I Could Kick Myself for Not Bringing a Camera

[Tight Ends photo cribbed from the Internet Web will appear clear down at the end of this thing so cubicle dwellers will have plenty of time to see it coming and avoid it.]

As you know from the last thread, I made my way to Guys Night Out on Wednesday.  Looks like I missed East Texas P1, or he missed me.  Sorry, ETP1.

I don't have anything to say about The Ticket presentation because I didn't spend any time in that room.  I had a meeting in Frisco that afternoon, so got there around 4:15 or so, and the place was already packed.  I was by myself.

Noticed something I've never noticed at a Ticket remote, which was that they were taking names at the door, apparently for people to wait for reserved tables.  That wasn't objectionable, not to me, anyway, but it did somewhat detract from the informality of the occasion.  Perhaps it's a way to control the crowd in the part of the bar where the tables are.

If so, I violated the policy because the first thing I did was to walk into the room where The Hardline was broadcasting and stroll around between the tables, see if I saw any friendly faces at a table where I might linger for a bit until either I was invited to sit down, or I asked if I could join the group if they didn't seem too put out at this strange-looking guy.  (I had a suit on from my meeting; did loosen my tie, though.)  But didn't see any likely candidates (sorry ETP1, I didn't wander too close to the broadcast), so thought I would move away from the action at least to find a place to sit.  I saw some tables with "RESERVED" signs on them, but way in the back in the far room there were a number of empty tables with no signs, so I sat myself down.

Before continuing my not-very-interesting GNO story, I pause to reflect on the Tight Ends wait staff.  I don't know -- should I feel sorry for them?  Some extremely attractive young women, some pushing the needle over into beautiful, but most dressed as revealingly as North Plano community standards will allow, and some beyond.  I'm not a prude and I derive about the same amount of enjoyment as most males in viewing a woman wearing something that approaches the borders of the naughty bits.  And I really liked looking at these young women.  Yeah, really did.  Hey, look at that one  .  .  .  .  and whoa, looka tha --    But [shaking head to clear thinking and conscience] jeez -- pasties, thongs, some items whose names I don't know, some items that appear improvised and nameless, aimed at enticing the male to stay, spend money, tip lavishly, dream foolishly.  So one line of my thinking is -- man, we haven't come very far since the Fifties as far as exploitation of women is concerned.

But the other line of thinking is that these women are volunteers.  They were not pressed into service shortly after getting off the boat.  They put in their application, they get hired, they know what they're going to be required to wear (although there didn't seem to be a particular uniform, a fair amount of improvisation seemed to be de rigueur).  They're working, working hard.  I'm guessing the P1 crowd isn't going to be too forward.  (Also guessing there's security in place.)  Some may be single mothers.  Some may be a young wife making sure that mortgage gets paid.   Others may be students.  Perhaps models.  Maybe some professional women or administrative types in between jobs or picking up some extra dough.  But whatever they are, they all gotta eat, pay the rent, buy gas, and a day like that is probably good money for each of them.  Someone is going to make money off men's unconquerable urge to self-delude, and maybe they figure it might as well be them.

So -- no judgment, just curiosity.

I will say this -- they didn't seem very happy.  Photos below to the contrary.

As it turned out, I was served by a comely blonde named Stephanie who was more modestly dressed than most.  She took my order, and she had just stepped away when I was accosted by another waitress who asked me if I just sat down at the table without putting my name in at the front.  I confessed (of course) immediately.  She told me I couldn't sit there.  OK, whatever the rules are, don't want to cause trouble or take cuts over a deserving P1 who was waiting for a table, but GNO was getting to be more of a challenge than I really cared to deal with.  I rose to try to find a spot at the bar and got Stephanie's attention to tell her where I was going, and she said "Sit down, you're fine.  It's my table."  She then sought out the other waitress and, I gather, they had a chinwag and my eviction was abated.

While the wait staff seemed rather morose, the trio of brunette Ticket Chicks who stopped by to sign me up for a drawing were very cheerful and quite attractive, all three of them.  If I'd had my wits about me I'd have interviewed them on the life and career path of a Ticket Chick, which strikes me as a great topic for a post.  I'm something of a camera guy, if not an accomplished photographer, and am almost never without some decent glass, but yesterday found me lensless.   (Phone camera busted.)   So I got nothing for you on the three lovely Chicks.  The last time I got involved with a drawing at a remote (it was purchased raffle tickets, not just a sign-up), I won several times and the grand prize of Mavs courtside seats.  See:  http://myticketconfession.blogspot.com/2012/12/duckandcover-goes-out-on-some.html 

This time I did not win.

Well, this was a pretty dreary entry, wasn't it?  I did enjoy just hanging out there, chatting with the Ticket Chicks, having a couple, reading.  Next time I'll try to be better prepared, maybe give you guys some better notice so we can find each other.

Not sure if I'll make Ticketstock, but I hope to stop by sometime.  Hope to see you there.  Photos liberated from the Internet (and these were some of the more conventionally revealing ones) follow the jump  .  .  .  .