Friday, July 17, 2009

Seriously; if you didn't take that "adult content" button seriously - move along. Nothing to see here.

You were warned.

So way the hell earlier today (I'm talking around 5pm; it's now 2:02am, just for frame of reference) Tracy and I went out to dinner.  I had a jumbo margarita, and this at a restaurant where Mexicans make 'em strong.  Then there was this long sequence of being in a bookstore drinking coffee, then a craft store that rapidly degraded to sitting on a bench while Tracy talked her mom through a minor babysitting crises. 

So far, so good.

We came home to R (a semi-permanent denizen), R (a fleeting denizen) and J (a one-nighter) already at our house.  No problem.  Had a beer, changed clothes, then hit the road.

(Side note; I stopped the narrative here, at 2:10am, to eat a boiled egg.  It was delightful.)

Anyway, I went to my friend Willy's house.  Willy is my fellow degenerate, the dude I turn to when I feel like it might be a good idea to go out drinking, possibly smuggle a beer out of the bar to drink in an alley, and definitely pee someplace that Roscoe P. Coletrain would disapprove of.  We drank a beer, then walked down town to see what was going on.  Our usual place of interest (one 123 Pleasant Street) appeared to be hosting some sort of hootnanny.  A hootnanny with a cover charge, no less.  Well, believe it Discerning Readers when I tell you that neither one of us were willing to part with five American dollars to see this hoedown in Motown.  So up the street we went.

Willy and I have made a practice of stopping in at a place called the Boston Beanery, which was our next stop.  This is a very regimented visit; we walk in, step up to the bar, do a shot, then get the hell out.  I secretly hope we'll become semi-famous, the Two-Guys-Who-Hate-This-Stinking-Craphole-But-Want-a-Shot-of-Bourbon., though Willy tells me he's in there on a semi-regular basis, thus shattering this petty dream.  

I digress.

We walk in, do our shot, then we're out of there.  We walked up High Street, ending up at a place called Gibbie's.  There is, in fact, an actual dude named Gibby.  The last time I saw him he was by the pool table in his bar, biting a girl who was dancing on said table RIGHT ON THE ASS.  Clearly this is a quality establishment.  All the same, my friend Brian's band (The Love Me Knots; dig 'em) were playing, so that's where we sat, listening to Brian and watching some seriously one-sided boxing on what I took to be ESPN.  

Even this grows stale after a while.  Willy and I, however, are not to be discouraged.  In another time and place we may have been pirates, or perhaps Viking raiders.  We craved more; adventure, spectacle...something.  So we did the only thing we could, took the only avenue left open to two such as ourselves on a night such as this.

We went to Buck's.

Now, Buck's is a very special place.  It's the last bar on the Other Side of Town.  It had been a long time since I'd been there; perhaps five years or so (the previous visit to that being some ten to fifteen years past).  Buck's has not changed very much.  We walked in, sat at the bar and listened to the jukebox, secretly wishing they'd turn it off and crank up the Def Leopard concert that was on the TV.  Then Willy revealed a Revelation: Buck's has an upstairs.

Perhaps, like me, you are a bit curious as to what could be better than sitting in a bar constructed mainly of plywood, listening to U2 on the jukebox, wishing that in addition to pickles and pickled sausage that they had pickled eggs.  It turns out that there are many things.  

Most noticable are (1) upstairs there is karaoke and (2) upstairs are where the girls are.  Don't get the wrong idea; these are not girls that I would want to meet.  In fact, the most likely chance of me actually talking to one of these girls is if she walked drunkenly into the men's room while I was in there quite contentedly throwing up a bit of the bourbon I so injudiciously drank.  These girls do have a few things going for 'em.  They dance, AND they sing.  Perhaps more amazing (in the interest of being fair, balanced, and not sexiest) there is also the spectacle of the Dancing Redneck Dude.  In retrospect they are a package deal.  You really need to see them both doing a bizarre line dance to MC Hammer to really get a feel for the place.  Imagining neon, disco lights and a drunken blond girl with no shoes dancing with a backward-hat redneck dude....well, that's pretty much it in a nutshell.

I'm going to have to cut this short; it's late and I'm tired.  Suffice it to say that a good time was had by all.  AND (as an addendum) Willy and I made further plans for our kick-ass band, including finally deciding on a name.  

Ladies and Gentlemen; I give you Keziah Mason,

That is all.  Return to your daily lives.


  1. Having read my own entry just after writing it I realize that it's not very coherent. Also it gave me a strange sense of deja-vu.

    (This comment is an extra service of the author, serving to elucidate and enlighten, all at no extra charge,)

    Good night, Americans.

  2. I also like how I manage to type the word "seriously" into the title twice. What a jackass.

  3. You're funny when you're drunk. Hope you don't sleep through your 6-8 hours of empty house tomorrow, Gods know you need a little space.

  4. I wish we had bars made out of plywood, that sounds hip.