“Condom hat dude is getting laid,” Lynn says, as we gently mock people standing in line across the street for some event sponsored by GQ and Bombay Sapphire.
I am sipping on a Beer Valley Oregonberry Wheat, which is about as meaningless a term as one could ask for. What does it taste like? A mellow version of Squirt, which I can’t really advise in it’s favor. Perhaps I should be across the street, going for gin.
Except then I’d have to put up with all those people who are trying to be part of a scene, a scene that clearly is not mine. It’s summer and there’s a man in a cotton hat that makes his head look like a condom reservoir waiting to get in. If there’s one clue to tell me where I do or don’t easily fit in, it’s the common sense applied to the dress of those attending.
On the other hand, Bailey’s is a little less crowded because of the event across the street, so I thank them.
I went for the wheat beer because I didn’t want to have a dark ale, which seem to be in strong supply right now, at least from breweries that I trust. Don’t know why: It’s still summer, right? Aging and slowly drifting towards fall but definitely summer.
I am going to return to the bar and find another beer. Something up there is going to satisfy me, even if I have to pay for it.
Note, I always pay for it.