When we first moved to town, the Keelhauler and I used to occasionally visit a pub called The Newsroom, where the Keelhauler would inevitably strike up a conversation with a nearby patron or two. I never talk to anyone, feeling that it's rarely worth the effort, but the Keelhauler feels otherwise, and so there we were, talking to this stocky, arrogant, 50-something businessman named Gary Dollar, with a plaid button-down shirt and J.R. Ewing accent. (Except his first name wasn't really "Gary," but for this story, I'll just use his pseudonym.)(But it sounds a lot like "Gary.")(But with a "B.")

Mr. Dollar was immediately proud to reveal to us that he lived with several--maybe four, I can't recall--girls. He told us all about them--how they were beautiful, and in their 20s, and worked as waitresses at Snotty's Restaurant, or something. I had to admit, they sounded so fascinating and well worth telling total strangers about. He didn't come right out and say it, but I got the impression that he paid for the house and let them live there in exchange for not much more than the bragging rights their presence accorded him. He implied strongly that he slept with these women, and so after a long period of his innuendoes, I asked him outright, "So, GARY... do you actually sleep with these girls?" (I mean, it really seemed like that is what he wanted us to think, so I was just trying to be clear about it.) Of course he had to hem and haw and say well, NO, he didn't. (Sucker!)

Anyway, he was tiresome but friendly enough, and scritched his number on a cocktail napkin for us. We'd heard enough about the beautiful platonic waitress roommates, so we never called, but we did run into him a couple of months later, at one of this town's more snotty restaurants. The Keelhauler and I were sitting at the bar waiting for a table, and Mr. Dollar walked by and stopped. I said hello (why I did this, I cannot begin to imagine), and said, "My name's Violet, we met you at the Newsroom." He looked down his nose at me, which is quite a trick considering that he's four inches shorter than I, and said, "Oh, yes... I was just recently laughing about your name with some people." I was slightly taken aback. I repeated his statement as a question, to clarify that he had been laughing about me with other people, people unknown to me, and he nodded arrogantly.

It seems to me that anyone named after the smallest bill in American currency doesn't enjoy a lot of elbow room when it comes to laughing at someone else's name. Maybe he's just bitter that his waitress roommates aren't putting out.

Anyway, if any of you run into him, mention that you've recently been laughing about him with people he doesn't know.

Star of the day. . .Johnny Cash