so tonight was 'experimental tuesday' at the blue crab.
'can you actually eat crabs there?" jcrew asked, when i tried to coax her to go.
'you can probably get crabs there,' i said. [three's company theme song ensues to representing double entrendre.]
the thing with the blue crab is that it used to be a west end bar that closed at 1 a.m., let you take a to-go bloody mary, and was called 'the midway.' now it is a bar in the same location, that has a host of regulars who want to watch tv land, drink mich golden lite and segue into some cribbage. they don't want to watch some woman in mom jeans have hot flashes all over a cello. and they definitley expressed this to the 21 year old florence henderson lookalike who was bouncing at the door.
"what are you, like 120 pounds?" i asked dave mehling, who is unfortunately performing friday night at the twins bar while a lot of people will be at luce. luckily, he's bouncing at the main club thursday if you really want to see him. and you should. he's one of those young smarties who make you wish you read in high school.
"130," he said and went on to talk a lot about testosterone build up and how it makes you want to punch assholes who refuse to pay a cover at their neighborhood bar.
"i always come here," the guy said. "i never have to pay a cover. i didn't even know there was a band?"
his friends heckled him from the street: "so you go to a strip club and the girls are ugly ... do you ask for a refund?"
inside, things were remarkable. after i've decided whether or not i like something i like to give it jcrew treatment. would my favorite friend like it? or would she die laughing in the ladies room, cavorting and snorting, and demand we move on to curly's? here, the latter rings true. lights reflecting blue and red and shadows. everyone in the first three rows has their head bowed reverantly. it's like a prayer vigil or a coma. they are too similar.
"blah blah blah whales humping," chuck's fannie says. "remind me of that phrase [for when i write about this.]"
me? i'm thinking of musical interludes between depeche mode songs. i don't not like it. i do wonder if, based on the bobbing heads and dull-eyed fans, i'm going to wake up with a desire to sell amway or march in a scientology parade. this music should come out of a machine sold by sharper image. but it is very relaxing. and it's makers are pretty passionate. i feel my own face going slack and move out of the first row just as a line of drool snakes down the front of my shirt.
i like to start the night with this statement to my bartender: hi. i plan to drink too much tonight. is it okay for me to leave my car in your parking lot over night?
on this occasion she says yes. encourages me to drink until my liver slides out of my left pant leg. we get a ride home from some guy in a minivan, who i assume is sober. we take corners on two wheels. i'm clutching chuck, his pants are as filled as with shit as they could be if he actally soiled himself but didn't. we skim his block, but our ride drives six more out of the way.
"we could have gotten out there," terrified chuck says pointing.
"i feel like starbuck," i reference battlestar galactica. "the further away from earth, the bigger headache i get."
we get home safely with four days and one brunch to go of my favorite duluth holiday.
"i feel like i'm a drunk on buggs bunny," chuck said. he has the hiccups.