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Crocs on Parade


nyone with any sense of taste at all can easily determine that The Blue Moon Bar has a blue-collar element to it. It could be because the TV is usually showing professional wrestling. The kaleidoscope of colors put out by the plethora of neon beer signs is so varied that it would put to shame to the rainbow that Noah must have seen when the rain stopped. There are several condom machines in the gent’s room with padlocks on them the size of Goliath’s head. The sign over the urinal states that the water emanating from that particular plumbing fixture is not fit to drink. That’s something that one does not find in the men’s room at the Ritz Carlton. About half the men who come into The Blue Moon Bar wear wife-beater T-shirts. Some are black and have orange HarleyDavidson logos on them. It struck me, then, as incongruous to see some preppy, 30-something men all wearing Lacoste polo shirts, khaki trousers and cordovan L.L. Bean loafers (no socks) sitting at the bar one day. There were just three of them at the bar. One had on a pink Lacoste polo shirt, one had on a lavender Lacoste polo shirt and one was wearing a pastel green Lacoste polo shirt. They were all wearing dark glasses with cords that kept the glasses from, say, falling over the side while yachting or falling into the water while bobbing for apples on Halloween. Usually the bar is lined with regulars, most of whom are hoping that Doobie will drop something by accident

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behind the bar and have to bend over to pick it up. The tight leather pants that she wears make this a cannotmiss sight, a chance to see beauty in action. The last time it happened I was there. The collective sucking in of air by many men at the same time nearly depleted the room of all its oxygen. This day, however, all the regulars were sitting at the tables. There wasn’t much talk. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I thought there was tension and unease in the room. The three identically dressed guys at the bar were trying to chat up Doobie. “Many people from Yale come in here?” asked the man with lavender shirt and blonde hair that was cut short. “If you’re Scandinavian, the answer is ‘yes,’ after they’ve gotten out,” Doobie replied. The man with the blonde hair didn’t get it. All the regulars did, though, and they laughed appreciatively. The three preppy guys looked at their beers. There was something going on that they didn’t quite understand. The lavender shirt guy tried again. “How long has the BM been here?” he asked Doobie. Doobie stopped cold. She hesitated for a minute and then looked the lavender shirt right in the eye and said evenly, “How long has the what been here?” “The BM,” said the lavender shirt. It had gotten real quiet in the bar. All the regulars were listening intently. “Are you referring to The Blue Moon Bar?” Doobie asked slowly and directly. “Yeah,” said the lavender shirt. “Right,” said the pink shirt. “Right on,” said the pastel green shirt, putting his sunglasses on top of his head. “And you called it the BM? Why did you do that?” Doobie inquired. “Because we are pretty cool guys. We hang out at a lot of cool places. And we always give them our own name, our imprimatur, if you will,” said the pink shirt. “This is the BM.” Doobie spoke evenly again. The pretty cool guys didn’t know that when Doobie put the tone in her voice that it now carried she was very serious and very peeved. The bar’s regulars knew the sound instinctively. If they were breathing you couldn’t hear it. Inside The Blue Moon Bar it was deathly quiet, as if the House of Usher had just fallen. “Here, friend,” Doobie said calmly, “we call it The Blue Moon Bar, and I would appreciate it if you would do the same. A nickname that reminds one of a bodily elimination function is not funny and certainly not appreciated. Have you boys got that?” “Now, wait a minute,” said the pastel green shirt. “This is a free country, and we are exercising our First

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