Snowy evening, and not many people besides me find a reason to come here to Open Mic Nite at the Irish pub. Surprisingly, everyone so far has been good. Maybe American Idol should come here. They’d get rid of all those funny losers. I come here for the free Internet.
Dark enough in here for my screen to be just about the brightest thing. It does not fit in with the color scheme here at the pub. A lovely quesadilla sits by my side, getting irrevocably colder. I have eaten all I can of it, and live in constant amazement of the capacity of Boulder’s beer-drinking brethren for fried or oily foods.
You’d think that the barflies of Boulder would be more used to the snow, especially since it has stopped falling. Since the trees have not yet finished shedding their leaves, the deciduous ones along the street are all twisted beneath the snow and ice that’s forming as the snow melts. Soft plops of snow off of awnings.
I’m too old to be carded. I get a green stamp on my hand as a matter of course. No beer for me… I knock back the plain Cokes one by one.
white pebble 