The Game

     I do not know what it is exactly. Perhaps it is just the modern upgrade of habit. Engrained into our DNA after a period of evolution. The rush you experience when epinephrine surges through your veins, as you sit at the bar sipping your poison of choice. 

    There is something about a dimly lit bar and a terrible cover band, playing in the background, that makes me feel right at home. Personally preferring to be the observer of this train wreck we call: The Game, instead of a participant. Horrifying to watch and yet you never seem to be able to tare your eyes away from it.

    I have played fly on the wall in some of the dodgiest of pubs and on occasion even the odd posh club. Finding it absolutely fascinating to see the strategy in which people use to play.

    Quite like watching an episode of the discovery channel, this week: frat boys in “vintage” prints form Abercrombie & Fitch, white collars coming to unwind after a long day of work, bad boys, good boys, and even the occasional cowboy. Come one, come all, and let the shit show begin.

    It is similar to watching savannah animals flock to the watering hole. Predators and their prey. We discover who chooses to take on what role as the evening progresses. The lions and the lion tamers, the warthogs and the vultures, the hyenas and the gazelles. Lingering and lurking, the hunters and the hunted. We wait for the precise moment of instinct to make our move. Whether it be to pounce or bolt is the only variable that tends to change.