chatting up the evil cat of hell
On St. Patricks Day, I was hanging out with evil cat and Groucho at the Five Point. A group of young guys, maybe ten or eleven of them, were acting drunk and boisterous in and around the booth by the jukebox. They were mostly in their early twenties, some just old enough to drink. They all had that tell tale Army haircut. It's odd how sometimes you can tell someone's branch by their haircut.
Groucho is an old Navy crank who favors kicking ass to taking names, and loves his country unconditionally. Saddam was a bastard, we kicked his ass, and that's good. End of story. He knew these kids were Army, too, and I could see it in his face.
Evil Cat wandered over to the jukebox to pick out some songs. Being chatty, social, and quite frankly, really fucking hot, it was pretty inevitable that a couple of the young Army kids would start a conversation with her. I believe the kids call it "chatting up." Or used to, anyway. I try not keep up with these things.
Anyway, they did, and they followed her back to our table. One of them had a tattoo on the underside of his forearm which read "I have seen hell" in an Arabic-styled English script. Groucho got excited by the military company, and laughed it up with the young kids, and offered up good bars to hang out in in Daytona Beach.
After her songs started playing on the jukebox, the conversation turned to evil cat's superhuman jukebox abilities (as it often does). Almost out of nowhere, evil cat piped up "I like your tattoo."
"Yeah, thanks." The tattooed kid replied, and quickly returned the conversation to the jukebox.
Later, while I was staring at the Space Needle through the periscope over the urinal in the men's room, one of the other Army kids from walked in. We did the customary nod and ignore greeting of the North American male, but I stopped on my way out of the bathroom.
"You guy's Army?" I asked.
"Yeah." He answered.
"Thanks, man." I said.
"I just do it for the paycheck, dude." He chuckled.
"Whatever. Thanks."
Back at the table, the two Army guys invited us all to hop on to the next bar with them. If I was 21, I might have joined them.
Groucho is an old Navy crank who favors kicking ass to taking names, and loves his country unconditionally. Saddam was a bastard, we kicked his ass, and that's good. End of story. He knew these kids were Army, too, and I could see it in his face.
Evil Cat wandered over to the jukebox to pick out some songs. Being chatty, social, and quite frankly, really fucking hot, it was pretty inevitable that a couple of the young Army kids would start a conversation with her. I believe the kids call it "chatting up." Or used to, anyway. I try not keep up with these things.
Anyway, they did, and they followed her back to our table. One of them had a tattoo on the underside of his forearm which read "I have seen hell" in an Arabic-styled English script. Groucho got excited by the military company, and laughed it up with the young kids, and offered up good bars to hang out in in Daytona Beach.
After her songs started playing on the jukebox, the conversation turned to evil cat's superhuman jukebox abilities (as it often does). Almost out of nowhere, evil cat piped up "I like your tattoo."
"Yeah, thanks." The tattooed kid replied, and quickly returned the conversation to the jukebox.
Later, while I was staring at the Space Needle through the periscope over the urinal in the men's room, one of the other Army kids from walked in. We did the customary nod and ignore greeting of the North American male, but I stopped on my way out of the bathroom.
"You guy's Army?" I asked.
"Yeah." He answered.
"Thanks, man." I said.
"I just do it for the paycheck, dude." He chuckled.
"Whatever. Thanks."
Back at the table, the two Army guys invited us all to hop on to the next bar with them. If I was 21, I might have joined them.
posted by poverty at 6:53 PM
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