My thick brown glasses sighed loudly.

I smiled an upsidedown frown. It didn't suit me. Neither did 'Brooks Brothers' for that matter, but that was neither here nor there.

She was watching American Idol like a pop-culture hawk starving for mouse carcasses. Glibly she mumbled, "I want Adam to win".

I hadn't a clue of what she spoke. I read books and smoked clove cigarettes and wore a beard of ironic v-neck teeshirts; how could I watch the dreaded television? The lowest form of low since the combination of khakis and the 'tied over the shoulder' sweater.

My thick brown glasses sighed loudly.

"Are we like, going to a bar or something?", I snorted. I thought that it might sound piggish, but the snort was more 'Jewish Phlegm-y'.

"But American Idol is tonight. The finals; a veritable Coup de grâce of singing cacophony".
"Yeah, but I want a beer. I want a beer so much that I want it covered in more beer; like a pilsner or something; then I want that beer wrapped in a Bud Light can, covered in a fine hops 'n barley-flavored dutch chocolate. That's how much I want beer at this moment."
She looked at me.
"OK", I admitted, "I'm an alcoholic. What are you going to do? Have an intervention? Remember the macabre charade the last one turned into?"

That particular charade ended up becoming a drunken game of charades, where I crudely attempted a parodic imitation of a large policeman with a breathalyzer and stun gun.

She finally relented: "OK, you want to go to an alehouse? Go for it, just don't expect me to go with you".
"We can play Sex And The City tonight". I knew this was her weak spot; I also knew it required a night of pretending to be Miranda.
"I'll be Carrie!" She's always Carrie.

So we went out (damn high heels) and wowed passersby with our witty repartee, confident single-hood and emotional empathy.

Late that evening, while fending off Mr. Big when Carrie went to the bathroom, I thought to myself: "It could be worse; I could be watching American Idol".