When: Tuesday, 9:46pm
What did I drink? Four (?) pints of Harp and two shots of Jameson
Molly’s is the kind of place where 46-year-old men who consider women to be “older” at 39 will keep buying you drinks because they think you’re 33 and want to get you and your friend to come to their apartment upstairs (also the new home of a non-old live-in dog-walker found off a Craiglist ad in Pennsylvania–she won’t pick up poop but her incompetence is mitigated by doing yoga with her thong showing), men on both sides of the bar have Ecuadorean ex wives, and there are barely touched shelves of Galliano, Midori and Rock & Rye to spark memory lane chatter. In other words, entertaining.
Maybe it was the roaring fireplace and soft sawdust underfoot or the Jameson shots and handed off cigarettes, but closing time crept up awfully quick on a weeknight.
I learned that the one thing older women have in their favor is that they don’t play with their phones all night. What men over 37 have going for them is that for the most part they’ve not fallen victim to the wretched beardo thing. (I hope to god that these young flanneled sasquatches are not demanding baby smoothness from the ladies; see also, the only thing I’ve ever appreciated from American Apparel.)
Age appropriate? Though more than four hours were passed, not a single woman obviously over 39 made an appearance. The clientele ranged from the recently graduated crew one would expect in the neighborhood and solo middle-aged men, some with books, some on the make.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be hanging out Brother Jimmy’s,” my advice to the misguided man finding himself far more aged than that bar’s patrons, could also be my own mantra. In its own way, my entire neighborhood is a Brother Jimmy’s. Let’s all avoid the Brother Jimmy’s in life.