By Becky Polini
The men are trashy, the women drunk. The lights are just low enough that the sloppy girl sitting across from the equally sloppy guy can’t tell if his looks warrant him a trip back to her place later, but chances are she’ll give him a shot anyway.
It’s Saturday night at Pennsylvania’s Media Inn, and I’m dressed to kill. With my parents.
Dad, already four Rolling Rock Green Light girly-beers deep from dinner, orders himself another as he flips through the binder of songs. Why he bothers perusing is a mystery to me. Mom and I both know what he’s going to sing — Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” He’ll write his name on the song request slip not as Dennis, but Grady — a tribute to his dream brand of boat, the Grady White. (more…)