Tonight was kind of a change-up from last night. Through a sequence of connections that involve Nashville and lost years and people who are now dead, we ended up shooting pool in a firemen's hangout/honky-tonk on a scarily desolate stretch of 10th Avenue near the Lincoln Tunnel. The bar was called The Gold Rush (of course it was). The band was a good raspy bar band. The bartenders were cute girls. One of them had bleach-blond bangs. She went to the back for a minute, past the pool table, and came back carrying two new bottles of Jack Daniels for the bar. She stopped right next to the pool and shouted so the whole bar could hear her, "All right, am I not every man's fantasy right now?" She held the two bottles down by her crotch. She was wearing a right black miniskirt, tall black boots, fishnet stockings, and a black sleeveless Ramones shirt. Later on, the band played an effectively funky cover of "Shake Your Booty," and the bleach-blond bartender got on top of the bar and danced around twirling a big pink hula hoop. At various points, she bent over and made clear that the fishnets were thigh-highs and that she preferred thong underwear (sure, it's comfortable, right?). At the other bargirl's urging, she reached one hand down with the hula hoop still going and whipped off her Ramones shirt, revealing a bustier-style black bra underneath. The band kept playing and playing. When the song wound down, the girl on the bar let the hoop run out and handed it down behind the bar. She started to dismount, then turned back and quickly pulled her bra up to briefly show her nipples. Then she got down. Everyone clapped.Julie and I held the pool table all night. No great feat -- we only got challenged once, and Julie pretty much ran them off the table. When she sank the 8, we still had six of our balls on the table. I knew there was a reason I married her.