A new bar, a likely ass burger girl, an old bar, a couple of old friends.
So a week or so ago I decided to try out this new bar. Now, when I say “new” I mean brand spanking new. There didn't use to be a bar there at all, and they gutted the place and built it into a bar called... Somebody's Sports Bar? I don't know, I think it starts with an S. Not really a memorable name.
At any rate, it was a pretty big bar, and pretty crowded. Impressive, as it was in the middle of the week and there wasn't any music or anything, just a ball game on the TV. The only noise was from people, and you almost had to yell to be heard. I sat down at the only empty stool on the bar, next to a not bad looking woman with glasses. She seemed to be with two other women sitting on the other side of her.
I couldn't get eye contact with the woman with the glasses; she seemed to be paying studious attention to the other two women, while not saying anything. The sign said Moosehead for two and a quarter so I got a Moosehead. I hadn't taken two sips when my phone rang.
I answered it; it was my oldest daughter. I walked around where it wasn't quite so noisy, talked for a few minutes, and went back to the bar. My beer was almost finished, and geeklady was holding an empty beer bottle, still avoiding my gaze, sitting back to where I couldn't casually glance over at her.
The fellow on my left finishes his drink and the bartender hands him another one. “I must be invisible!” the woman exclaims. The bartender points to my almost empty beer, and I hold up two fingers. I pay for the two beers and hand one to the invisible woman. She smiles. “Thank you.”
I tried until the end of the beer to get her to converse, and finally gave up and went home.
So, Mike calls Saturday, “come on down and help eat this pig.”
Speaking of pig, on the way down I saw Evil-X in her PT Cruiser. Happy Anniversary, whore.
So anyway, back to the pork.
This was no ordinary pig. This pig was a man-eater, who had bitten Mike and both his sons. I guess the grill was Mike's revenge, sure was a tasty piece of meat. By the time we finished eating it, mike was passed out in his chair.
Mike likes beer. I didn't mind too much, a former neighbor was playing at Dempsey's and I wanted to get back to town. Mike's wife asked me to come back next week to set up their new computer. I'd probably be there anyway, as I've been driving down there every week as it was.
Back in Springfield and it's still only eleven. I drive to Dempseys and go in. The band is on break, the building is crowded, and Mary and Kristin are tending bar.
Mary is the owner's mother. “Hi!” she says, recognizing me. “Boy, this sure is a great band!” she exclaims in wide eyed awe. She's right, they are good. Ed, the singer, used to be a union carpenter, but finally quit pounding nails because he was making a lot more money singing. They don't have a web site or a CD, they just play gigs, and pack them.
I tell Mary yeah, they are, and tell her I've known Ed for a few years. “We're, uh, out of Rolling Rock,” she says. “Well, there's some back there but it's warm.”
“Well hell” I say. “How about a Busch?”
She opens the cooler, and a crestfallen look goes in her face. “Uh, we don't have that either.”
I was speechless. I must have stood there slack jawed.
“How about a St. Pauly Girl?” she asks. She only charges me for a Rolling Rock, and I find a chair. Ed walks past and sees me, and stops and chats for a couple of minutes before going on stage.
There are some seriously unattractive women in Dempsey's tonight. Packed as it is, there are no really good looking women. I finish my beer and go up to the bar for another.
Kristin charges me for a St. Pauly Girl. I don't tip her tonight. Instead, I drink it and walk down to The Firehouse, where Posamist is playing. Disappointingly, they redid their page, so its index is no longer a picture of Allie's ass. My guess is that this probably has something to do with the fact that Allie works at Dempsey's, and Posamist is now the house band for Boone's Saloon.
And Joe and Ryer had some sort of falling out. Ryer would only say it was “artistic differences”. At any rate, I haven't seen Joe at Dempsey's since then, either playing or drinking.
I get a Rolling Rock and listen to the music. The Firehouse isn't quite as packed as Dempsey's, but it's bigger. And there are, happily, very good looking women there.
And sadly, none seemed the least bit interested in me. As usual.