The Portable Casa
This post is coming from the Pig and Whistle. Earlier, I stopped at Veruca to pick up goodies for tonight's trivia (no, not the SRG trivia, as the last two years have sucked, and couldn't have gotten anyone interested if I'd tried). Instead, I got together my work peeps and some friends.
Now, I'm waiting to pick up lunch from Benton Park Cafe for me and Little N. I'm killing time with an iced tea.
I drove by the house with my dream kitchen yesterday on my way home from work; I zillow-ed it, and I am feeling a lot better about the neighborhood. Tom drove by yesterday, also, and is less than enthusiastic -- I also drove by another address on my list and knew immediately it was off the list. Compared to THAT neighborhood, this block in Fox Park is looking positively gentrified.
So, this is the morning scene at the Pig on Saturday. I'm holding down one end of the bar. Little N's stalker ass is next to me at the corner, not keeping the music from his laptop to himself. Next to him is crabby Dick, followed by two worker-types on lunch break. And then R, who is bald and wears his sunglasses on his forehead despite the fact that there's been no fucking sun for a week. That Carrie Underwood revenge song is playing on the jukebox. Dick is drinking a bloody mary, the workers budweisers and R is drinking some sort of cocktail, maybe grapefruit and vodka.
There is nothing surprising about the scene here, except for the fact that I'm drinking tea rather than Jack Daniels.
