After a humdrum day at work, I met up with some coworkers at Harry's, where some of them, especially the ones with breasts, were duped into drinking shots of Jack and bourbon mixed together.
While there, for the first time ever, I received bad, slow, innattentive service from the usually outstanding staff at the Country Club. This was highly disapppinting to me, since I had convinced a gaggle of suburban coworkers to make the trek to the River Market to visit this, my second-favorite of all Kansas City bars. I hope they'll be willing to try it again because, as I said, the service is usually head-and-shoulders above anyplace else in town that isn't selling you steak or seafood for $50 a plate.
From there, Jared, James and I went to the Cashew, where some local group, of which some 45 percent were hot hot women, were apparently having some kind of 1920s flapper night. The scenery was excellent.
After a couple beers, a paid bill, and a quick trip home, my mp3 player came up with "Dreamer in My Dreams," by Wilco, and I celebrated with a ridiculous rock-out dance in my closet as I hung up my wearable effects.
It was a lovely evening.