I’m at the bar, doors open, a plague of teenagers rush in, get their hand stamped, and hurl themselves up to the stage. They’re excited to be here. At this show. I feel old.

A handful of girls surround this guy in front of me. I’ll presume he’s in one of the bands tonight. Girls hug him, take pictures with him, he signs autographs.

I’ve always thought it was funny to get someone’s autograph. It’s so absurd. You don’t have to show me you got the guy’s autograph. I’ll trust you when you tell me you met him.

I’ve signed autographs before. Yeah, let me think. One autograph. And it was for a friend. And it was a joke. But he did keep it in his wallet until it disintegrated.

I’m spacing out, I notice a young girl at a table staring at me. She whispers to her friend, then looks back at me. Maybe she recognizes me from Good Burger. Or my Celine Dion video. Maybe she wants MY autograph.

That would be cool.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


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