owl and bear

Last night, I went to the open mic night at the Downtown Tavern, an itty-bitty bar with a rad patio, and since it was warm (first time in what seems like months), they held the event outside.

I didn’t plan on becoming totally drunk; I was just going to have a few beers with McCaskill and see who else came around, but I got bored sitting at home by myself (total loserdom probably creates more alcoholics than anything else), so I went to Barley’s (another, larger bar with a $1 pint happy hour), drank four beers and ate a slice of pizza in an attempt to balance out the alcohol.

It worked somewhat, so when I headed to the Tavern (about a five minutes away), there was only a slight list in my step, and my driving was exceptionally competent. I was concerned about getting pulled over, but for another reason: McCaskill had made me a sticker that says GLORIOUS MOTHERFUCKER in big fat black caps, and I’ve been sweating the cops ever since I affixed it to my car. But hey, I am a glorious motherfucker, so I don’t feel too bad about it, and once the cops get to know me, I’m sure that they’ll agree.

I made it to the Tavern, no sweat, and I’m the only person in the place. Nothing really drives home loneliness like being the only person in a bar. To dull the pain, I had a Flying Dog beer and then switched to Guinness for a lark. A few minutes later, there were enough people to make me feel alright, but by then I was obliterated and conversing with an Episcopalian…Minister? Priest? Fuck it, I never got around to asking him.

Tha Father was there to play with a brass band from a local college (my Alma Mater), and soon, I was telling him all my troubles. He took this like a trooper, I guess being a man of God and all, so after some interesting philosophizing, I realized that I’d had been saying “fuck” a lot. A whole fucking lot. But he was cursing too, drinking Guinness and unbothered that I’m nonreligious, just like I was unbothered that that he was.

Guinness, it turns out, and not death, is the great equalizer. I told him that I would give his band a lot of support. And I drank some more. Then McCaskill showed up, and it was time to go outside. A sensitive guy with an acoustic guitar was singing a rollicking song about burning books. I wasn’t sure if he was pro or con, but (after drinking some more) by the end of the song, I was down for whatever. So when someone shouted “Burn books!,” I shouted “Hell yeah,” threw up my hands, and took up the cry.

Apparently (who knew?) some people have no appreciation of irony, and I received some dirty looks—but nothing compared to what followed. The Brass band came up eventually to a smattering of applause, but I thought they deserved more, so I began to scream, “Come On! Shit! Give it up for the Goddamn brass band, you pussies!” Yes, thank you, I am awesome. They played a waltz, but what I thought was really needed was a brass band version of “Wang, Dang, Sweet Poontang”, so I opined as much. Then again, perhaps I didn’t so much opine it as belligerently holler it, but I suppose that’s open to interpretation. Unfortunately, the brass band did not feel that this was necessary, and they played the Liberty Belle march, otherwise known as the theme song for Monty Python’s Flying Circus (thanks Katie), at the beginning of which I screamed, “What is this, the fucking three stooges?”

So, no one’s perfect. Then I drank some more. The guy running open mic night got up to play a song with the last guy and ended up taking requests. My constant demands for “Wang, Dang, Sweet Poontang” or “Fucking anything by the ‘Nuge!” went unheeded, but he did break out a righteous version of “Hungry Like the Wolf”, with which I unashamedly sang along.

Then, I drank some more. I was asked to return for open mic night the following week, even though I don’t perform. Or at least, I don’t intend to—in the conventional sense. Perhaps this heckling thing could turn into a paying gig.

Glorious Motherfucker, Signing off.