Dear Diary,

I have enjoyed the most raucous of evenings; truly a spirited event that will most certainly leave me smarting and in dire need of a heavy dose of ibuprofen in the morning. But O! for five unrestrained minutes, I felt as youthful as I did during my college days, as a group of us engaged in (of all things, diary!) a lowly barroom brawl sparked on by a pair of choice individuals, of whom I am most assured that you will not be surprised in the least to learn of their involvement.

Our escapades started off with innocent intent, at first: a simple trip down to the local pub to partake of fine food, fine drink, and fine company. The usual troop made the journey to O'Hare's, which has, sadly, turned from the cheery, if not over-the-top stereotypical, Irish pub to something more of a sports bar. This seemed to suit most of the party members just fine, however, as hockey dominated the larger screens, and either they were happily distracted by the game, or else happy in the realization that aforementioned party members were so happily distracted as to keep them out of trouble, a sour mood, or both.

Of course, as you well know, any situation that lacks control will always produce unforeseen variables, and the variable for this particular night turned out to be a a young man that had started into his cups much earlier evening. Like a moth to the flame, once setting his sights upon Logan, who, in vouching for him, was minding his own business with his attentions on cigar and brew and television, the gentleman decided to pay him a visit.

The sauntering of the inebriated fellow was quite comical in all aspects, as both his motor skills and facial expressions were so hampered by such large quantities of, as they say on the street, *hooch* that he resembled a John Wayne impersonator suffering from the aftereffects of a thrombotic stroke. His methodical, somewhat mechanical approach, no doubt brought on by the allure of Logan's cigar and the potential promise of lighter or match, had managed to garner not only my attention, but the attentions of some of the others, as well. We all observed with abject amusement dosed by a few milligrams of caution as the man drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster before then being forced to take a lean on the table with one hand, all the while possessed by a rubbery smile.

"Heya buddy, be a pal and gimme a light?" inquired the drunk, cigarette thrust forward in a jaunty and inviting manner.

Woe betide, however, the unsavvy individual that does not realize the folly of employing rustic platitudes in the attempt to foster a sense of kinship with our feral friend. Logan, in speaking a dialect unto himself, would have responded better to a demand and a challenge to a rousing bout of fisticuffs than to such a beer-basted request. The use of masculine terms of endearment to address the Wolverine only served to induce a flaring of his nostrils and a contraction of his pupils in absolute annoyance, as if having to share the same universe with such a person of low moral fiber was bad enough, but to actually have to speak with him would be the uttermost unbearable insult of his lifetime.

But, I digress into trivial matters best left as minor observations, at most. Needless to say, Logan was highly displeased by the approach of this particular individual, and did his best to studiously ignore him while focusing more steadily upon the hockey game. The man, his instincts apparently so saturated by alcohol that he did not take the hint and, perhaps, believed our nonconformist cohort to be hard of hearing, decided to then place a hand upon Logan's shoulder good-naturedly and repeat his request.

At this point, every person inhabiting the establishment that bore an X, be it physically, mentally, or otherwise, came to an immediate halt in whatever activity they had been performing, conversations and spirits alike dying upon surprised lips. I myself had been just about to enjoy a bite of some rather delectable hot wings, and I must confess, I'm quite confident that I looked much the fool with mandible hanging slack with the bar snack favorite fowl held in midair in abject shock. We all waited for the detonation of the small nuclear device from Canada that seemed to be unavoidable.

Logan puffed on his cigar, and then seemed to consider the act of putting it out on the hand that remained on his shoulder.

For my minute part, diary, I set down the heartburn-inducing buffalo wing and regained some of my composure, albeit belatedly.

Logan puffed on his cigar once more, and then growled around it in what was only a mildly menacing manner, for him, "I ain't your buddy, and I ain't your pal. Now get lost."

The drunk laughed a good, long, riotous, and, as some of the students might say, *shit-faced* laugh, and then sloshed his way off, apparently too amused by such a timely reply to be offended. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief, and then resumed what we had been doing before. The storm, so to speak, had blown by and missed us (no pun intended, my dear Ororo).

Or, so we had thought.

For, you see diary, perhaps an hour or so later, as some of our comrades had already called it an early evening, but I had yet to consume my total fill of hot wings, the youthful inebriate made a second appearance amongst our group in a rather unpleasant way. He and some of his, as kids these day refer to it, *pals* had been *hanging* around the jukebox, punching at the buttons like a small group of untrained monkeys attempting to earn themselves a banana. Alas, at that particular point in time, the lovely Miss Rogue had emerged from the ladies' powder room, and had to traverse through a doorway positioned right next to the jukebox. The drunken gentlemen took note of this passage, and proceeded to deliver unto our own Southern Belle a choice set of catcalls and otherwise poor attempts to garner her favorable attention.

Marie, of course, brushed off such ill-conceived and poorly executed compliments with her usual, good-natured air by thanking them and informing them that, perhaps another night, and if they were not so, I do believe the term she used was *soused*, she might talk to them.

Now, I am not exactly one hundred percent sure on what captivated the attentions of the entire crowd of the bar, for I must confess I was momentarily distracted by the fact that I had dropped a napkin on the floor and went to retrieve it, but it was either the slap to Rogue's derriere or else the subsequent punch that she delivered unto our favorite hammered soul that delivered him unto and into the jukebox that managed to silence everyone within the establishment.

One could practically hear the electrons of a unuquadium atom spinning fervently around its nucleus, let me inform you, diary.

In any case, as I am quite sure it is needless to say, the bar then proceeded to erupt into mass mayhem of the highest degree. Taking offense to such an affront on their friend's (lack of) dignity, the other jukebox monkeys made the attempt to descend upon dear Marie with bad intentions. Apparently, swift learning is not on their short list of traits.

Logan, ever thirsting for battle, our very own lost warrior of Sparta, leapt into the fray without so much as a by your leave. Some of the other patrons of the establishment did not particularly agree with this move, it seems safe to say, as they then joined into the brawl. Snowballing with the speed of a diving Peregrine, said mass mayhem took place with a certain gusto only found in Irish pubs that have been converted into sports bars.

And all of this, diary, whilst I was under the table, locating my runaway napkin!

Well, when I finally emerged, much chagrined by my apparent clumsiness, I could not abide to sit on the sidelines for such a lively brawl! After removing my jacket and tie, of course, and setting them aside to ensure they received no terrible damage, I joined into the fracas like a giddy school boy, I must confess. By that point, however, the damage to the bar property was monumental, as many a chair and bottle had been employed in the attempts to hinder the capabilities of the fighting occupants.

At some point, I dimly recall one particularly sorry individual delivering a swift kick to Logan's, ahem, nether regions, at which point the individual, and I do believe the rest of the bar, was made all the sorrier for it.

After that, things became quite the happy blur. A person tossed here, a pool stick smashed over someone's head there...

Well, diary, the Professor was not especially happy to hear from us when we rang him on the telephone from the local precinct. Nor was Scott especially happy when he arrived to bail us out, looking for all the world like the disgruntled eldest brother doing his father's bidding to bring home the younger, misbehaving siblings.

And I do believe we have been informed that we are now banned from ever again appearing within the happy walls of O'Hare's.

But, O! It was certainly worth the stern lecturing, diary! I must remember to accompany Logan and Marie on more outings, as they always have the grandest of evenings!

Affectionately Yours,
Dr. Henry Phillip McCoy, Ph.D.