“No, babe,” Michael said. “I’ll carry them over; looks like you are busy here at the bar.” He continued to stand there and stare at the red haired man. The red haired man ignored him and took a drink of his beer. “Hey.” Michael said, “Aren’t you some kind of musician, Warren Zevon, right?” Warren looked over at Michael and said, “Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not.” “You don’t need to be a smart ass.” Michael said. Warren looked at me and said, “Give those bikers a couple of pitchers on me.” I hoped that the “eat me” remark had slipped his mind. “Of course, I’m going straight home.” I said.