Getting worse

This was an odd and discomfiting visit to the CP. I walked in, and the dumpy array of Saturday evening fatties essentially ignored me. When I sat down, George, who I've known for some time and who is usually warm towards me, stormed over and gruffly barked, "You can't sit there if I sell a lap dance" and then walked away. Apparently I was too close to the little beaded area where it's not truly VIP but more than just a Baltimore handshake. Meanwhile, there wasn't one ounce of threat that either of the two customers would head that way anyhow. (Do people even do that at CP? I thought of it as an all or nothing place.)

Off to a bad start, and waiting for George to deign to serve me a beer, I finally managed to snag his attention with a $20 bill. (What is he, a stripper?) He didn't warm up the way he has in the past, and just nodded. I ordered, and he set it down, or rather slammed it, and I handed him the 20. He set a bunch of singles in front of me by way of making change, and I thought, "Well, in for a light beer, in for a heavy dancer," and waited for the next pear-shaped piggie to command the stage. One finally did, with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker getting audited while undergoing a root canal. A couple ladies stopped by to gauge my interest, which by this point was minimal. I finished the beer, headed to Jewel Box, and completed the task I'd set out to accomplish to begin with. Then it was off to Little Italy and Fells Point, looking to all the world like the respectable upstanding citizen I can by now only barely pretend to be.