Vesparanza.

Vesparanza.

Sunday night, as Erik and I were weaving around middletown trying to get to the highway from the airport, we passed a bar called the Aero Club. It's nestled on a frontage road, and looks highly decrepit. We often make fun of the joint.

I said, "Want to go to the Aero Club?"
To which Erik responded, "No way. We're not indie enough to go there."

I honestly would have never imagined the Aero Club elevating from dive bar to indie-dive bar, so I didn't believe him. I retorted, "We're totally indie enough!" Then I glanced down at his man-sandals and our bourgeouis Prius.

"We need a Vespa to go there," Erik said with an evil un-indie grin on his face.

I then realized that we had probably had this very same conversation about the Aero Club the last time we were driving on these roads. That day, the few parking spots out front had been crowded with what looked like 20 Vespas. A pod/school/coven/swarm of Vespas, if you will. I'd say that's a telltale sign that your regular-dive dive bar has jumped the shark into the depths of the indie-dive dive bar world.