I Want a Waiter (or waitress, as the case may be): I'm getting middle-aged, and no loner up to the skirmish at the bar. I'm willing to tip well for the drinks. That's not an option at concerts of the rock and roll variety.
I quit going to those around '84., when I had my shoes puked upon not once, not twice, but three times by the same kid who kept passing me the Tequila bottle. I didn't hit on the reefer after it was returned to me either.
Personal Space: From time to time I have disputed with assholes. They tend to stand too close. That's what is called “rude”. “So come' n, what you gonna do hit me?” No, I probably won't. Not here and now, Why don't we step outside. Then I do the Zen master trick and don't show up. HEH.
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