Small town Saturday night

In the city, I've sometimes been known to go to a bar by myself. I usually don't have any problem sitting solo at the bar, having a drink. But going out in a small town is a difficult thing to do by yourself. Even me, who grew up here, it's a tough thing. My reason is probably silly, but it's that first time you walk in the door. The natives instantly sense a stranger in their territory, there's a malfunction in the natural order of their evening. Record scratch, bar falls silent, everyone turns to look at you. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating (but not MUCH!), but I've always felt really self-conscious. So, my little bro came in town last night, and we went out on the small town. :) Warning: This blog posting is rated PG-13, for singing, explosives, stalking, and some lewd language.

First stop, a bar about 15 miles away that we had heard had karaoke on Saturday nights. The town where this bar is located has about 300 people. And, when I asked my brother (we all call him Boo) about the quality of the song book, Boo told me he didn't think there was going to be much selection, as it was just one of those party karaoke machines. So, as you might expect, I had very low expectations. BUT! When we get there, 'everyone' (by this, I mean 'all 15 people') is out in the beer garden outside the bar. Boo and I hook it up with a couple of cans of $2 beer, from a bartendress who needs a good bra like drag queens need Nair. Holy cantaloupes, honey, HIKE 'EM UP! We're there for about 10 minutes, when the karaoke guy starts setting up - outside! With stuff that's very similar to what my dear Clarette has, only the book is much, much, much less exciting, sadly. But, I mustered up some gumption and busted out some Pat Benetar's We Belong. This is not the best part. As I get to the chorus, about halfway through, "We belong to the night, we belong to the thu-u-under!"

Fireworks. Literally.

No lie, someone who lives about two blocks away from the bar started shooting off big, cascading fireworks JUST as I got to 'the thunder'!! When I walked off the stage, I feel incredibly confident that a) I rocked the bejeezus outta that song, and b) it was probably one of the most amazing karaoke experiences of my life. (photographic evidence is forthcoming)

THEN, Boo and I decided that we were gonna end on a high note and head to a bar in Milan. Another round of $2 beers (this time in bottles, Boo was drinking Busch light. In a bottle.), and I run into my cousin (who has always reminded me of Alan Jackson) and one of his drinkin' buddies. In the course of the evening, the conversations we had included topics like drinking, motorcycles, bulldozer and construction work, the dude who shaved his head and got a mohawk just to spite his wife, the crazy drunk chick hitting on a married guy, a cheers to 7/7/07 ... and the young'un who was stalking me around the bar. Bless his heart, he was very sweet ...

I'm standing there talking to my cousin (Marty) and his friend (Steve) and this tall, skinny, hammered dude comes up and starts complimenting me. I always try to be gracious, so I said I liked his hat, which was a Cardinals baseball cap. Which only seems to light his fire even more, to the point of my uber-embarrassment. My cousin, seeing my dismay, turns to the dude and says, 'Listen. F@ck off. If she wants to talk to you, she'll come and find you.' And even though Marty isn't the biggest dude, when he starts preachin' the law, most people feel inclined to be a believer. So, this guy left. But for the rest of the evening, he was never far away, and every time Marty'd go to get another beer, dude would sidle up to him and say, 'Hey, I'm just waiting for you to tell me it's okay to talk to her.' Marty's responses - each different and every bit as colorful as the first, as you can surely imagine.

Ah, it was a good evening. And now that I've been re-introduced into the local scene - although not completely reinstated yet - I will most definitely be doing it again, whether my brother's with me or not.

The only problem with nights like this: the 5:30 alarm clock to go work cattle. Which is very close to the textbook definition of misery. Somebody get me an ibuprofen and a bloody Mary.