Those are he best kind, right?
So, I’m pretty much a tamed lion at this point. I’ve got the wife, 2.5 kids, and a picket fence around my yard. That being said, I still have rituals that represent remnants of my life as a free-range lion when I used to strut around stalking gazelles and bowing up to other lions. One of those rituals is St. Patrick’s Day.
For the past 9 or so years I’ve went with my best friend to a bar on St. Patrick’s Day and we’ve drank until our faces were contorted into waxy remnants of their usual selves. Then I would wake up the next morning as late as usual with an extreme headache and vomiting for the better half of the morning. Luckily, I have outgrown binge drinking but the ritual still remains.
This year I thought it would be different, however. I thought I would just stay home, maybe grab a bottle of Guinness and maybe sip on it slowly recalling days of yore. That was until the phone call came. My friend calls and says, “It’s St. Patrick’s Day, we have to go out.” I try to give a mild excuse but he isn’t having it. He’s an alcoholic and for alcoholics (and us in our early 20s), St. Patrick’s Day is like the Superbowl.
The problem is that we live quite far apart, but we make a compromise, use Google maps, and find some random bar to meet at. I drive 30 minutes from work and get there to find that the place has apparently been shut down. Which is probably good considering it looks like some kind of shady front for a strip club. We then decide to follow google maps to the nearest bar which is titled “Bikini Wing Bar”. Now I’m not sure if the waitresses wear bikinis and serve wings but I would like to think so. The only problem is that when we get there, its been slightly altered…into a pet shop. Now I’m all for puppies and goldfish but they aren’t going to help me today.
This is when I get the great idea to just turn right on the next major street and stop at the first bar I see. In case you are not aware, I live in Texas. While I do live in a major city (Houston), I am far northwest of what you would consider city and so this is a really dicey move.
So there she is on the right, “BFE Rock Club”. Aptly names for location and choice of clientele. We walk in to “just grab a beer” and there are three tatted bikers inside blocking our entrance. Now these aren’t big muscly and intimidating bikers (at least not to me). These are late 50s, I used to be a badass biker, type of guys. Having been around a great deal of bikers in my early life, I was comfortable. That was until they told me that I had to pay 15 dollars to get in. I tried to convince my friend that we should just go somewhere else but he offered to pay the cover and that was that.
That is when this great piece of dialog happened:
Biker: “You guys came on a good night.”
Me: “Oh yeah, why’s that.”
Biker: “Have you ever heard the song that goes, ‘Baby give me some beer, and some money, and I’ll ride you all night long.”
Me: “Not sure…that I have.”
Biker: “Well, its nationally known. The band here tonight wrote it. They’re called Psycho Stick”
So there we are. I am now drinking at bar run by old bikers to a band named Psycho Stick. But it gets better.
So as I walk in I look to the right and notice a giant stage with a 30 foot demon standing in the background, his skeletal wings draped across the entire wall. This should have been an indication that shit was about to get weird. But I’ve seen some things in my day and sometimes I am just desensitized to weirdness.
Next, we go up to the bar and there are some remarkably clean cut college age bartenders working. They tell me that they do not serve beer normally but I’m in luck because they ordered a keg for this occasion. One keg. For an entire crowded “club”. I go ahead and decide to get a beer while it was still in supply and low and behold they color it green. The only issue is that they bought several cases of green food coloring and they were pouring like half a bottle of green syrup into my 12 oz beer. I don’t think I need to tell you what my toilet bowl looked like that following day.
Now I’m feeling better and drinking a bit (an Irish Car Bomb was also had) when the first band come on. Chaos Sauce. Now, to their credit they were definitely at the right venue, but they were also only about 18 and their base player, a 5 foot girl could barely hold the bass and had an even lower aptitude for playing it. After about 20 minutes of screaming, that ordeal was over. The next band Abandon the Oath was actually not too bad and I was feeling okay when this older woman comes up next to me in what I can only describe as a greatly distressed spandex outfit with a see-through top. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be see-through or if the material integrity was just stretched so far that it opened up the fabric in space-time and created an optical illusion. Either way, it was less than desirable. So she starts hitting on me a bit and I’m trying really hard to be polite and ignore her at the same time. You know the move.
Then her boyfriend, who looks like a hispanic realistic interpretation of Joe Cool comes by the bar and starts eyeballing me. As soon as this happens my phone rings and it’s a really strange number. I answer and guess who it is. My father in law. He’s just had a heart attack, he’s in Singapore, and he can’t reach my wife. Have you ever tried to talk on the phone at a death metal concert with a seahag and her hebeast chatting you up? It’s not easy.
Finally I get enough sense to walk outside and finish the conversation and then promptly make my exit. I feel kind of bad because I told my friend very hurriedly that I was leaving, but on the other hand I wanted to get the hell out of there. I get home and get a text from my friend “That was awesome. We need to go back to that place again!” Not on your life pal. Not on your life.