I recently took my son London along to the gym. After I had inelegantly completed my routine and he had demoed all the machines that would not land him in traction, we hit the locker room. He was giddy at the exclusive father-son time in an exotic locale where adults wearing hiked-up shorts throw medicine balls and slip on booties to skate back and forth on polished wood.
It was early and so was I, but I figured that I’d enjoy a well-needed drink at the empty bar. The bartender handed me a menu and I scanned it. The night before, some other friends had served me a fancy rum and, although I usually choose that spirit only when I’m sunburned and somewhere that pipes in reggae music, I figured—what the hell?—I’d let my freak flag fly.