Went on a pub crawl last night for the first time in...well, enough years that I can't remember how long. My girl friend and I wanted to go someplace different for a change. We wind up in the same bar & grill every weekend because friends of ours do karaoke shows there several nights a week. As comfortable as we feel there, we needed a Pappy's-free Saturday.
So, off we went in search of a bar that had a band and dancing. You'd think that would be easy to find. Well, no. It isn't on the Saturday night your home town NBA team is playing a critical game in the Western Conference series. Or so I learned.
The first place was one I used to frequent with a different group of friends. There was indeed a band, but it was one of the worst I've heard that had the gall to request payment at the end of the night. They're called Going Nowhere Fast, and boy, they aren't kidding. Good luck fellas. Time to go back to the garage to practice.
We had dinner there because they have a decent kitchen for a B&G, and each nursed a drink through the first set before we lit out in search of happier climes. There was no Plan B, so we sat in the car in the parking lot wracking our brains to remember where there might be another place that would suit.
I remembered a place another group of friends and I used to go to. We didn't even go in after a quick cruise through the parking lot. My friend said, "Oh Honey. Look at all the little bitty cars, OH! and there's a Scion. I bet the place is full of skater kids." And by golly, she was right. All those boys in baggy shorts, black t-shirts with band logos on them, and dark ball caps standing in clumps out in front while smoking proved to me that my friend can read a bar parking lot better than anyone I've ever known. She is a bar parking lot savant. I will never doubt her ability again.
Third place was a dive she'd mentioned before in humorous context. The bar is tiny, so it doesn't take a lot of bikers to fill it to a condition of extreme coziness. Last night, I learned that a lot of biker dudes are cleaner, and smell better than you'd think. And these were not weekend warriors, either. These were men (and a few women!) who looked like they could be quite dangerous in the right (wrong?) circumstances. When they weren't ignoring us (there were a couple of off-duty strippers wiggling around) the people were quite nice to us. Okay, so, two or three drinks there.
Bar number four was a place I have visited occasionally for the past 15 years or so. A different friend hosts karaoke there on Sunday nights. We held hope that they might have a band. We were wrong. More karaoke. What the hell. The bartenders were eye candy and the other customers were friendly and funny. Our own karaoke Cheers.
We stayed there from around 10:30 to closing at 2 a.m. I got to sing two songs. Next stop: Waffle House. Yes. I ate a waffle at 2 a.m. Deja vu, Man. While we chatted and ate, there was a little voice in the back of my head whispering, "1978. It's 1978 again."
At some break in the conversation I looked up at the clock and said, "Oh crap! It's 3:30 in the morning!" She said, "Noooo." I said, "Yesssss." For some reason, she didn't believe me, so had to turn around in the booth and look a the clock herself. "Dayum! It is!" Why did she doubt me? She does parking lots; I do clocks. My clockage should never be doubted.
We hustled out to the car and headed for her home. It was "Talk Night" though, so we sat in the parking lot for another 45 minutes or so, pouring our hearts out to one another--more. When I looked at my watch, it was 4:30. See? Still good with telling time. Okay, Honey. Time to go home. You go in, I'll go home. I was dead sober after all the eating and talking, so no problem driving home except that it was FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING. Staying awake was the challenge. Good thing it's only ten minutes away.
By the time I crawled into bed, it was five, and then it took just a little while to fall asleep with the TV on. Why my right eye cracked open at 9:30 is still a mystery, but there I was. I'm a middle-aged woman. Once I'm up, I'm up.
So here I sit writing more than an hour later, wondering if an afternoon nap is a possibility. My body knows how long it's been since I last did this, and it isn't 1978 anymore.
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