There was an intimate crew of other light-rock enthusiasts sporting some super-shitty yachting attire, complete with captain's hats for the men. With the $2 Sea Breeze cocktails flowing like water, everyone was cruising for a Monday-morning hangover as we slowly sank to the bottom of our tumblers. By the end of the night, we were sloppy drunk, singing along to Michael McDonald, Steely Dan, Hall & Oates, and the like. If that wasn't indulgent enough, we couldn't help but bust out our best seated-stool-dance moves. The whole night was a collective embrace of bad taste in music. And it was serenely beautiful — like a night on the open sea.
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