Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.
I rolled into town on my road trip Sunday only a little behind schedule due to the snow and in time to catch the Bears game. The weather was crappy, so I asked the pixie-like front desk clerk (pixie-like as in the mythological creature, not the Black Francis type) for a recommendation on my quest for a decent sandwich and a screen to watch the game. She smacked her gum a couple times and sent me two doors down to the sports bar in the neighboring hotel.
Hotel sports bars, as a rule, suck. They’re like the finance department at an auto dealership. Like the sushi platter from Costco. Like the Cubs in the playoffs. Like the scrambled eggs at a breakfast buffet. Like a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break. Like a traffic jam when you’re already late. Wait, I think I’m getting away from suckitude and into irony. And I digress.
But the snow was blowing sideways and I didn’t feel like driving so I skipped across the parking lot to check it out. There was one other patron, a creepy fat guy sitting square in front of one of the two big screens. The décor reminded me of a joint that the Charlestown Chiefs might frequent after a game (see Slapshot, circa 1977) and did not appear to have been updated since that era. I grabbed a white leather lounge chair at the bar and inquired if the kitchen was open. I didn’t understand the mumbling barkeep but he handed me a couple pieces of paper that looked like they were spit out of an ink-jet printer several years ago. I ordered the special Hawkeye burger and a diet coke and nodded in response to the incoherent comments the barkeep made during the game, while a few other creepy guys filed in and filled the grimy, yet groovy chairs in the lounge.
Then they walked in. Number one was tall and wearing spike heels that nobody had business wearing in this weather. But she must have been well acclimated to the cold since she wasn’t wearing underwear either. I know this because when she bent down to the bar to get her drink her dangerously low-rise jeans dropped into the danger-zone revealing nothing but the top half of her bare butt.
Number two was wearing proper shoes, but was also apparently well acclimated to the cold because her shirt was… well, I know what it was but I don’t know what it was called. I wanted to say camisole, but when I looked it up it wasn’t what I thought it was. Okay, I did further research and I guess it can be called a cami, but I’ll also have to add relaxed fit and, well, wonderfully slutty. The cami can be your secret weapon - it looks sexy on its own with jeans or worn with a shrunken cardigan, tie-front sweater or fitted blazer.
I overhead some of the exchanges with the barkeep, and it turns out that by not going to the strip club down the street to watch the game that I, by total chance, ended up going to the bar where dancers from the club hang out. Which means I got to enjoy the scenery and watch the game without some topless harlot trying to sell me a table dance every 30 seconds.
It’s just too bad the burger sucked.