The jukebox suddenly leapt into an old Elvis Costello song - Goon Squad, from the album Armed Forces - and the bartender punched the wall. I didn't see what he hit but it must've been the kill switch. The jukebox shut down. The President was on.
I swore that I would have a scotch on rocks in my hand when the President announced the start of the war. It was Johnny Walker Black. The bartender served it with the reverence of a man who is intimately familiar with his products.
The President's speech ended and the television screen switched to an unnamed intersection in Baghdad. Three concrete arches in the grey dawn.
We all sat and watched those grey arches. Someone reached up and changed the channel. They were still showing the same three concrete arches.
The TV never changed off of that intersection and we didn't move. We were trapped in a Hopper painting. Steady grey diagonals from the television screen lit the walls.
I let the scotch swirl around on my tongue a bit.
The next morning no one mentioned the war.
People came in and scanned the websites - CNN, ABC, FOX - and settled down to work. A few conversations about bracket busters and nagging injuries to point guards and how JT was still in the hospital - the tests were inconclusive, but we all saw him the day he started having chest pains, ashen and numb and something had to be wrong.
11:00 rolled around and the invasion started. People started chatting about where to have lunch. Craig and his crew decided on Vasquez for poor boys, Anna and Beau grabbed some burgers at the Broiler. I cashed a check and got a salad.
Jay had his headphones up too loud again and I thought I could hear Incubus. He was bobbing his head and rearranging a stored procedure.
At the end of the day someone mentioned with a sigh of relief that UConn won their game.
The atmosphere at the protest was festive.
Jesse was there, in his costume from the Krewe du Vieux parade. He was trying not to watch women but he was failing. Greg was holding a sign and leering at girls. I wasn't holding a sign but be damned if I wasn't leering also.
As always attractive young women in thin white wifebeaters and black bras led the chants. The chants were fairly standard at first but once everyone was in the streets they got a bit more creative. A few selected ones, not chanted loudly or for very long : "Less Bush, more boobs". "Drop trou, not bombs". The ever-popular "Show Us Your Tits" came up, but that may have come from bead-bedecked bystanders.
At the speech at the end of the march there were lots of heads turning. Lots of elbows hudging friends and fingers pointing over to ooh, who's that? A couple walked by, each holding a sign with one hand, each with the other hand in their love's back pocket.
I left early, spun around a corner on my bike and alomst hit a stripper. She was wearing a "No BUSH War" badge and little else.
It's been a very odd couple of days.
I swore that I would have a scotch on rocks in my hand when the President announced the start of the war. It was Johnny Walker Black. The bartender served it with the reverence of a man who is intimately familiar with his products.
The President's speech ended and the television screen switched to an unnamed intersection in Baghdad. Three concrete arches in the grey dawn.
We all sat and watched those grey arches. Someone reached up and changed the channel. They were still showing the same three concrete arches.
The TV never changed off of that intersection and we didn't move. We were trapped in a Hopper painting. Steady grey diagonals from the television screen lit the walls.
I let the scotch swirl around on my tongue a bit.
The next morning no one mentioned the war.
People came in and scanned the websites - CNN, ABC, FOX - and settled down to work. A few conversations about bracket busters and nagging injuries to point guards and how JT was still in the hospital - the tests were inconclusive, but we all saw him the day he started having chest pains, ashen and numb and something had to be wrong.
11:00 rolled around and the invasion started. People started chatting about where to have lunch. Craig and his crew decided on Vasquez for poor boys, Anna and Beau grabbed some burgers at the Broiler. I cashed a check and got a salad.
Jay had his headphones up too loud again and I thought I could hear Incubus. He was bobbing his head and rearranging a stored procedure.
At the end of the day someone mentioned with a sigh of relief that UConn won their game.
The atmosphere at the protest was festive.
Jesse was there, in his costume from the Krewe du Vieux parade. He was trying not to watch women but he was failing. Greg was holding a sign and leering at girls. I wasn't holding a sign but be damned if I wasn't leering also.
As always attractive young women in thin white wifebeaters and black bras led the chants. The chants were fairly standard at first but once everyone was in the streets they got a bit more creative. A few selected ones, not chanted loudly or for very long : "Less Bush, more boobs". "Drop trou, not bombs". The ever-popular "Show Us Your Tits" came up, but that may have come from bead-bedecked bystanders.
At the speech at the end of the march there were lots of heads turning. Lots of elbows hudging friends and fingers pointing over to ooh, who's that? A couple walked by, each holding a sign with one hand, each with the other hand in their love's back pocket.
I left early, spun around a corner on my bike and alomst hit a stripper. She was wearing a "No BUSH War" badge and little else.
It's been a very odd couple of days.