I Am Youthful

Last night, as promised, we went out and spent our newly acquired pirate gold Sacajawea dollars on beer.  To shake things up a bit, we went to Mingles, which I have been eager to patronize because of the lecherous-looking shark playing pool on the sign above the entrance.  Based on the name alone, I thought it was going to be a giant sex party, so I was a little disappointed to find nothing more than a cadre of pool tables and the lingering odor of fried food.  The food odor made a lot more sense once we looked at a menu - every single item was deep-fried, and there was a sample platter containing such delights as "o-rings" and "poofs."

The highlight of the evening was being aggressively carded.  At 7:30 on a Saturday night, the place was mostly deserted, save for a small group of aging hippies bellied up to the bar, shouting things like "of course all you dirty hippies suck cock!"  I can't be certain, but they may have been having a group flashback or something.  Anyway, the bouncer left his command post next to the hippies and stalked over to us, bypassing Andy and demanding to see my ID.  I was thrilled.  I'm only 25, but I've had to stop pulling out my gray hairs when I find them because gray hair is less objectionable to me than baldness.  I'll take your insinuation that I may be younger than 21 and run with it, sir.

The other highlight of the night was the bathroom.  Idaho seems to have a thing for weird bathroom configurations, and this place was no exception.  There were three stalls in this bathroom - two normal ones with doors, and then, along the back wall of the bathroom, a handicapped accessible stall with no door.  The door wasn't missing, it never existed.  No hinges, no screw holes, nothing to indicate that this stall had ever afforded its occupants a shred of privacy.  To add insult to injury, the sex toy dispenser was mounted against the back wall right at the mouth of the handicapped stall, high enough that a wheelchair-bound deviant would not be able to access it.

The icing on the cake came when I entered the empty bathroom and headed for the middle stall.  I had just dropped trou' when the door opened and another woman entered.  I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard her walk past my stall and make herself comfortable in the doorless stall.  I kind of figured that stall would be a last resort when there was a line, or when someone was too drunk to care about the lack of door.  But relatively sober and given a choice?  To each her own, I suppose.


After last night's affirmation of my relative youth, I was feeling pretty good, so I decided to test my luck with this audio test, which emits a frequency that can (allegedly) be heard only by people UNDER 25 who don't have hearing damage.  I passed - I guess my ears are just sexy and youthful, which is surprising, miraculous even, given all the opportunities I've had to damage my hearing at concerts over the years.


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