St. Arnold's Summer Pils, Paulaner Hefeweizen, Left Hand Wheat something, Fireman's 4

Before I start on my pub-based people watching, I present a recipe.

1 can white beans (or great northerns - same damn thing)
1 half white onion
1 or 2 sun-dried tomatoes in oil
1 tbsp minced garlic
olive oil
hot sauce of choice (tabasco, whatever)
herbs of choice (I used some Herb de Provence mix - basil and parsley would work well)
salt

Attempt to punch two holes in top of white bean can with church key. Curse when you figure out that the sharp part of the church key is fucked up, rendering the damn thing only useful for opening beer. Open a beer. Use regular can opener to open the white bean can about halfway. Put the can upside-down in a colander so that that most of the juice drains out. While the beans are draining, heat up some olive oil on medium heat in a pan and dice up your onion. Cook down a couple of anchovies that you won't mention in the ingredients because everybody freaks out about anchovies, but they actually do make a lot of things taste really damn good when you cook them down in oil first. Whatever. Add onion to alleged anchovies and cook for a few minutes - till they start to change color. Chop up the sun-dried tomato and scoop some of the tomato oil out of the jar. Throw chopped tomatoes and tomato oil in the pan with the onion and phantom anchovies and stir. Toss in the garlic, stir again.

When the beans are mostly drained (you want a little bean juice) take the top the rest of the way off the can and throw into the pan with all the other stuff. Um, throw the beans in the pan. Throw the top in the trash. Stir. Spice to taste with hot sauce, salt and herbs of choice. Lower the heat (medium-lowish) and leave everything in the pan for 5-10 minutes.
Dig out your food processor. Use the time while everything cooks to figure out how to get the damn thing together again. Scare the shit out of the cats when you hit the pulse button and discover that yes, you do have it put together correctly.

Dump bean mixture into a clean bowl. Curse that you just dirtied another Goddamn dish. Dump into food processor bowl. Curse again because you just had this thing, YIKES!! Ok, now it's working. Let it run for about 30-45 seconds - until everything's all mushy.
Spy that unnecessary bowl on the counter. Realize you now need it for the finished dip. Congratulate self on being so fucking smart. Scrape food processor bowl into serving bowl. Scrape some more. And some more. A little more. Say fuck it as you realize you will never, ever get all the dip out of the food processor bowl.

Cover bowl with clean dish towel and stick in fridge. Get impatient and eat it still kind of warm with Wheat Thins. Realize it would be better with corn chips. Next day, eat with corn chips and fourth beer of the night. Realize you were right - it's much better with corn chips, but you need some cheese to cut the spice.
Enjoy

********
Ok, on to my social voyeurism.

So - I'm sitting at a pub/grille (with an E!) type place down the road from my house and I'm wish-wish-wishing I had my camera with me. There's a man, easily 60 years old, tanned to the point of leather. He's ridden up to the the bar on his bike. He's wearing a pink and white horizontally striped shirt, bike gloves, sunglasses, a ball cap and extremely short - like bottom of the butt-cheek baring short - shorts. White shorts made of a shiny fabric; shorts equipped with their own belt.

I can't see his shoes. Maybe the shoes pull it together - explain it all.

He is standing, arms akimbo*, apparently agitated. I don't know if it's because the waitress hasn't acknocleged him - but I'm pretty sure she has - or because he's waitng for someone who's late or because he's just airing out after his bike ride or because he can feel the stares.
I wish he'd sit down - he's right in my sight line as I lift my eyes from my book or my beer and sidling off to the right is making my eyes tired.

I take to writing about him while peering studiously into my book, as if Middlesex, the saga of a hermaphrodite and his family, has resonated within me and urged deep, deep, gotta be recorded now feelings.

Thank God - he just sat down. Now I'm only distracted by the two corporate monkeys at the closest table, ordering Dos Equis after Dos Equis and talking about email. No real challenge there.

He stirs his iced tea with a flourish. God God man, stop. I'm already on my third beer, I have to pee and I can't afford to stay here, pretending not to watch you, all night. I have to get home and clean my catbox. Please, be ordinary for the next 45 minutes so I can get home safely.
Ting ting, with the spoon. Why? Is your tea more viscous than usual? How much sugar do you have to add to make your tea cling to the spoon that way?

I hope whomever you're waiting for shows up soon. You're sitting at a six top, so I can only assume you're waiting for somebody. Anyone who can leave the house in any part of your torso's wardrobe deserves happiness, my lycra-flaunting, stripey friend.

And now I've asked for my check and I've gotten my requested glass of water and I will probably smoke one more cigarette while I wait for the return of my check card. Whan it comes back, I'll load my book, my notebook and my cigarettes back into my sensible, boring black tote bag. I'll sign the slip, put my card in my wallet and my sunglasses on top of my head. I'l walk past the yuppies - I don't know what they're talking about now, I've been so succesful in ignoring them that I hear "rhubarb, rhubarb, they seem like good guys, rhubarb, rhubarb, escrow." I'll go in, go to the bathroom - my good luck charm against traffic** - climb into my car and drive home.

I hope you, my finely dressed buddy, will sit for only a few more minutes and then see a familiar face approaching from the parking lot. I hope he/she buys you enough drinks that you have to load your tricked out bike (did I mention the mirrors? No? My mistake.) into the back of his/her car so you can get home. This area can't be safe for bicycles after dark. It's scary enough for cars.

Good luck, Hot Pants Horatio. You are a brave, secure man.

*Akimbo!! Hi mom! see, all those Kathleen Woodiwiss novels paid off!!
**If I pee before I leave any location - house, bar, restaurant, doctor's office - I won't have to fight with traffic. If I don't pee, even if all I do is just graze the seat with my ass because I never really had to go? Traffic. Traffic for 45 minutes on a 2 mile trip. Traffic the likes of which inspire tragic poems and novels. The moon controls the tides and the bladder controls the traffic.

The catbox beckons. Y'all be good.