It was the mid-eighties, I was in school in Grand Forks. My GPA
or extracurricular activities list may not have shown it, but while at
UND I was usually one to take on some tough tasks. Like when
we used to watch Star Trek every day after supper in the dorm, I
was always the one who solved the continuity problems that
popped up in the plots.
And like this one weeknight me and my buds were sitting in some
booth in Whitey's side bar, chatting and watching all the cute girls
making their way through the bar. For some reason, I began the
tough task of tossing out an offhand disparaging comment about
every babe that the rest of the booth was admiring:
"She needs to do something different with her hair." "Uses too much makeup." "Crummy blouse." "Too tall." "Nose is a little too big."
Eventually, one of the dudes across from me laughed at (not with)
me and yelled "It's Picky Night here at Whitey's!!"
I like to think I was doing my running commentary as a goof,
though it may have something to do with the Stroh's Dark or the
self-loathing or some combo thereof. Ultimately, you can never
underestimate the idiocy of a twenty-year old male. Regardless, it
was a lame attempt on my part to steer the conversation back to
rock 'n' roll. I didn't have a shot with any of the girls in that bar, so
why not talk about what really mattered?
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