Um, no. Wrong at so many levels.

You're pleased & relieved that the happy hour crowd at the Cruise Room left you a stool at the bar. You drop your book, newly acquired from Tattered Cover just down the block, to hold your place and hang your coat on the deco coat tree. You sit down and order up your Zentini.

(And btw, Shut up. If you're that worried about the purity of terminology wrt gin + vermouth + olive, that's your problem. We're in reality over here, and a Zentini is a tasty dfrink, by any measure. Find a lawyer to listen to your semantic diatribe, if you feel moved in that direction. Thanks.)

So you settle in to find out what Oliver Sachs has to say about music and enjoy your 'tini, but next to you are These Guys. They're 60 or so, but they never got over that trite bragging thing that guys seem to suck outta their thumbs or someplace during high school. Their conversation peaks with compelling metaphors suggesting that the federal tax collectors worked with the internal security and intelligence agency from mid-1930s Germany. Wow, how original. The blather ebbs and flows, but thankfully it generally subsides to a level that allows enjoyment of another cocktail and some more medical storytelling.

But time tracks onward, and one of the Boys just doesn't want to go home. (With his profound appreciation of the fabulous financial management exhibitied by Fran, the love of his life, you wonder briefly how he could be so eager to stay out of the home & away from her bracing and inspiring influence.) And so there he goes, full of vim & excitement, practically shrieking his testimonial for -- I kid you not -- the chicken & waffles at the Corner Office.

Now you know better, because you once made that mistake. The Corner Office ain't Roscoe's, and chicken & waffles there involves some large chunks of highly breaded bird atop huge Belgian waffles. The two don't meld together, as some claim they do elsewhere. At the Corner Office, the chicken collides with the waffle in a six-car pileup tumbling across your plate -- it creates a 3D food sculpture of impossible improbability there on the tabletop. The syrup ends up being an insult to both, and no one anywhere has a clue what to do with the whole thing.

But barboy is determined that his pals are going to enjoy the experience alongside him. He goes on at length and at high volume. They still have brain cells operating, it seems, and they politely demure, leaving the loudmouth to go home pouting to justify his bar bill to Fran.

Fortunately, most of the second Zentini is still there awaiting your tastebuds, now that those clowns are gone, and you're freed from the need to stuff your thumb into your left ear. Things were OK before, with ups fully balancing the downs, but now life becomes a lovely song.