Dale and I were looking for the bar where some friends of ours were supposed to be playing a show that night. We got there, got out of the car and walked into the bar, concentrating on looking nonchalant and cool as we walked in.

It's important to do that for some reason, probably one I fabricated in my head - twenty years past and I realize that very rarely do people notice when others join them inside a tavern, and getting carded was a bygone fear even then.

Anyway, we walked in and immediately sat at two empty seats at the bar. I scanned the tappers. "Two Millers", I told the barkeep and he complied without haste. My friend and I swiveled in our stools to survey the scene.

Huh. No stage, no sign of any live music to be played, and, - huh, again - the only two non-hispanic faces in the bar were ours. Dale and I glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. Without words, we each swiveled to face the bar and started to quickly drink our beers.

My beer was warm. And flat. I could tell by Dale's expression that his was the same. I was about to say something to him when I felt the hard jab to my kidneys. I looked over my shoulder. A pool player was jockeying for a shot and had accidentally poked me with the handle end of his cue.

Then, it happened again.

The third time it happened, I looked more closely at the table. There were no billiard balls on the green felt, not even a cue.

Dale was watching. Without a word, we each swiveled back to the bar, choked down the rest of our beer and walked back out to the street.

Walking away, we looked at the sign on the bar. "El As del Oros", Dale said, "Isn't that Spanish?"

We went to our favorite bar and drank (cold, bubbly) beers in gigantic glasses and made fun of our older Italian friend.