong moral indignation, even when directed against himself. He subscribes to the laws of the jungle -- it is only natural that people should try to rob and cheat him, and equally justifiable for him to rob and cheat others if they let him. "You can tell rapists by the way they looks at you."
          "Really."
           Russian Mike was rapping to a hot chick at the end of the bar. The young lady had come to the Ale House after seeing the Parts Unknown TV show Sunday. When the Cougar came in she expressed some anger at my having put her picture on a previous blog.
           "Cougar, Pub Crawl Liz was instructing me on how to take the pictures out of my new camera and insert them into the blog. I thought it was a lovely picture."
            "Now everyone knows who I am." 
             "I guess they do. I broke my all-time record for hits on my blog after the TV show." 
              The Cougar quickly became distracted from her attack on me when she saw Russian Mike hitting on the hot chick. After unsuccessfully trying to insert herself into their conversation she returned to where I was sitting. When handsome young Jacob walked in the door she stared at him with eager, intense eyes. Jacob was over to where we were sitting in a flash. He's clearly fascinated with the Cougar. 
            "Jacob, it's not an accident that we call her the Cougar, she's definitely got the hots for you."
            Jacob thrust his hands in his pockets and said, "really."
           The Cougar almost blushed while she tried to steal a glance at Jacob's beaming face. The Cougar possesses  a luxurious pleasure seeking nature which conflicts with her normal mercenary, practical impulses.
           I have to remember to start carrying my camera with me. Jacob begged me to take some pictures of him with the Cougar. I promised  I would. 
            Cougar's neighbor friend Lucy and her sister walked in. Not only did Lucy seem sober, she brought me a peace offering of fudge from The Fudge Pot. Everyone reached in and grabbed some of the candy. For a while I thought my myasthenia gravis was in remission, but after my third or fourth piece of candy I felt a slight slurring of my speech. Oh well, if I have to give up chocolate forever, I will. A pleasant fellow in a suit and tie walked over and introduced himself to us. At eleven-thirty I said goodnight to the Cougar. She barely noticed me because she was engrossed in talking to the guy in the suit and tie.
           
             When I got home I watched the primary results from Indiana for about an hour. I'll give a full report on the state of democracy in America tomorrow.

              
              
                    

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Pub Crawl Liz Takes Charge

            With patronizing superiority, as if on cue all of the reluctant trees that have been holding back their leaves during April have just exploded into a sea of green. This happens every May Day. My Dutchman pipe privacy vine also looks like its getting ready to do its thing. 
            Street Jimmy was unhappy when I greeted him in front of the bar this morning. "I left my bag at Catholic Charities. Damn!"
           "Where's the new hat I gave you?"
            Jimmy's brain cells seemed disturbed. "I left it in my bag…Damn!"
            "Double damn. I've given you four hats this week and you've lost every one of them. That's it, as much as I esteem you, I'm through giving you hats."
             He answered in a slow modulated voice. "It was a good hat 'cause it said Ale House on it. People was pointing at it an' they knows me 'cause I works here. Damn!"
             The facts seemed plain, "Jimmy, you lose everything, money, clothes, shopping carts, shoes, backpacks, did it ever occur to you that you have a cognitive problem?"
             Jimmy listened with a sympathetic ear to my well chosen words. "Wha' kinda problem."
             "Crack has damaged your brain."
              "You keep sayin' tha' only makes me wants to get high all the more."
              "I take full responsibility for your crack addiction."
                At around eight-thirty there was a knock on the door. "Jimmy," I hollered, "guess who's come to see us."
                "Who."
                Fancypants entered the side door with a huge smile on his face, "hi Jimmy, it's me, Danny." This was his first visit to the Ale House since he was fired six-months ago.
               Jimmy looked up from his sweeping. "Danny." This was followed by an incommodious burst of laughter. "Wha' ya'll doin' here?"
                "I came to see you guys."
                 "Hey Jimmy, " I said,  "this is just like old times, isn't it?"
                  Fancypants described his new job at Walgreens to Jimmy, who was now leaning against the front doorway with his broom in his hands. "I just finished working ten days in a row. The people I work with are really great…" Fancy pants has always tended to over-estimate the worth of his friends and associates, and underestimate the strengths of his enemies. It's a lovable quality, but it constantly lands him in trouble. The purpose of his  visit was to raise his bicycle seat which he keeps in the storage shed in our building. "I'm going to come down and ride a lot this summer." When I asked Fancypants if he'd heat up Jimmy's food he spread the palms of his hands outward and said, "I'd love to heat up Jimmy's food."
              While Jimmy ate his food he described to Fancypants the horrific pain he was feeling in his leg. Fancypants listened to him with dignified silence, although there was a touch of roguishness in his smile.
             Fancypants said he wasn't going to ride his bike today because his ankles hurt from working so many days in a row. "I'll probably come back next week." 
             Juke Box Joe came in while I was talking to Fancypants. He's leaving for Italy tomorrow. While he was counting the juke box money he described his itinerary: Rome, Venice and Luca. Luca being the town where his father was born. He still has relatives there so it should be interesting. 
            At ten Pub Crawl Liz arrived. We were planning on taking my Putin pastel out of its frame and photographing it so that we can have it made into a poster. It's always a pain in the ass taking  pictures out of frames, but Liz tends to have an energizing effect on me and soon we were busy not only taking photo's of the Putin pastel, but some of my other soon to be for sale paintings and drawings. Liz is going to put them up on my web site:

                 brucecameronelliott.com. 

 I suggest you check it out. We're practically giving these marvelous works of art away. In fact yesterday Kim, who was bar tending, called and told me that a nice young couple from New Orleans had stopped by the bar after seeing us on Parts Unknown, and after buying my book, Last Night At The Old Town Ale House, wanted to know how much I wanted for the painting of the redhead showing her snatch.
           "Are they nice kids?"
            "Very nice."
             "Let them have it for a hundred-bucks."
             The great thing about Pub Crawl Liz is that she gets things done. I, on the other hand, being a creative genius, am more of an idea man. I am also a procrastinator. Liz is not. So check out my new web site.
              
      

Monday, May 2, 2016

          Swedish Sailor, The Inventor, Pub Crawl Liz and the Cougar
                          

The Wisdom Of The Ages

             I would like to welcome the thousands of new visitors to my amazing blog. I'd occasionally get some really big hits when the late Roger Ebert would give me plugs on his blog, and now thanks to Anthony I have you folks. As you will quickly notice, the Geriatric Genius is not everyone's cup of tea. Unless you are a person possessing an unusually sophisticated intellect, as well as a highly developed sense of humor, you might find me as twisted as a pink pigs tail. Most men have traded  what little ambition they might have possessed at one time for security. Not I , I continue to look life in the eye fearlessly and let the chips fall where they may. If the truth must be told (and I insist on it) I confess that I am a little addicted to spending long hours in saloons drinking beer. Although unlike most of my fellow imbibers I am always dignified, seldom quarrelsome, and have a tendency to become amorous when in the company of attractive woman. 

         *

        Saturday night Johnny Ale asked Street Jimmy if he heard Beyonce's new album. He had not. "The reason I ask, Jimmy, is because she has a song about J Z being unfaithful to her. You wouldn't be unfaithful if you were married to Beyonce, would you?"
         With his eyes half closed Jimmy stared at the half crushed cigarette in his malformed hand and considered the question. "Well," he said after a moments deliberation, "I can't say for sure…I gots a lotta dog in me 'cause I be a man." After Johnny moved down the bar to wait on a customer Jimmy looked at me and said, "peoples been comin' up to me on the street an' they say, hey, you Street Jimmy, I knows you, but then when I ax them for money they jus' walk away. Wha' the good of bein' famous if it don' put no money in your pocket."
          "Jimmy, let me give you a little advice. You need to improve your rap. When a stranger engages you in conversation try this: 'Hey, nice to meet you folks, where ya'll from. What brings you to Chicago?" 
           Jimmy stared at me. A new world was clearly dancing before his eyes. His voice filled with admiration he said, "hey, tha' good, I'm gonna try tha'."
           "It sounds so much better than simply saying , 'hey, give me some money.' You need to change your life around Jimmy. Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you, cry, and you cry alone. The birds are singing in the tree-tops, but you don't hear them. Let a smile be your umbrella."
           "Huh?"
            "I want to see the brightness come back into your eyes, all I've ever asked  of you ,Jimmy, is if you insist on being a crack-head , be the best crack-head you can be."
             Jimmy insisted it was hard to be up-beat because his leg continues to hurt him. "I still be's in a lotta pain."
             "Excuses, excuses."
              A few minutes after Jimmy dragged his afflicted leg out of the bar, the Bibliophile's husband Dave walked in. He said he was only going to have one quick beer. Well, one quickly turned into a dozen. I thought he was finally leaving when he removed his North Face jacket from the back of my bar stool. I was wrong. A half hour later he asked me where his jacket was. 
           "You took it. I thought you went home."
           "No," he said looking around for his coat, "I was talking to those ladies on the bench."
            He was still looking for his coat when I called it a night.
            The following morning the coat was hanging in the back room with Dave's name pinned to it.

             *

             Sunday night we planned on having the Parts Unknown show on the Ale Houses not very large TV. This is always tricky. The first thing we do is turn off the juke box. One would think people would be interested in watching a TV show about the bar they were in, but when you're dealing with drunks, ordinary politeness can't be taken for granted. Two middle-aged couples came in a half hour before the show. They were shit-faced and noisy. The bar was now filling up with people coming in to watch the show. Ten minutes before eight o' clock a group of what appeared to be Second City students came in and sat down in the back corner. They were also noisy. When Kim, who was bar tending, told the two middle-aged couples that she wasn't going to serve them because they were by now clearly inebriated they grabbed her tip money off the bar and stormed out. When she told the Second City kids to quiet down somebody told her not to shout, and they too left. 
           The Cougar and her drunk neighbor friend were also in attendance. Russian Mike had promised to bring some Greek Pasta, and he didn't disappoint.  The pasta got rave reviews. Mike, is really Greek, but because he's spent the last ten-years in the Ukraine, we call him Russian Mike. The bar was reasonably quiet now, and everyone seemed to enjoy the show. Buzz Kill was actually smiling. I let Street Jimmy stand next to me by the side-door. Pub Crawl Liz was sitting next to Buzz Kill.
            Michael Steed really did a beautiful job of producing the show. The City never looked better. Whenever anyone asks me what Anthony Bourdain is really like I simply say, "he's just like he is on TV. Unlike a lot of celebrities, there's nothing phony about him. "
          The Cougar said she thought I was great.
          "Cougar, is that going to translate into sex?"
          "Possibly."
          The Cougars neighbor friend was blotto. When she's blotto (which is whenever I see her) she tends to be peevish. I was a bit harsh with her, but I was in no mood to treat her with my characteristic stoicism. She has a perpetual frown on her face which I find unbecoming. Unlike her neighbor friend, a cheerful fire was burning in the Cougars bosom while I fondled her lovely ass. Even if her heart is not of the purest gold, the Cougar tends to be a good sport, even when she seems indifferent to my charms. Last night the message in her eyes was encouraging.

          *

           This morning Street Jimmy was almost comatose when he arrived to work. He said he again slept on the bench in front of Pot Belly's. The forty-degree temperatures don't seem to bother him. When he asked me for another lost and found hat I said, "I've already given you four this week , what the fuck are you doing with them."
          "I jus lose 'em."
          I gave him one of the Ale House hats that was water damaged from last summers basement flood. He prefers Kangol hats, but people tend not to lose them. A stocking cap makes more sense in cold weather, but Jimmy is a man of fashion and only reluctantly put on the hat I gave him. 
            "Why do you turn the bill backwards?"
           "'Cause tha's the way I likes to wear my hat."
             Jimmy fell asleep three times while he was sweeping. 
             As much as he loved the chili mac Tobin made for him, he fell asleep while he was eating it. When he was finally finished he wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "tha's good stuff, it will hold you for a while."
            Butcovich showed up to fix the leaky pipe behind the bar.

           *

           Pub Crawl Liz says her upcoming Saturday pub crawl will be ending at the Ale House. She's coming over today to help me go through a couple dozen of my erotic paintings. Tobin has inexplicably brought these marvelous paintings from Indiana  to the condo. I know Tobin's never been  a big fan of my art work, nor are the kind of people she hangs out with. Liz and I are going to try and sell them on the internet.

             
          

Saturday, April 30, 2016

Cigarettes And Whiskey, And Wild Wild Woman!

           The weather continues to fluctuate between cold, and rainy-cold. The absence of sun prevents me from being my usual happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care, ebullient lover of life; worst of all  -- I am no longer the universal favorite that my fans have come to expect. April has indeed not only been the cruelest month, but the most depressing month.

           Come fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring
            The winter garment of repentance fling:
           The bird of time has but a little way to fly --
            And lo! the bird is on the wing.

        I've loved the Fitzgerald translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam's since I was a kid. My uncle Hugh gave me an illustrated copy for my birthday and for a long time I was able to recite a number of my favorite couplets.
    
           I sometimes think that never blows so red
           The rose as where some buried Caesar  bled.

       Khyyam wrote the Rubaiyat in the Eleventh Century. I'm sure Fitzgerald took some liberties, but it is nevertheless an amazing work of poetry.

            Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
            Before we too into the dust descend;
            Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie,
            Sans wine, sans song, sans singer and sans -- end.

        Or:

           The moving finger writes; and, having writ,
            Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit
             Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
            Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

      My Uncle Hugh was the eldest of seven. My mother was the second oldest. Hugh had instilled in my mother a love of poetry at an early age. As a child it seemed the natural order of things for me to have a mother who could recite Tennyson or Wordsworth by the hour. I think her favorite poet was Keats.

           *

            Gracie called this morning while Street Jimmy and I were getting the bar ready for action. She has just adopted a six-month old grey cat named Finn. Her dog Arthur seems to have welcomed Finn into their new house. Grace said having a fenced in back yard has been a transformative event in her life. Street Jimmy pleaded with me to hand him the phone. For ten-minutes he poured his heart out to Gracie. "Anya bein' mean to me." I got the feeling from the tone of Jimmy's voice that Gracie was not overly sympathetic to his litany of Anya complaints. 
           After I finished talking to Gracie and hung up the phone I said to Jimmy, "probably the best way to punish Anya for being mean to you would be to boycott her shift. When she's working, don't come in the bar. That will teach her a valuable lesson."
         "Yeah, good idea." Jimmy's voice seemed to come from far off. His eyes were remote, too. "Tha' what I do."
         Tobin brought some food which picked up Jimmy's spirits - at least temporarily. While he was eating he said, "you can get rich off the white mans garbage. I found cash money in the garbage yesterday. " Tobin told him that Gracie found a tiffany ring in the neighbors garbage last year.
         "Damn," Jimmy said, "I'd like to find a 'spensive ring."
        Jimmy went on to describe sleeping on the bench in front of Pot Belly's the previous night. 
          "Jimmy," I said, "weren't you cold?"
          "My leg be hurtin' so bad I jus' lay down. I couldn' walk nomore."
           "It would make me nervous sleeping on Wells Street with all the nasty drunks walking by."
            After a brief coughing spell he said, "when you be hurtin' an' real tired you lay your head down wherever you can."
            "I admire you Jimmy." 
            "Why?"
             "You are unconstrained by concerns of delicacy. It's a survival skill."
              He sat back in his chair, suspicious. "Wha' you mean?"
              "You're the Lone Ranger, you don't give a fuck what people think."
                Jimmy laughed, it was a throaty laugh, "yeah , I be the Lone Ranger."

               *

               Last night at the Ale House E.C. Diskin's husband and a group of his Oak Park friends came in the bar after the Cubs game. E.C. Diskin is the novelist I met through Rick Kogan. Not only is she an excellent writer, she's gorgeous. I sat up in the window and chatted with the guys for a while. They were not only Cub fans, but Republicans. For the most part the conversation was amusing. They seemed, if not appalled, at least uncomfortable with the prospect of Trump being the Republican nominee. I was invited to a top secret speakeasy in Oak Park, and a round of golf at the Oak Park Country Club. As a kid I used to occasionally gamble at Oak Park Country Club on Mondays. The caddy master was a pretty good player. When I mentioned Erie Ball several ears perked up. Erie Ball was the pro for many years at the Oak Park Country Club. He was from Wales and had a stylish old-school swing. I caddied a couple of times in groups of pros with Erie. He was known by his fellow pros as the "wee man from Wales."
              Pub Crawl Liz came in with the Girly Girl. They squeezed   in at the bar where I was sitting. Things seemed to be going along nicely between the two of them, and then not so nicely. While this was going on the Cougar got back from A Red Orchid Theater. She had mixed feelings about the new play. I don't know any of the actors in the current production. The Cougar said she liked yesterdays blog; she actually told me she thought I was a good writer. Her friend Lucy was next to arrive. Now we were really squeezed together. Lee was a gentleman and got up from his stool. I had no intention of giving up my stool. I couldn't hear what was being said between Girly Girl and Liz, but from the expressions on their faces, and the way Liz had her arms folded, the situation was not reassuring. 
          Liz's spirits immediately picked up when the Bibliophile and her husband came in the door. The Bibliophile has a routine whenever she walks in the door. Actually she doesn't walk, she struts in a swashbuckling, almost nautical fashion. She initially ignores me and embraces whomever she knows. She was all over Liz. After five or ten minutes she'll look at me and say sweetly, "hi, Bruce." Her husband, on the other hand, immediately heads for the nearest women. Lucy and the Cougar seemed pleased to see him. I was particularly fascinated as I watched the Cougar and the Bibliophile hug and kiss. 
         I had an interesting conversation with the Bibliophile. At two in the morning I didn't feel tired, but I knew I'd be tired in the morning so I bid everyone adieu. 

           See you Monday.