In the City of Jerz

Visited Jerzey City tonight to meet up with my parents for dinner.

Strange place.

I walked into this weird bar called LITM, because it seemed to be the only respectable sort of place in the area around the Grove St. PATH train (granted, it was cold, and I only walked about half a block). I walk in, thinking it's a cafe, realize it's a bar, think maybe it's a gay bar, think about leaving, decide to just have my coffee and sit in peace, out of the cold.

The bartender was this weird guy, strange necklace (like a ring on a chain) and a tight shirt and short hair and an extremely snooty attitude.

"Do you have coffee?"
"yeah"
"Do you have decaf?"
"Would you like to see the menu?"

(*Why I need the menu to get a decaf coffee is beyond me, but I accept anyway)

"Sure." (I look at the menu. It takes like three minutes to find the coffee. They have decaf.) "Uh, I'll have a decaf"

(He opens the menu, scrolls down the list of coffee (there are four on the list), points to the ONLY ONE ON THE LIST that says "Decaf" and says "this one?")

"Yeah"

So I sit down at a table and start screwing around, drawing bar stools and cups, writing weird stuff in my journal, looking around at the place and thinking how strange it is, and the guy brings me my coffee (delicious coffee, by the way, served in a mini-French press). I sit there sipping it and listening to the chatter of the ONE GUY in the bar besides the bartender and the Mexican guy that made my coffee.

His chatter goes something like this:

"What's fucking today? Is it fucking Wednesday or fucking Thursday? I just want the fucking weekend, man...I'm gonna come in tomorrow and get some fucking dollar Oysters Man! Best fucking deal in fucking town, man! Hey, Let me get another Heineken man!"

To give you a brief mental image of this guy, so that you have a better idea of who is speaking here--He's about 35, maybe 40, thick black hair, dressed in a nice suit...This is not some homeless guy with this sort of sailor tongue, this is a rich guy...

Now, another guy walks in--older--maybe 53 or so, sort of tired looking, a bit sick of work and the grind and whatnot. The guy at the bar screams, "Don't tell my wife I'm here!"
"Don't tell mine!" the guy responds...

So they sit there, together now, ragging on their neighbors and the cursing guy is cursing a lot and talking about the Harley he sold and the Porsche he bought and on and on and on about money and this guy makes this much and where did she get her money from and did her father leave it to her?

They throw suspicious glances at the skinny kid in the corner drawing his coffee cup. A cheesy 80's song comes on. The cursing guy screams.

"Holy Shit! I haven't heard this fucking crackhead in a while"

Turns out that the Bar's Acronymic name means "Love is the Message"

...

Jersey