Chasing the Night

Tonight begins as all good ones should, with a couple of bottles of wine over dinner with friends and family. Sufficiently primed, my cousin Ken and my friend Caitlin head over to a local pub. The Feeney Arms is another victim of the trendy-ization of pubs into lounges or, god forbid, wine bars. I say “vistim,” though I’m usually quite happy to see the death knell of the dour, dark, dank (how’s that for alliteration?) British pubs, one of the most depressing locales on this earth.
At the Feeney, we meet a few of Caitlin’s old work friends who are visiting from New York, yet although quite pleasant, carry little of the sophistication living in that city demands. Throughout our chats, I seem to find myself staring at the not-unimpressive spare tire (a tire off a monster big wheel, perhaps?) on Caitlin’s friend’s husband.
I head, alone, to the center of London to meet up with David at an after hours bar/club. “After-hours” here means anything after 11pm, which is quite sad. I have a beer at “Gazza’s Underground Rock Party” while I wait for David to show up. I note two things: waiting alone in a bar is no fun at all, and “underground” seems to be code for “dirty, smelly, raggedly-dressed trustafarians.”