My good friend Al had a theory last spring that all of her drama came from alcohol and going out at the bars since the advent of her 21st birthday.  I generally agree with this conclusion, and coupled with my grandma-esque lifestyle as well as general desire for good health, I avoid bars on a regular basis.

Today was different.  My friend Audrey is stopping through on her way to California, and I was persuaded to go out and enjoy a somewhat savory but certainly overpriced glass of wine.  Driving aimlessly took us to the Purple Martini.  I should have been clued in when I heard the blasting Carrie Underwood that it may not have been my type of place, but we decided to venture in anyway.

Needless to say, it was hopping at a Monday night at 11pm.  Within minutes, we were the only people there, save for a slippery character named Jake “Duckie” Sketchball McGee.  He made his not-so suave appearance in a wife-beater, some classy baggy jeans, and a baseball cap, and topped off his sultry appearance with a smoldering cigarette.

I will admit- I thought I had become immune to the strange sights of Boulder after living  here so long.  Duckie, however, put up with an hour of us telling him about our lifelong passions of becoming salmon farmers and creepsters.  Amazing.  I will now stop underestimating the absurdity and creepiness that can result from leaving the house, and will concentrate on finding sweet catches of Alaskan salmon and old men with handlebar mustaches.