Category Archives: Bar

Coffins

Thought we were kidding?
Thought we were kidding?

It’s a foggy night, you’ve been traveling and maybe your eyes are heavy. You pull off the freeway in the hope of finding a cup of coffee. After rounding a corner you find yourself in a small town. Nothing moves – even the fog seems asleep under the tungsten glow of streetlights. The sidewalks are pulled up so tight that even stray dogs feel unwelcomed. Distractions could be dangerous in a place like this, you think. You turn off the radio, grip the steering wheel a bit harder, and focus on the road  The hum of tires your only company.

Ahead a red glow pierces the night like a puddle of blood in virgin snow. Maybe you squint to bring it into

Deputy Zach bagging the bad guys.
Deputy Zach bagging the bad guys.

focus. The glow turns ominous and you fear you’ve made a wrong turn. You consider turning around and finding the freeway, but instead press forward. The light brightens in the dense fog like the eye of a demonic Cyclops. Exhaling, you convince yourself it’s just your imagination playing tricks.

Germans getting in on the fun.
Germans getting in on the fun.

What’s that? Something moved under the light. Eight legs saunter into your headlights. Is it? What the ….? Is it some sort of reptilian octopod?  Maybe you tap the brakes; maybe you punch the accelerator.  No, it’s four guys carrying a coffin. What? You slam the brakes. As if you’re not there, they slide the coffin into the back of pickup truck and close the tailgate. They wipe their hands on their pants and cross the road in front of you. Your eyes follow them under the glowing red light and into a Tavern.

What do you do?

A) Punch the gas pedal and get out of town.
B) Park your car. You found your coffee or maybe a spirit.
C) Circle around the block before parking nearby and investigating what’s in the coffin.
D) Realize you’re in rural Montana and this is par for the course.

The preceding event may or may not have happened. The participants are bound to secrecy. If you drive by our humble establishment under better lighting conditions, you can’t miss the caskets leaning against the fence. They’re like our welcome

Even coffins lose their cherry.
Even coffins lose their cherry.
Saloon girls enjoying two stiffs.
Saloon girls enjoying two stiffs.

mat. Okay, maybe we have a morbid sense of humor – or maybe they serve a more utilitarian purpose, if you know what I mean.

The real story is they came about as props for our Railroad Day Shootouts. Like a case of herpes, they showed up and never left. For locals, they’re luggage that have faded into invisibility in plain sight, until an occasional car pulls over, the occupants hop out and take turns posing for pictures in or alongside our ambassadors of the macabre. Or maybe it’s our way of saying stay awhile – until we tire of you and slide you into the back of a truck on a foggy night.

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Somethings Just Go Right…

IMG_0333b…especially when you have the taste of gold in your mouth. Especially when you’ve been planning a heist for six months and it works out better than you ever expected. No, I haven’t gone over to the dark side. I haven’t traded my soul for the riches of an arch-criminal, though some in our town believe that I am the evil personified. No, I’m talking about the stage coach robbery my gang pulled off at our little Montana town’s annual celebration.

The planning for the heist started on a bitter January night when the only sound on the dark streets was falling snow. Back then the plan was to knock off a Pullman Car. Being that Alberton is an old railroad town and the celebration is named Railroad Day, building a train to rob made sense. As things go, sometimes ideas get garbled in communication, and what is intended isn’t what is delivered.

After months of procrastination, the knot in my stomach reminded me it was time to start working out the details, especially after the guy who was suppose to build a Pullman Car had a life event and his availability went kaput. As what happens so often in my life, my wife said why don’t you call this person or why don’t you call that person. Me being me, I internalized my angst and imagined worst case scenarios for weeks before listening to her advice. Then one night I called the person who always bails me out, my Mexifriend. His real identity is under lock and key but he may or may not be the security guard in the attached video.

Mexifriend said: “Of course brother, we can build that. It would be a lot of fun.”

Pullman Coach? I think not.
Pullman Coach? I think not.

Then I did another thing out of character, I posted on the internet that I was looking for used lumber. The idea was to go rustic. New stuff wouldn’t cut it, plus, it’s just

The ad campaign's slogan is "Do the Jew."
The ad campaign’s slogan is “Do the Jew.”

too expensive, especially for someone who is known as the Mountain Jew. Don’t take offence, I don’t. It’s a family secret that I was born 1/8 Jewish but my ancestors talked me down to 1/16th. I’m so proud of my heritage that I renamed the Mountain Dew Machine in front of the bar the Mountain Jew machine. Anyway, two weeks before the big day, Mexifriend Emailed me the first pictures and my jaw hit my desk. The picture didn’t look like a frame of a Pullman Coach, it was a stage coach. Now, I’m a bit of a perfectionist and my first impulse was to call and ask what the hell was that? But I paused, counted to ten and smiled.  Truth be told, potential was written all over it and it’s a lot easier to change a script that wasn’t written than change a prop that was half built. It was the moment that changed the energy of the entire project. Instead of pointing the finger and barking about the difference between a Pullman Coach and a Stage Coach, I accepted responsibility for not being specific and went with the flow. After all, there was only about a dozen people that knew what was up our sleeve and if it was a train or a stagecoach wasn’t going to make a bit of difference to anybody but me.

Paris De Smet!
Paris De Smet!

Other things went haywire too, I ordered wrong bullets for the blank guns, but quick thinking on the vendor’s side fixed the problem and got us the right ammo with time to spare. I wasn’t so lucky with the gold and silver coins. I ordered a half-ton of bubble gum wrapped to look like loot, but as of this writing, it still hasn’t arrived. I’m thinking someone is never getting my business again, but like the stage coach we just adapted and made good with penny candy. Even the day of, one of the gunfighters overslept and didn’t make the first gunfight. Again, a slight adjustment was made to the script and we ran with it. Short of a catastrophe like Yellowstone blowing up, nothing was going to derail the project. Such was my energy. The gal who played Sally Six-Shooter commented that during the week before the gunfight I was like a kid before Christmas. It was true, I was giddy with anticipation, which is unlike me. I usually anticipate what can go wrong.  Maybe approaching my fiftieth year has made me realize that it’s time to enjoy and stop worrying about things. Like a virus, the feeling was contagious, even over on the wardrobe side my wife hit a grand slam. Such was her energy that during a meeting of the High Colonics – my writer’s group – at our house the Wednesday before the big day, Tammy roped Paris and Nancy into  dressing up and within five minutes had them convinced to play. Lucky for us, because Parris, the exorcist looking priest to the left stole the show in the second gunfight.

Playing dress-up the week before.
Playing dress-up the week before.

What happened to the plan to knock off the Pullman Car. Oh my, you’re going to have to make plans to visit little ole Alberton, Montana next July to see what we have up our collective sleeve. If it’s half as good as what I’m picturing, it’ll be worth the trip. In the mean time, enjoy the video of the Dust Puddle Gang’s stage coach caper. I promise that it’ll make you chuckle.

PS… Just in case you’re interest, here’s the link to the gunfight page on Facebook.   Swing over and give it a like and you’ll be kept up to date what’s going on with the project throughout the year.

The Cock Caper… The Barroom Chronicles, Episode 17

If you're under 18, or do not have a sense of humor please exit now.
If you’re under 18, or do not have a sense of humor please exit now.

No, this episode is not about a cockfights held in the courtyard, but it does involve a police report. No, it doesn’t end in any arrests, but it does involve an illegal activity. Yes, what we will delve into was the product of dirty minds, but it resulted in the cleanest hands our town has ever witnessed. Prepare yourself for another foray into one of the most sacred places in our seedy little barroom – The Ladies’ Room, and what happens when one or two customers go a little crazy for co…, um, CoCo for Coconuts.

Disclaimer: This Episode, like the rest of the Barroom Chronicles is designed for adults, if you are squeamish or don’t have a sense of humor please exit through the door on the left.

The idea was awesome, the execution was flawless, and all I had to do was go to an adult store to purchase the proper cock, a task which ended up being harder than I imagined, especially when my wife and I had to ask the salesgirl for a tape measure so we could get the proper girth. Her expression said she had seen it all, except this. When we explained what we were up to, she was more than willing to give a helping hand. If you haven’t figured this out yet, we were on a mission from Nate B, the designer of the best soap dispenser ever, to procure the right penis for his creation. After a half hour or so of comparisons, both size and texture were taken into consideration, a purchase was made and we walked out with a phallus which was destined to be busy during its lifetime, only we were shocked at how short of life it would have.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so in the interest of economy, please cast your eyes to the right. Genius, it was designed that when the penis was lifted soap would be dispensed through the

The genius and an admirer
The genius and an admirer

head. And it worked! The night that it was installed could have been one of the gayest events I’ve ever witnessed, seven guys standing in the women’s room playing with a cock on the wall, laughing as it dumped soap into our hands.  It worked so well that we went through a bunch of soap. In its short time in existence it was the star of many photographs taken by those passing through. Then it happened. It disappeared!

As fate would have it, I was lucky, the cock was lucky, everybody was lucky, except the original Cocksnatcher, yes, the name given to the first woman who vandalized the soap dispenser by ripping the dildo off the wall.  What follows are the highlights to my written statement included on the police report.  Names have been changed to insult and humiliate:

On Thursday night, XX/XX/12, during my shift, The Cocksnatcher stepped into the lady’s room. I noticed she spent an inordinate amount of time in the restroom, piquing my index of suspicion. When she left the restroom, I approached and took a deep breath, just in case of odiferous offenses. (Okay, this wasn’t in the report, but, hell, why not embellish a bit?)  Upon inspection, part of the soap dispenser was missing. The soap dispenser is a novelty, it’s a penis – commonly referred to as a dildo.  If confused, see attached photo… (again, another embellishment, I didn’t attach any photos, I had reason to believe the responding officer knew what a dick was, he’s a cop. right?) I immediately confronted Ms. Penisnapper about the whereabouts of the dispenser.  She said she didn’t have it.

Cut from police report narrative to the scene: I ran from the lady’s room out onto the front deck and spit fire while confronting Ms Polly the Penile-Lifter, I have to admit she did a good job holding her ground, she told me that she stuck it up her anal aperture and if I wanted it I could dig it out, to which I responded that if she’d it anywhere else it would have fell out. When your being raked across the coals, accused of larceny of the Phallic kind, there’s only so much that you can say, especially in front of a half-dozen people, including your husband.  In disgust she spit on the ground and walked away, chewing her husband’s ass as they went.  The tirade continued at least a block before they walked out of earshot.

Who will have the cleanest hands in town?
Who will have the cleanest hands in town?

What about the dildo? I can hear you asking. She had stashed it in the garbage can. So, after a call to the cock doctor, who made a special house call, the dispenser was up and running again, this time with what we thought was a better attachment.  For two more weeks, the soap dispenser was the center of attention, hell, it even survived an inordinate amount of attention from a motorcycle gang that was passing through. And then, as fate would have it, our wonderful device fell prey to a professional snatcher. On a busy Friday night, it went missing, never to be heard from again. No ransom notes, no communication, nothing. Everybody was heartbroken, and wishes, prayers and spells went out that someone would have an eternally irritated vagina. Oh, we have our suspicions, like a couple of ladies from Idaho who were staying at the Ghost Rails Inn that weekend, or the known kleptomaniac who was visiting relatives, but, unlike the first snatcher, there was no trail.  Disgusted and defeated, I waved the white flag, I gave up.

Until now! A year later, there’s a new soap dispenser in the works, and this time it’s coming with an alarm. Pull it the wrong way, and a fire alarm will ring in the bar and the humiliation will be instant. I’ve been advised that bets are already being placed on who will inherit the title Cocksnatcher of the Year 2013…  Whoever it will be, they’ll have to wait until the sash and tiara arrive, then it’s game on!

Haunted Town Update…

DSCF2914In breaking paranormal news, there has been another ghost sighting in our fair little bar! Our Friday Night Bartender has reported seeing a ghost as she was closing up shop. A second witness, Nate B., who’s mechanical ingenuity will be featured in the next edition of The Barroom Chronicles, was swamping at the time and although he did not see the ghost, he insists something freaky happened. The story goes like this:

The bartender was counting her till and Nate B. was sweeping the floor when country music played loudly for approx. 10 – 15 seconds.  The bartender ghostcemeteryturned her head in time to see an apparition walk from the side door and past the pool table before fading into obscurity. She stated that the ghost was sporting a cowboy hat and his dress was consistent with contemporary western wear. She also stated that the spotting was timed with the music. They both stated that the experience wasn’t frightening, though they said it there was a palpable eerie feeling.

Her description does not match her predecessor’s, who had spotted an apparition, at roughly the same time of night, sitting in a chair in the casino.  That ghost was also dressed in modern ‘cowboy’ wear but sported a long beard.  The details of that sighting are detailed in a previous post on this blog entitled Haunted Town. Could our ghosts be one of the cowboys visible in the smoke in the above photo? Hopefully someday we’ll find out.

Montana Rural Sneak Preview

images (10)This post could very easily be an addition to The Barroom Chronicles, except that this is a fictional story, even though the Humming images (10)

Bartender may or may not be inspired by someone who is destined to receive his own episode of the nonfiction series. The voice is James Morrison, the narrator of Cemetery Street. Montana Rural is the continuation of his story. Enjoy this sneak preview of my work in progress, Montana Rural.

By the time we reached the bed and breakfast all I wanted was sleep, but my father insisted on buying me a beer. The three of us trudged down the street and slipped inside the semi-crowded bar. We plopped ourselves around a small table and within moments we were accosted by a humming bartender with an alien tattooed on his neck. “Hmmmm…  Welcohmmmm to Boyd and Chadwick’s, where the beer’s warm and glasses are dirty, tonight’s special is if you don’t like it you can shut the fuck up! Hmmmm… What can I get you? Hmmmm?” he asked.

Diane and my father looked at each other and I tried not to laugh. I had firsthand knowledge of Reginald’s antics and until I noticed him when we walked in I never thought of subjecting my guests to his whims. When we hesitated, he said in a fairly good English accent: “Come on now mate, hurry the fuck up, I ‘ave other inmates to attend to.”

Dad and I ordered two beers and Diane ordered a Cosmopolitan.

“Hmmmm, I’ll be right back… Hmmm,” he hummed and shuffled away.

“That was rude,” she commented and then added: “He’s kind of a strange bird.”

“You can’t imagine,” I told her.  “He’s name’s Reginald and he’s a local legend. People come from miles around.”  What had me interested was what kind of drink he would whip up for Diane. I was fairly certain he had never made a Cosmopolitan before and he wouldn’t waste his time looking it up; he was known for throwing concoctions together and demanding that you finish it.

A few minutes later he returned with our round. “Hmmmm  Two Beers and a Cosmo – politan.” He somehow managed to switch accents from gay to English between syllables.

Diane looked from her drink, which almost glowed neon green, back to the bartender.  “Ummm, this isn’t a Cosmopolitan.”

“Hmmmm… What do you mean? It’s good enough to be on the cover of any magazine. If you don’t like it, take it to the compliant department.” He pointed to the front door where a Compliant Department sign hung over the doorway.  “Now if you’ll be kind enough to pay me eight dollars I won’t complain. Hmmmm”

My father handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.

“Hmmmm… Blessed plenty,” Reginald said in a southern accent before humming and shuffling off.

“Wow,” Diane said watching Reginald again switch gears attending to someone else.

“The best part is that he believes he was abducted,” I said.

“By?” My father asked.

“Aliens.”

“Wow,” Diane repeated before turning her attention to her cocktail. “I’m afraid to drink it.”

“And you thought there wasn’t any culture in the sticks.  You wouldn’t find someone like that in a city,” I said.

The both of us watched as Diane sipped her drink. “It’s not bad.” She couldn’t contain her fascination with the bartender as he bounced about.  It wasn’t long before he came back to the table to check on us: “Hmmmm… ’ow’s your drink m’lady?”

“Good, what’s in it?” Diane asked.

“You like it? Hmmmm.”

Diane nodded.

“That’s good, because it’s Alien Piss with a pinch of Spanish Fly…  Someone will be busy tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me… Hmmm” He clapped twice, pirouetted one-hundred eighty degrees and shuffled off.

I sniggered.

“He’s unreal,” Diane said half-amused, half-insulted.

When we turned in for the night, I couldn’t help burry my head under the pillows. Just in case Reginald wasn’t lying and he did spike her drink, I wasn’t sure how thick the walls were and I didn’t want to hear the results.

The Jesus Bum The Barroom Chronicles… Episode 16

imagesCAOGENV6The door swung open, nobody paid any  attention. All eyes were glued to the television and the tenth rerun of A Christmas Story.  It was Christmas night and the bar was crowded enough to put a smile on my face. Until that night, I had never worked the holiday, and being my first year at the helm, I penciled my name on the work schedule. I was pleasantly surprised both at the amount of business and the relaxed mood. I didn’t know what to expect, whatever I was expecting wasn’t the softball of a night I was enjoying. Heck, I was so naïve about Montana culture, that three years after moving here, I thought all bars were closed like in my home town. A more cynical explanation was given that by 4:00 PM Christmas afternoon most people were sick of their families and needed an escape.

Cold air swooshed through the open door and accompanied him as he walked towards the bar. His hair was wild and dirty, his face haggard and rife with stubble. Above worn boots were ragged jeans, a ripped flannel and a down vest; he wore nothing else to combat the cold winter air. In his hand was a paper bag, which he set on the bar with a thump.

Could this be The Jesus Bum?
Could this be The Jesus Bum?

“What can I get ya?” I asked.

“Do you know a Blankety Blank?”

“Nope, never heard of her,” I answered.

Cold air radiated from his frown. “How ’bout you?” he asked the patrons closest to him.

“Nope,”  was the resounding answer.

The air seemed to escape his lungs. His head suddenly seemed too heavy for his neck. When he looked back up, sadness swam across the deep pools that were his eyes. “I rode the bus to Missoula, and I walked the rest of the way. I wanted to give her this, but I dropped it and busted it.”  He slid a wolf figurine from the bag. It was a dusty ceramic that looked like it hunted the back shelves of Goodwill, quietly earning a living preying on ceramic dear and elk, until snatched from its den and dropped on some roadside. The damage wasn’t horrible, a front leg had been amputated, but the bum managed to save the dismembered leg.

A crowd started to gather.

“Do you got anything to fix it?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but his gaze shouted. His eyes pierced my recently developing bullshit detector and I had the feeling this wasn’t some ordinary run-of-the-mill drifter.

il_fullxfull.244824797“Nope,” I said before turning to the crowd. “Anyone got any epoxy at home? Any glue?”

Most either ignored me or rumbled no. Someone said yeah, let me run home and check. While we waited the bum asked, “Got a beer? Don’t got no money, but I could use one.”

On a normal night, or if I didn’t have that feeling, I would have been on the verge of saying something like I’m not a soup kitchen for drifters, but I didn’t and instead I quietly poured him a pint of draft. Maybe it was simply Christmas spirit.

Others around him again asked the lady’s name.  He repeated it, everybody shrugged. He gave the address, it was a legitimate address in town.  Time passed, people returned to their crowd or watching the movie. The bum sat quietly, sipping his beer and watching those around him. From behind a cloak of ramshackle desperation a calmness emerged. It bathed him, it gave him presence;  a serene disposition. He waited patiently speaking very little until the door opened again and our local hero walked in with epoxy.  The crowd again gathered and a committee of ceramic veterinarians went about reattaching the wolf’s amputated leg. The bum simply watched.

When the operation was finished he moved for the wolf.

“Whoa, it’s gotta set,”  the lead veterinarian said.

“It’s gettin’ late, she’s probably in bed already,” the Bum said, his calmness slipping a tad.

“Have another beer,” I said. He didn’t refuse.  As he drank he didn’t have much to say. It was obvious he didn’t relish being the center of attention. People flittered away from him and went

The Bar Nazi and the Jesus Bum enjoying the moment
The Bar Nazi and the Jesus Bum enjoying the moment

about doing their things.  Soon he was just another loner sitting at the edge of the bar.  At some point while doing what I do, he slipped out the door unnoticed. Only his empty mug sat at the end of the bar.

“That wasn’t an ordinary drifter,” I said.

“Phffft. Don’t count on it,” one person said.

“You got a lot to learn,” another commented.

“Smelled horrible,” another complained.

And so on and on the comments reigned.  Maybe it was my idealism,  for I hadn’t yet earned my doctorate  in cynicism; I had yet been exposed to the general wretchedness of humankind. That night, I felt like there was something more than met the eye.  The simple events of that Christmas night still give me hope in humankind. Every Christmas since, I’ve wondered about the Jesus Bum and thank him for the lesson.

A Saturday in November

IimagesCAUB7MP3t was a raw afternoon, the hint of cold rain in the air.  A perfect setting for a football game, hands wrapped around a cup of steaming hot chocolate, maybe spiked with a spirit, maybe topped with marshmallows. Hardly the perfect weather for an outdoor wedding. But this wasn’t an ordinary wedding, no, this one possessed a different energy; it was draped in pall of sadness,  adorned with dignity and laced with poignancy. It is and will be the inspiration for many bittersweet  smiles.

The couple approached me early summer about officiating their wedding, they set the date for the anniversary of the day they first met.  They wanted a 70’s themed wedding,  they wanted ‘Ozzy Osborne’ to officiate and they wished for a fun ceremony.   When I let my hair down, don the right glasses and wear the imagesCA4G9F3Wproper costume, I resemble a younger Ozzy.

Two weeks later, the groom was diagnosed with brain cancer and given less than a year to live.

Through his deteriorating health the couple insisted that they wanted to go through with the ceremony. Practically, it made no sense, the bride would be taking on medical debt that she wasn’t on the hook for, but, this wasn’t about practicalities, this was about spirit, about the immortality of love.

With each passing week, one wondered if there would be a wedding, despite numerous medical procedures the cancer progressed. On a personal note, I pondered how to write something that would be lighthearted and not make a mockery of the situation. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t have problem being inappropriate in the appropriate situation, but this was one line I wouldn’t cross. For weeks I fretted about the ceremony, I even lied to the bride saying that I had the ceremony written, gift wrapped and topped with a bow. The truth was I was clueless what to do. It wasn’t till the Wednesday night before the ceremony that inspiration struck. Keeping within the theme and mindful not to go over the top, the muse gifted me a story told in the titles of 70’s songs.

In the mean time, other logistical challenges arose, the venue cancelled,  so it was decided to hold the imagesCAXFVN7Wwedding at the bar.  A second problem arose, the weather, minutes before the ceremony a cold November rain set in,  it was decided in the interest of the groom to hold the ceremony inside.  The only problem, it was the fourth quarter of a tight Griz/Cat football game. In our neck of the woods, it’s the biggest college football game of the year. I’m proud of the fans who didn’t mind the interruption. Grasping the gravity of the situation, not one left, opting to stay for the ceremony.

Unable to stand for any length of time, the groom, joined by his bride, sat a buddy bar tucked against the main bar, while I sat cross-legged on the bar  and conducted the ceremony.  Below is the reading – the story told by song titles.

Dqueenborapream On, become Hot Blooded, get Saturday Night Fever and end up in Hotel California, the New Kid in Town playing That Funky Music with Fat Bottom Girls until the Levee Breaks, but Baba ORielly, One of These Nights, After The Thrill is Gone, you could be in Bad Company, listening to the Piano Man sipping Captain Jack wishing you were Kung Fu Fighting. It’s a Rock and Roll Fantasy, Rollin’ Down The Highway in a Chevy Van caught in a Bohemian Rhapsody. But when The Wheel in the Sky pokes through Smoke on the Water, The Dream Police appear and Draw the Line.

Imagine, like Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, A Blue Collar Man and a Killer Queen, a real Brick House, enjoying American Pie and Sweet Jane. Babe, she says, my Superstar, Child in Time, Take Me Home Tonight, be my Dream Weaver, Take it to the Limit.

Then You Fooled around and Fell in Love. Hush, Highway Star, ‘cause as every Whiskey Drinkin’ Woman knows, Love Hurts. After Communication Breakdown(s), my 19th Nervous Breakdown, through Good Times, Bad Times, I’ve learned to be Cruel to be Kind. Sweet Emotion, it’s Dog and Butterfly, it’s The Stairway to Heaven, but in The Long Run, We Are Family.

Easy, ‘cause All Along the Watchtower, before the Jailbreak and The Boys are back in town, Come Sail Away, Walk this Way with a Lady, sip a Tequila Sunrise and enjoy a Peaceful, Easy Feeling, and savor thesunset Best of Times.

On a Saturday in December, we’ll be gathering in the same spot, to celebrate the life of the groom.  Two days after the wedding, he entered hospice, a week later, his bride was widowed.  I get the feeling that even death doesn’t do them part.

The Barroom Chronicles… Vol 15 Freaks of a Feather

Sometimes is best to leave an event alone, allow the dust to settle, before gloating about ruffled feathers and sandy vaginas left in its wake. As the proprietor of ‘The Evil Bar’ in our tiny town, and a person who may or may not have been involved with the genesis of such a stunt, I believe the smoke has cleared enough to let the world know of such hijinks. This thought is based on the equation: Comedy = tragedy  + time.  Though there was no tragedy involved, there may have been numerous pairs of soiled underwear and/or attacked hearts, unless you take into consideration those without a sense of humor, their skipped heart beats and dirty drawers could be construed tragic.

On July  19th, 2012 at approximately eleven PM Mountain Daylight Time,  roughly an hour before Aurora, Colorado entered the cultural lexicon,  a couple of cohorts had a nasty idea for a practical joke. Of course, I couldn’t resist.  Those of you who follow this blog know about the ‘old west gunfights,’ we hold during Railroad Days, our little town’s yearly celebration. The night in question, we were walking through the scenarios for the following Saturday.

Krash Montana… Also known as Number 1

“Hey,” Cohort #1 said, “I have an idea.”

I should have known it was a bad deal.

Cohort #’s 2 and 3 said the idea rocked. “Let’s do it.”

I wasn’t at the ‘other bar’ to witness the event. But, I’ve heard the story enough, it goes like this:

Cohort #3 walked into the other bar and said there was a bunch of drama up at ‘The Evil Bar.’  Cohorts 1 and 2 were arguing about money that 2 owed 1. Being that both 1 worked for 2 and as someone said later, 2 owed a few people money, made the premise believable. A few minutes later 1 and 2 appeared in front of the other bar in the midst of a heated argument.

Now, Number 1 is an actor. He has the ability to get into a role and make it work. Outside of Al Pacino, I’ve never seen a better Tony Montana. Being gangster isn’t a stretch.

Number 2 is a loveable giant. Everybody in town adores him and he can possibly be the kindest person alive. Not to mention he can cook up a storm. So imagine the scene when 1 called out 2 in front of a small crowd of people who have drank with 2 since Camden was a prairie. Then he has the audacity to pull out a replica revolver and fires a shot into 2’s chest. Number 2 did his part and fell back against the outside wall. People scattered, the manager came unglued and the bartender, who happened to be walking by, allegedly peed her pants.

Meanwhile, those of us left behind at the ‘Evil Bar,’ were listening for two shots. Like Number 1 demonstrated before leaving, holding the revolver gangsta style while saying: “Pop, Pop.”

We giggled like kids hearing the first shot, imagining the mayhem. “Hey,” someone asked. “Where’s the second shot?”

The simple answer, things never go as planned. After the initial shock and awe, Number 2 had to jump up and proclaim “It’s just a joke!”  The manager, a mellow 50 something gal, instantly turned into a grizzly bear and allegedly read the riot act in numerous languages, leaving the three Cohorts pleading their case why they shouldn’t be eighty-sixed.

“What’s going on?” I asked a regular who had tagged along to witness.

“Oh man, it didn’t go good.”

“What happened? Where was the second shot?” I asked, panicked. I imagined 1 getting the tar beat out of him.

What I thought may have happened.

“Nothing that bad,” the witness said. “1 and 2 are buying rounds to make it good.”

It would be an hour before the three amigos returned. “So?” I asked.

“They called us freaks and told us to go back and drink with the rest of the freaks,” Number 1 reported. The comment confirmed my suspicion that freaks of a feather really do drink together.

A Democrat, A Republican, and a Libertarian are sitting in a bar… The Barroom Chronicles Episode 14

With the political season ramping up, I thought it appropriate to offer a barroom perspective of the American political parties in barroom lingo:

A broke drunk walks into a bar and tries to bum a drink. The Democrat commissions a study and decides a social program should pay for it. The Republican commissions a different study and decides vouchers are in order, or he’ll buy it if he can get a tax deduction. The Libertarian says leave me alone and go ask a charity. After suffering DT’s , the drunk is now an AA counselor.
There you go, short and concise, and so simple that even a politician can understand.

Just because I’m an equal opportunity offender. I offer shots of our leaders if they spend a night in my little bar.

Libertarians behind closed doors.
Dubbya after my double-speak
A summit of world leaders in Alberton.

July has been a Crazy Place

True love: notice the blonde has better aim.

As you may have noticed that I haven’t posted much in July, that’s because I’ve been busier than a shithouse rat scoping out a port-a-potty convention. Between planning two gunfights for Railroad day, Railroad day itself, writing a wedding ceremony, performing a wedding ceremony and taking two long hikes – one planned and the other the result of a vehicular breakdown, I’ve been to pooped to pop when it comes to blogging.

That’s the bad news, the good news is that I have plenty of new material. In the next couple of weeks I’ll be posting about the crazy events of July, including a new barroom chronicle of a practical joke that a bunch of humorless people didn’t find funny and despite the news from Colorado, I still find myself laughing at. Those kind of stunts make me glad I live where I live.

Thanks for being patient and I’ve hope you’ve enjoyed July as much as I have.