Eating the Old

Bars are, for the most part (and the kind that Q always drags me into), are like Holiday Inns.  What I mean is that you can count on them being pretty much the same from city to city, town to town.  Here is a small town craft beer place, but it could be in NYC.  The people are recognizable, the bartender, the stools and decor. . . and there is beer.

I don't know what my point is.  I just thought that when I looked at this picture.

I am out of touch with things.  Ili sends me Instagram stuff, and I don't know what it is about.  I have to look up people or admit stupidity and ask her who they are.  Jay Z?  I'm not kidding.  I think I used the phrase "rap star."  Hipster kids who want to diss me make fun of what I say at work.  They want to take away what little voice I have left, I guess.  Yesterday it was suggested that they roast me.  WTF?  That is the way of it, though.  The young have to kill the old to reduce the competition.

I've been wondering lately what happens to the women who date Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt?  Maybe Leo, too.

No wonder we have so many bars.

I have a stressful meeting at The Factory today.  There is every opportunity for failure.  Once it is over, though, my weekend begins.  The weather will be fine for Vespa-ing.  That is what I plan on doing.