Last night, following a business dinner on the Lower East Side, I headed a few blocks down to ‘inoteca, to eat a second dinner with a college ex-girlfriend.

Following which, she and I headed to Arlene’s Grocery, to catch a live performance by a band inexplicably doing it’s damndest to become Blink 182.

As I was wearing a blazer and button down, and looking more than a bit out of place in the Arlene’s crowd, I stripped down to my undershirt to watch the set.

By 2:00am, Arlene’s was closing, and I stood by the bar, buttoning back on my dress shirt while waiting for my credit card to process.

As I did, one female bartender turned to the other and said, “you know, when he’s not wearing that shirt, you can see he has nice arms.”

“Really?” replied the second. And she reached over the bar with both hands, grabbed my shirt, and pulled.

Buttons flew everywhere – all but the very last having been ripped clean off. And as I stood there, looking at the bartender in shock, she gestured for me to remove the shirt.

Which, actually, I did. But, at least, I didn’t leave her a tip. Just a note saying: “saving up money to buy a whole shirt’s worth of new buttons.”