Chuck and I kicked off a mini stay-cation by attending one of my favorite weekly events: Jody's Keg Party. This happens at a small West End bar, where our friend the Thespian hosts karaoke, while an uprooted bartender from the Pioneer-era sells refillable keg cups for $6. She loads these with equal parts PBR and foam when she isn't busy sharing long and involved stories with each and every person who is parked at the bar.
She has served drinks to enough career alcoholics that the new-agey phrase "over served" isn't even a blip in her personal dictionary. Chuck likes to say this about her:
"[Bartender] has killed more college kids than Chester Creek."
Chester Creek is the death trap that claims a 21-year-old reveler every few years. It's a mathematical thing that includes college student from the suburbs, plus a certain BAL, equals seeing the creek as a short cut. It's all very tragic and "Bridge to Terebithia."
There are some regulars at Jody's Keg Party. Two freshly scrubbed college girls who ignore the beer special in favor of glass after glass or red wine. I can't imagine that this wine is any good. Not at this bar. There isn't, like, a wine cellar. And I doubt there is anyone, aside from these two girls, ordering it. I bet it is from a $3 bottle of Chianti. More vinegar than liquor. Maybe even a cooking Sherry.
After a few, they will perform duets at the microphone. Horribly off-key, screeching versions of songs like "Strawberry Wine," or "Hit 'Em Up Style" by Blu Cantrell. These performances are a fraction more ear-wrenching than if they had simply wet their finger, and rolled it around the lip of the wine glass, creating sci/fi soundtracks.
Wednesday night started out really mellow. Maybe too mellow. We all watched a man in a gray sweatshirt doing a middle age boogie, a dance that required lots herky jerky movements, and lots of pointing.
Sometime after midnight, I remembered that I could break dance. I can do this move where I go into a handstand, then lower myself face first, then chest, then hips and thighs, into a semblance of "The Worm." I did this repeatedly, for a small group of friends.
Yesterday hurt. Today hurts even more. A head banging neck pain, my upper arms feel like I was hauling cinder blocks. My abs are on fire. My pelvis is probably broken. I can't move without grunting. I sound like a tennis player. I'm actually the opposite of a tennis player.
It may be time to quit break dancing. Or I might have to start break dancing every day.