Growing & Non-Existent Testicles

Saturday night we went out to see Shannon and Walter play at Grumpy's. We had an unpleasant experience with this man there who decided to "join us" in that area of sofas around a coffee table near the stage. He fancied himself some Knight from King Arthur's Court, yet didn't pull it off for a nanosecond. Even before he sat down, he waved his hands across the table where our plates and drinks and ashtrays were, as if they were in his way and he wanted us to clear them so he could settle in. Then he began to complain about the ashtrays that had butts in them (imagine that)--"What sort of place is this, can't even have a clean ashtray..."

It took a grand total of two seconds for me to respond. I picked up one of them and dumped it into the other and set down the empty one in front of him. "There you go," I said.

I immediately disliked him. There's never much doubt--nine times out of ten when a man invites himself to sit near you, he's after more than your witty repartee. The strange part is, he thought he was the most lucid, engaging, and charming member of the intelligentsia. What he was, was weird, rude, presumptuous, obnoxious, ridiculous and pathetic. He was sitting in the sofa that had it's back to Shannon and Walter, and so he had to crane his neck around to respond to them. But meanwhile, he jerked and bobbed his head and broke into song. When they would pause between songs, he would obligingly fill the void with a Pavorotti-esgue rendition of something, complete with hand gestures, and a thick operatic accent--sometimes in some indecipherable language which he tried to pass off as German, but was really Pompous fakery.

We tried to ignore him. But then he began to badger the waitress about his drink, the table, the ashtrays, his glass, and anything else. We were both bristling by this time, because she was trying her best to be tolerant of his behavior, and was met only with his holier-than-thou abrasiveness. It seemed to make him feel empowered somehow, and he was looking for some twisted, adoring response from the females in his company--uninvited though his presence was.

Shannon and Walter just looked on in wonder while he monopolized the silence between songs, periodically shouting something earth-shatteringly pertinent in their direction. He reminded me of a compunded version of that young man one night at Shug's, who sat in the front, stood by the table, almost facing everyone, his foot hiked up on his chair, and singing along with Shannon and Walter like he was a cast-member in Guys and Dolls. Only that guy was innocuous, whereas this guy at Grumpy's was like a barfly Frankenstein version of the same creature. When he asked, "Where is the restroom in this establishment?" I gave him a dry look, and shrugged. I was trying to be so obvoiously uninterested in assisting him in any way, that he would slither in some other direction. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.When he stood to announce his temporary departure, ("Will you ladies excuse me for a moment?") pausing as if to gain our full attention and coy "but-of-courses"-- I instead looked right past him toward Shannon and Walter, giving him absolutely no acknowledgement. After he was gone, I told Tammy I was losing my tolerance in a swift fashion. She said she was pretty sick of him, too, and entreated me to let her "handle it."

Well, this was a shock, since Tam is notoriously tolerant and sometimes overly-concerned with appearances and tactfulness. I didn't quite believe her, but I told her okay, but that I was not responsible for any unexpected stimuli that might make me take his head off before she'd worked out her rebuttal to him. To punctuate my declaration, I promptly leaned over and thumbed the ash from my cigarette into his drink.He returned (damn the luck) and then the waitress arrived again to serve yet another one of his requests. He was drunk, and the bartender wanted to cut him off, and he didn't like that at all. He insisted she bring him a drink, and in the big kind of mug like the one Tammy had tea in. He made a big production of it, and then insisted she empty the solitary cigarette butt from his ashtray and wipe his table down. She whirled and went to get him another glass.

I guess he didn't care for the looks we shot at him, because he began to justify his rudeness: "When I ask for something, I expect to get what I I ask for."

Tammy said, "You get what you deserve."

He mouthed off again, and she said, "You know what? You're being a jerk."

That made him mad, and he started flinging drunken aspersions and opinions again. I finally had had enough. I leaned forward and said, "Why don't you just go away?"

He continued his tirade. I kept repeating, "We do not want you here, don't you get it? We're not interested in your company. You're a jerk, and we're disgusted by you. Go away!"

He said, "make me." Wasn't that intelligent? He sounded like a grade school brat. I got up and went up to the bar to ask the manager to remove him for harassing us. They were ready to, anyway. He's been inflicting himself all over the bar all night.

So when the waitress came back while we were shouting at him, and had to deal with more of his attitude, she invited him to speak to the manager, who was going to toss him out by that time. He marched up to the bar, and while he was gone, I grabbed his cigarettes and bent the pack, breaking all the remaining cigarettes inside. I guess that was silly, but it sure made me feel good.

After he had gone, I couldn't resist a jibe at Tam's uncharacteristic indignance. I leaned over to her and said, "Do I detect the sound of growing testicles?"

Growing & Non-Existent Testicles

A Thang to be Remembered

Betty Thang, a self-confessed lesbian and recent victim of a savage finger-severing, held a press conference today at the Museville N.O.W. Headquarters.

Ms. Thang pointed out... um...revealed--that unlike straight women, the loss of her fingers was not only a heinous crime which took away her guitar-playing career, but also adversely affected her sex life.

A Thang to be Remembered

A Backwoods Eatery With a Side of Velcro Papaw

You could call this a restaurant review. You could also call this a wart on the butt of the service-industry. Or you could just mark it off to another card-carrying harpy sinking her claws into some unsuspecting, still-warm piece of meat. Ultimately, you’ll chose one, and we can just shake our heads and move on.

The establishment in question is a little club situated in one of our many dry counties. Since it’s the only place in the area that serves liquor, the local college punks and area Bubbas turn out in force to inflict a little down-home harm.

A friend and I went there to enjoy the music of some friends of mine who are popular in the Little Rock music scene. We had no idea what sort of glorified sale-barn we were walking into.

Inside, we noticed that there were no tables directly in front of the entertainment, so we asked permission to move a table to the front. This was our first miscalculation. Moving a table obviously caused some confusion among waitresses. It became a “non-station.” We were outcasts, fooling with the order in their chaos. But we waited patiently for a waitress to appear, and after fifteen minutes, I got up and went to the bar to request some service for our table. The bartender said he’d send a waitress right over. Satisfied, I went back to my seat. The band began their first set of the evening, and we listened, alternately smiling at them and rubber-necking in search of this alleged waitress. Thirty minutes had passed, and we had neither been spoken to, nor offered anything to drink.

I got up again and asked the bartender if there was a manager on duty. He said, “A manager?” and then sort of pointed at himself, as if this was an untested idea. I told him we had been there 30 minutes, and would like to order some food and drinks, and what’s-the-matter, didn’t-he-want- our-money? He turned to one of the waitresses and said, “Hey, they’ve been here for thirty minutes and haven’t been served yet.” She nodded and said she’d be right there. It only took her another 10 minutes to make the trip. We ordered, and within another five minutes or so, we actually got our iced tea. No spoon or anything to stir the sweetener in with, but by golly, we got our tea. My friend stirred hers with a lemon wedge, and I used the tried and true jiggle-method.

Finally, the cheese dip and chips came. And remember, oh Patrons of Culinary Delights, for a mere $3.75, you too can have nuked Cheese-Whiz with water and peppers mixed in, along with stale, reheated tortilla chips. The bowl was only half full, (or was it half-empty?) and I’ll bet that was a good quarter cup of charming queso. Then our bacon cheeseburgers came, complete with that optional side of fries for an extra ninety-five cents. I counted, and that came to about eleven cents per fry. What a deal. And how delightful that they were brave enough to serve them cold. The burgers were overcooked and had that homemade charred flavor that can only be achieved by not cleaning the grill for a year. And we had to go get our ketchup and napkins from the bar. In case you think this is the end, au contraire! Insult was added to injury when we were both accosted by an elderly cowpoke whom I loving refer to as the “Velcro Papaw.”

He pulled up an uninvited chair next to me, plastered himself against my side and began his pick-up routine, no doubt perfected by decades of rehearsal, if the wrinkles on his face were any indication. He wanted to dance, and was sure that my refusal was simply my attempt at being coy. I assure you that I am a lot of things, but coy is not on the list. He continued to pummel away at my resolve, while I continued to move my chair away from him. He extolled the virtues of the VFW club: “Now THAT’S the place to be...why don’t we go there?” I told him I had to get up early for work. He said so did he, and what’s a little sleep-loss? He persisted in asking for my phone number. I told him I didn’t have a phone. Undaunted, he leaned over and offered the same deal to my friend, who graciously said “No thanks.”

He battered her with his testosterone poisoning for a few minutes, asking her for her phone number, too, until I told him, “I don’t think her husband would like that.” He said it didn’t bother him none if she was married “if you know whut I mean...” wink-wink. Then he asked me if I was married and I lied about that, too. I should have known it was not an effective way to dissuade this paragon if moral turpitude. I mean, what part of “no” did he not understand: the “N” or the “O”? I told him we were about to leave anyway, and I stood up, praying that a waitress would appear next to the table with our check. (If wishes were horses, beggars would ride). I went over to the bar to pay, and while waiting for change I glanced back at the table. The Velcro Papaw had sticker- burred himself to my friend, and all I could see was her shaking her head over and over. I got my change and returned to the table, and another cowpoke moved in for the kill. He placed his hands all over my shoulders, squeezing and rubbing and asking for a dance. I summarily removed his hand and shot him a telling glance. They returned to their own table, then, and we sat down to listen to the rest of the set.

When the set was over, the band took a break and followed us outside to say goodnight.

The next day, our musician friends told us it was fortunate that we left when we did. The crowd eventually became belligerent. Some young men collected at a table began screaming requests: “Play Fleetwood Mac.” The singer told them on the microphone that she had just done a Fleetwood Mac song, and they continued to request it, oblivious.

The repartee dissolved into crude comments to the female singer like, “Why don’t you play some George Jones or Merle Haggard...or why don’t you play with yourSELF?” I won’t even go into the other derogatory, prejudical, and slanderous comments that ensued after this.

I’m not sure what it is about the mix of uneducated, uncivilized humans and a bottle of beer, but for performing musicians and attentive audience members, the disrespect and total disregard for decency is out of control. The management of this little “supper club” and some of the clientele it draws, should be staked to a fire-ant hill and left to the devices of the food chain.

From now on, I think I’ll stick to the larger towns where talent is appreciated, and restaurants care about the quality of their food and their service.

A Backwoods Eatery With a Side of Velcro Papaw

A Likely Story

[*..found inside a newspaper, on a front step...]

It was a crisp December evening. It had been crisp all day. I was assured by the car radio that the crispness would extend into tomorrow. I decided a hot cup of java would take away the edge, so I pulled over at the first dingy cafe that came into view. As I walked inside, I noticed the lettering on the outside window: The Dingy Cafe.

I took a booth against the far wall, so that I could see the door, and anything ominous that may wander through it. The ancient waitress shuffled over and gnawed an old piece of gum while I told her to bring me a cup of coffee, fresh. She remarked that the only fresh thing in the establishment was the cook, and that didn't mean his personal hygiene. When she had gone, I pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Just then the door to the cafe opened and in walked this newspaper. He had no poly-bag on, and the rain had soaked him through. He looked as though a cup of coffee would save his life. He saw me in the corner, and came over to ask for a quarter for a cup of coffee. I told him that coffee was forty cents, and he said he'd take what he could get. He looked so alone, so bedraggled, that I asked him to join me, which he did thankfully. I motioned for the waitress to bring another cup.

Over four refills, he told me his sad story. His mother was a tabloid, and his father used to be a Field and Stream magazine, but got down on his luck and left the family high and dry when Gazette was only a Community Paper. Since that time, Gazette became a vagabond; sleeping on the steps of any who'd have him. Some folks had even taken him in to look him over, but when they tired of him, he was always thrown out to again survive on his own. He had hitched a ride with a truck driver a few hours before he had arrived at the Dingy Cafe. My heart went out to him, and that's when I thought of you. I knew you had room for a poor lonely soul like Gazette, so I gave him your address. When I told him he might end up in your fireplace, he was unabashed. He said that at least he would be warm.

At any rate, he does have stories to tell, and he's up on current events, so maybe your return for this act of kindness will be sufficient.

A Likely Story

A Moment of Chaos in my Brain

Guardian Angels and the Realm of Heaven may not be what most people believe it to be or not to be that is the question. Whether `tis nobler in the mind can play tricks on you if you let it be let it be let it be let it be, speaking words of wisdom does not come without worry and strife and many long-suffering nights of god-I'm-lonely, and I need a friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel away into the night and do something wicked and funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do, run and find the one in a million chance of a lifetime commitments can scare the hell out of you if you don't stop and smell the roses have thorns and thorns leave wounds and wounds leave scars to trouble you are so beautiful to me Tarzan you Jane, let's play jungle out there, my friend, so don't carry all your balloons and keep passing the open windows. . .

A Moment of Chaos in my Brain