I was going to write something thoughtful, meaningful, using the background of history I've learned over these years -- this on the night before inauguration.
Then a frat pack attacked me.
For the readers not in college towns, a frat pack is a group of six to infinity young men attending college and the same fraternity. They are easy to spot, particularly nowadays:
1.) They don't wear a mask unless told to. (1.a.: To which they respond "whatevs.")
2.) They have enough product in their hair to light a menorah indefinitely. (2.a.: They don't know what a menorah is.)
3.) They each individually spent more on their evening's clothing than I have spent in my entire lifetime on attire. (3.a.: That's not saying much.)
In the days of COVID, these scrums scare the hell out of me. I occasionally share beer with health professionals and I can see in the latters' eyes I'm not alone. One local frat in Bloomington had a 87 percent COVID positive rate.
So I was sitting in a bar writing where wonderful people brought me beer without me asking. I've had dreams for each of the last two nights laying out a stage play about Rasputin's daughter. (Please don't ask me questions.) I know when this happens, I have to get it out of my head.
I'm sitting in the bar and they wander in like lemmings in pleather (my next stage play) and it's fine because we're in the back room of The Tap and separated so I don't have to worry about their spittle.
No problems at first because I had ear bugs in me. Yes, I know they're called "ear buds" but this is much funnier to me.
When I start writing, I initially need something with some 1970s funk and hard bass lines. So, Stevie Wonder from about 1968 to 1981. James Brown. P-Funk. The Brother Johnson. Then I threw in some Prince. Early Prince. Like Prince before he made it big. "Little Red Chevy Cavalier." "Raspberry Latte." "This is What it Sounds Like When Doves Poop."
Between songs I could hear the Frat Pack talking, mostly in half words. Bruh, Bro, Ho, Clamyd.
They ordered their second round of beers.
I don't care. I mind myself. But dudes and bros, I'm writing a major Broadway play about Rasputin's daughter (Rasputina) listening to the best of The Spinners and I can't hear them over my ear bugs.
Seriously? I can't hear "Then Came You"? A mixture of Dionne Warwick and The Spinners? Dionne Warwick.. /W The Spinners..Then Came You... 1974 - Bing video
I took out my ear bugs and these bros -- sloshed on a beer and a half -- are sharing strip joint stories including a polemic about one of the bros gave an extra tip to one of the hos and she didn't respond with a (sexual act). He then called her a (expletive) (not an expletive but I don't like the B word).
After the second round of beer, each took a turn going to the bathroom. Now, as an Irish Catholic Journalist from Wisconsin, I would have been kicked of the bar for not holding more than two beers.
Sadly, I suspect these Indiana University students will soon be congressional interns. Cong-ints, perhaps, but something important because of the tendency of pack animals like fraternities to hire what they know.
I finished the first act of "Rasputina," paid my bill and headed for home and the cheap hotel where I'm staying.
Thankful I have not a Bro, a Bruh, a Ho or Clamyd.
Peace and prosperity unto all of you my brothers and sisters.