Crazy Joe and I grabbed two barstools with split cushions, sat down and ordered two Buds ($2.25 each).

We had only taken a sip or two when Kupkake sauntered over.

Kupkake was a short man. I'd put him at about 5'3". He was an older man, too -- probably in his late 50s or early 60s.

But he was a sweet man. No pun intended.

"I'm Sam," I said, and stuck out my hand. He shook it, and said,

"My name's Greg. But everybody calls me Kupcake. It's my screen name! Except, I spell it with three Ks. See?"

Then Kupkake took off his baseball hat and pointed to it. Sure enough, it had the word Kupkake written on it.

At this point, I'm thinking Kupkake might be some kind of white supremacist. After all, he did point out the three Ks in KupKaKe. 

But then, I felt his hand rest on my thigh, and I knew what kind of man Kupkake was.

Now that was a little awkward.

Then it got worse -- Kupkake liked to lean close and chat. And when he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his lips and landed on my face.

So there I was, at the Crossroads, getting hit on by a tipsy gay senior citizen named Kupkake (it's his screen name) who kept spitting in my face.

Finally (!) he got the picture that I wasn't interested in him. Or maybe he thought I had some kind of nervous twitch because I had to keep wiping my face.

Either way, Kupkake took his short, sweet self back to his barstool for a little bit. But a few minutes later he was back on the prowl and accidentally knocked over a sign, which busted on the floor.

That was the cue for Crazy Joe and me to hit the road. 

(Photo by me.)