Wow. Last night, I joined a few work friends in one of the most singularly off-putting (initially, anyway,) yet fascinating and fun social activities I’ve ever participated in… Bingo at the East Side Club in Madison, WI. I went with Aries, E. and G. (who are secretly dating, both also in the industrial sales department like me), and even dragged Orpheus along for the field trip. First off, it’s the last place left in Madison that I know where folks can smoke indoors. Secondly, there’s a bar abutting the bingo hall. Finally, the place is full of oxygen-tank-toting smokers-ancien (for those of you who are non-Francophones, or folks offended by my lack of proper punctuation, that’s ancient smokers,) on mobility carts, all of whom looked at O. and I as if we were baby-killers when we walked into the room.
“Oh, my stars… There are GAYS here!” was written plainly across their plastic-masked, gasping, piggy faces. Needless to say, we made a beeline for the bar, where the younger, hiper, drunker bingo-ers were already destroying their livers and lungs concurrently. Fortunately, the bar tender, while deeply stupid, was rather easy on the eyes, and the drinks were cheap. One by one, my work companions trickled in, and the conversation started. We were adopted by a really nice girl (I say girl like she wasn’t 21 already, and nearly done with her associates’ degree… And smoking like a chimney… And effectively driving two huge sheets of bingo grids w/nine games on each whilst the inept caller did his thing… And still had time to take a sip of her drink between calls… And tell us how to pull our heads out of our asses and play right,) who shall heretofore be known as BingoVirgil. She certainly led us out of a dark wood, wandering, while proving most entertaining, to boot.
Anyway, by the end of the night, after only three beers, yours truly was wasted. I’d had nothing more than a single scone for breakfast, and a packet of instant high-fiber oatmeal for lunch. We were all doing things like calling “WOO!” when O-69 was called, while the old folks’ more understated bell-ring accompanied the call of B-22. That in itself became a joke for us neophytes at the corner of the bar, putting away by far more liquor than wins. Finally, after the second round of play, we gave it up, and gifted all our extra cards to BingoVirgil, with whom we all exchanged hopes she’d see us at some point in the future. I was so far gone, O. and I just went to Qdoba for dinner. It was delicious, and has me planning braised pork shoulder with smoked chorizo, onions, peppers, lime and cilantro. Mmm…
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