Borne in the U.S.A.

A dark-haired girl wearing a red off-the-shoulder top over a bikini sporadically interrupted us. If a particularly sexy song came on (Flo Rida's "Low" seemed to be a particular favorite; we heard it several times long after they had forsaken '90s music in favor of more current jams), she'd shoot me a withering look and grind against him. He'd pull her red shirt off and grope her. At the end of the song, she'd put her clothing back on and the infinite cycle of clothing removal and replacement would continue. When a group of friends distracted her, Mike turned back to me.

"I like this area, but I'm from Melbourne, and we don't have as many gays there," he said. "I'm kinda homophobic. But I like Darius" — he pointed to a dark-complexioned guy grinding against one of the girls — "we get along pretty good."

Our conversation should have ended there, but it didn't until he asked me my number.

"Isn't she your girlfriend?" I asked, gesturing at the girl in red.

"Who, her? No, no. I'm single," he said.

But by this time three girls had jumped up on the bar, a grinding blur of gyrating suntanned flesh and string bikinis.

Guess homophobia and the blatant objectification of women are still alive and well in America... or at least the bar that claims to be its backyard.

As I closed my tab and left, I thought how eventually I'd like to have a sweet, suburban backyard filled with friends, good times, and plenty of booze. And though I could forego the inebriated idiots, increasingly naked girls, and general debauchery, I'd for sure have hula hoops and plenty of '90s music. I'd even share my imported liquor. But no one better touch my baklava.