At the bar, writing

So in the annals of suckitude, I think I have a new topper.
My ethernet port on my laptop is busted and I can't get an internet connection, but the air card works great.
I had to cover something tonight, and rather than go back to the office, I went to the bar and I'm in the corner typing away.
It is pretty quiet now. Game is going down the street, so the crowd is sparse and I'm sucking down a diet Coke like it was a cold, delicious beer I'd rather be having.
'Cause I'm bored of trying to be creative with the massive suck my copy is going to be tonight, I decided I'd rather set the scene here.
At the bar, one person, a rather hot chickie from this angle is sitting by herself and eating cheese dip. I think she is dating one of the bartenders or would like to be. Either that or she is working and for some cash she'll go to the alley.
Across from me is another girl and also by herself. She's also on a laptop, a cute little Mac, like mine. But I bet her ethernet port is fine. She's wearing a scarf and a tanktop, so I'm a little confused/ But she's fairly attractive, so good looking girls can pull off what they want.
Two tables down, some dudes are eating burgers and drinking beer. They have the look of convention people from one of the nearby hotels, but that's just a guess.
The table beside them is also full of dudes, but one of them I recognize so I think they are all locals.
That's it. The whole crowd, not counting the bar help of two bartenders and and unknown number of people in the kitchen.
I'm about to go get a refill on diet coke and I'll report back on the chickie at the bar.

 

And my night is now planned.

 

Sounds like my kind of joint, Jay. Any smoke? A jukebox? TVs? Nearby alley for said bj?

 

If you're buying, Jay, I'll be there in about 21 hours.

 

Good for you.

Tell the girl at the bar you'd like to take her home, smother her in chocolate syrup, and see what happens.

If one of the bartenders kicks the piss out of you, then you know she's with him.

 

Sweet. I love hot-chick fondue.

 

Her name is Erin, she manages a dental office and is much hotter closer up than from a distance.
They just called last call, but that doesn't matter to me.
I missed a couple behind the second table of dudes.
Totally my bad.
At this joint they can smoke on the inside. An alley runs beside the building, but next door is the police substation, so back alley BJs. They have an upstairs with comfy chairs and a couch, I think for the clandestine boinking, but me not know, at least I don't know tonight.
I'll get back to ya'll on that detail.
And for IJAG, I am always buying, just say the word.

 

Maybe a couple of beers would save your copy.

 

I've written from the bar, and there was nothing at all wrong with my home connection.

 

And I'm out.
This place may become my second office.

 

It's okay to write in a bar, so long as that bar serves at least ten brands of whiskey and does not have bubble hockey. It's not okay to write in a coffee shop, because then you're not working, you're pretending you're a poet, and I'd rather be dead than a make-believe poet.

 

What's wrong with a bar with Bubble hockey? You gonna outlaw pinball next?