The Firefighters Convention.
Thousands of firefighters venture to our great city for a weekend of... well, really, hell if I know... conventioning.
I know what you're thinking...
So my girlfriends and I headed downtown on Friday night for tapas, cocktails, and debauchery. After a homeless man hobbled into the restaurant, plopped himself down on a barstool right next to our table and passed out/died (? who really knows), we weren't sure how the rest of the night was going to unfold. However a few of the paramedics who rushed to his aid weren't bad eye-candy so we couldn't be all that mad.
Sadly, as the night progressed we realized there was not a single oiled up man in sight. No eight-packs, no bare chests, no shirtless, suspendered men saving kittens.
All we got was a group of hicks from North Carolina who swarmed our patio table telling us they "saw all us ladies long hairs and just had to stop and say hi" in the slowest southern drawl I've ever heard.
You win some, you lose some.