Salad Days

There seemed to be some sort of sporting event on Sunday. I assume it was football, because the guys in the drinking bar behind the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday were pontificating about how different it would be if this running back or that kicker were playing.

'Pontificating' is my word of the day.

Personally, I gave up on football in the early '80s, when I was still a lad. Those Mayflower vans riding off into the rain are still seared into my brain. The space shuttle explosion, Reaganomics, the Mayflower vans -- all linked up in there, boy.

We like the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday. I remember when salad bars were de riguer (that's French for "the thing"). It seems that now, if we want a salad bar, we have to choose between Ruby Tuesday and Sir Walter Raleigh Inn. Sure, Sir Walter Raleigh has pepperoni and a fireplace, but Ruby Tuesday wins hands-down with jalapeños, chick peas, and 6.5 million salad dressings.

I trundled with my plate back to the Brunette, who was swaying to the Culture Club song on theMuzakk. All the nostalgia for the '80s is making me feel old.

"You know," I said, trying to impress her with my new-found sporting knowledge. "If Stan Musial were still punting, the Giants would be dominating the league."

She gave me that look that Iinterpretedd to mean, Oh, my big strong man has returned from the hunt with increased knowledge and coups-a-plenty.

"Where do you get this stuff?" she asked.

"Well," I admitted. "I overheard some guys at the bar pontificating."


"Yep. I have this theory about men: they need to congregate in public places to impress one another with their grasp of intricate data. Talking sports in bars fills this evolutionary need because pretty much anyone can make up an opinion and defend it ad infinitum.

"I'm sorry," the Brunette said after a bit of reflection. "I don't mean to keep you out of bars and away from your sports-laden ceremonies."

"No worries," I reassured her haughtily. "I meant most men, of course. I don't need to go to some bar to satisfy my hunger to pontificate."

"No," she replied. "You have a blog."

"That's --" I started. "Hey."

"By the way," she went on after patting my hand affectionately. "I know it was before either of us was born, but Stan Musial played baseball."

"Next time," I said. "Why don't we go to Sir Walter Raleigh? They sure have a nice fire place."

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