7-3-05: My I-Don't-Have-To-Run Day
Sunday began early, due in large part to Saturday ending early. What's that about early to bed, early to rise...mumble mumble
healthy wealthy and wise?
Well, my BP is 120 over 70, I have about 80 bucks in my savings account and I'm not exactly borderline mensa. Oh well, one-outta-three will get you to the Hall of Fame.
I can't say I did a heck of alot on Sunday morning. Some toast with peanut butter, a cup of tea, the sunday paper. Then Outside the Lines, the Sports Reporters, SportsCenter, and WEEI's Red Sox (check!) Sunday with Peter Gammons. That brought me right up to the Boston Globe Pregame Show on NESN, followed by the Sox and the Hated Blue Jays. (Good thing I'm well-rounded...in addition to sports, I like sports. And sports, too.)
The Sox lost, 5-2, I took a nap, woke up for dinner (grilled pizza and it was terrific), spent about 45 chipping golf balls in the backyard, and then.... hey, are you bored yet? Yeah? Then it was a good day. Relaxing, not taxing. Besides, after all the time spent in the waves, I felt like the Atlantic Ocean clubbed me on the back with a seven-iron.
Right around 7:15, Pico called. He was at a family cookout that ended early and wanted to head out. Pico: "Want to go to Newport?"Me: "Whatever."Pico: "Be there at 9:30."Me: "Whatever."
He doesn't own a watch. And you can tell. Generally, when he says I'll meet you at xxxx certain time, tack on an hour. Or two. But lo and behold, he pulled into the driveway around 9:22. I guess a night in Newport is motivational.
We headed to Salas' Tropical Lounge, once again. But don't let the name fool you about this establishment. It's not particularly tropical. But, on second thought, it is. I digress.
Salas is generally the bar of choice not for what is has, rather, for what it doesn't: a cover charge (which on that night at hot spot Christie's was somewhere between $20-40); and cheap-assed beer ($2.50 for Miller Lite, Bud Light, Coors Lite). It also doesn't have air conditioning, which is what makes it tropical...humid...like a rainforest...actually quite sticky and uncomfortable.
But I did mention the lack of a cover charge and $2.50 beer, right? Good. Stay on point.
The clientele at Salas is always a mixed bag. Some young, some old. Some tall, some small. Some that are drunk, some perpetual drunks, and some degenerate drunks. I'm not sure where I/we/my friends fit into that scheme, but it's usually just a place we grab a few to warm up before heading out somewhere else. Unless we stay and close the place. Then, well, make
your own distinction.
But Salas also has a great jukebox, friendly barkeeps, and equally friendly waitresses. There is a TV and they will put on whatever game or show that has priority. It's a bar. No pretense, no pomp, no pretty boys. Just a bar.
But not Sunday night. It was like a junior Christie's, with young lovelies everywhere. Oh, the usual suspects and unsavories were there, but the pretty blondes in their Prada were more appealing to watch than the physically challenged gentleman who gets rocked and plays air guitar (even when there's no music playing).
Pico and I enjoyed the evening and the many different constituencies of blondes, brunettes, redheads and the like. Met a few out-of-towners and chatted the night away. Even bumped into my favorite waitress Megan, who was nice enough to pick up a few rounds that night (as well as the night of my birthday a few weeks ago).
But, all in all, Sunday night ended much like Saturday night: early and within moderation. I kinda like this moderation thing, is it "new" like scientology, pilates and splenda brand sweetener? No? Well, I just got the memo, so it's new to me.
Once again, the early to bed gave way to and early rise. And that was necessary. Because it was the Fourth of July and we were headed to the Block, aka Block Island.