The remedy for the ensuing sadness when tilting at a tipple isn’t enough. It calls to mind an inverted bell curve, where youthful excitement cedes to gamification. If we make it to 60 and can still drink? Happy days, here again.
RIP lingerie modeling at lunchtime.
Tra-la-la.
The sign is a mouthful—of what, we cannot yet determine, but if Peychaud’s is involved, it might not be half bad.
Why was I not aware that Place Pigalle was run by robots?
I have friends who make it to the Gold Dust Lounge every week. I managed a good once-a-month back when I lived in the neighborhood. You tell tourists not to go to the Wharf, send them to see a show at Hemlock, and in general provide good will. In return, you get to be surrounded by people who are on vacation, people happy to not be at work or driving between concrete blocks and aluminum siding. Remember what it means to be an outsider, to not know the city’s a grid and it’s actually impossible to get lost (unless you end up in the Excelsior).
Also, point out when someone’s about to step in puke and they’ll thank you for it.
