People Are Strange

(Hey, hey! It's the first non-baseball post!)

I watched a heavily intoxicated woman, in her forties or early fifties, march from the CC Club to the front door at Treehouse. After smoking half a cigarette, she walked inside. This took place around 6:00 PM. This is our exchange.

"Where's Jim?"

"Who?"

"I know you have Jim Morrison in here!"

"No, he's not physically here! We probably have a few of his records."

"What about posters?"

"Well, let's see... there's that one right up there." (I point toward a small 12" x 12" image of Mr. Lizard King on the upper-right corner of our south wall.)

"Oooh! How much?"

"Oh, our posters aren't for sale, sorry."

"Oh, I get it... you won't sell his poster, you're just here to make money off him!"

"Uh..."

"I bet you don't even know who he is!"

"No, I think I have a pretty good idea."

"How old are you? Seventeen?"

"No, I'm not seventeen."

"How old are you then?"

"I'm twenty-eight."

"You are not."

"Yeah, I am."

"No you're not. You're somewhere between 17 and 28, maybe, but you're not 28!"

"I can show you my driver's license."

"No, I don't care that much."

"Could've fooled me."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Uh... what are you on?"

"Nothing. I'm not on nothing, I'm just having a really bad day and sometimes I drink too much."

"Okay."

"What?!"

"Nothing, that's fine."

"Where are the Beatles?! I gotta go!"