tie one on at the old cherry tree

Late last night at the Irish sports bar round the way, Mo, wise beyond her years, gestured into her scotch. “The problem with criticism is that it’s all florid adjectives. No one uses verbs anymore. No one,” she groused, “but Anthony Lane.”
I left after the buggy Michiganian transplant from up the street moved in on Nina with the pick-up line, “Is this corduroy?” I left after remembering I hate bars in general, but especially that bar, which we were prompted to visit with the dashed promise of trivia night, and the fact that last weekend, at 2 am, we wandered in to find they had roasted a whole pig on a spit on a whim, and I watched the boy I met tear off its left ear from its disembodied head and gnaw on it, like a teething ring. (Needless to say, I did not take him home with me.)
This morning I saw Mo in the kitchen. How late did you stay, I asked her. “Not much longer,” she answered. “I left after the bartender started spraying soda water on the girls dancing atop the bar.”