A brief review of the nightlife, Part One

The pub was not the most engaging place ever, but I knew why we went there, and I could appreciate that, sometimes. It was well lit, but not in a cozy way. The bulbs were just too bright, so that they felt like flourescents and on the whole made me feel like I was in a classroom. The music didn't play too loud, which was nice because you could hear other people talk. You could really hear other people talk. Because, whenever we went, there would be a few old men at the bar or playing darts, but no one else. One of us was friends with the bartender and he always got free drinks, as did the girls. That was nice for them, I suppose. The drinks weren't the cheapest, but I guess they weren't too expensive. There was a jukebox in the corner, and those of us that cared about music would argue for hours and fight amiably over what song to put on. The selection invariably centered around the 80s with a classic rock or metal song sewn in for variety. None of the cheesy dance music that every other pub was playing. Nothing that would make you dance. Instead, we sat around the uncomfortably bright red booth in the corner, sipping gin and tonic in the cloying light. We didn't talk. It was out of fashion, really. No, we had *banter*.

He swore he would name his first son Benedict. Not for Benedict Arnold (his favorite revolutionary war general was Horatio Gates), not for eggs benedict (he preferred eggs florentine) and not for Popes Benedict I - XVI (he was strictly a John Paul II man.) But Benedict it was, and Benedict it had always been, at least as long as the idea of procreation had been fathomable. B would like reading Steinbeck, he hoped, and would learn to appreciate the subtle differences between roquefort, stilton and gorgonzola.