Greg’s Shaved Head, The River of Whiskey, and the Red Back

Greg was tending an almost empty bar again. That’s generally what he’s up to at 7pm on a Saturday night. We’re frequently the only people there. Last night this was again the case, with the exception of a few other people who were barely drinking, scattered throughout the bar. Greg had gotten loaded the previous evening and had shaved his head. He was still hung over, and getting drunk again behind the bar. That’s always good for me and my wife. I sat down and ordered a double of Bushmill’s. My wife got some sort of elaborate martini. Greg started us up on free shots. In the course of about three hours, I drank my double of Bushmill’s, a double of Knob Creek, numerous shots of Glenlivet and Chivas, and two beers. Greg has got awesome taste in music, and together we all kept the jukebox jumping. Greg is half-Philipino and half-Irish. He calls himself a McFlip. As I was beginning to glow, and really get a good buzz going, I noticed just how red the Lava Lounge is. Very red, and it reminded me of the married couple we’d slept with a few short years ago, and the woman with the red back. I remembered that as the woman got more excited and closer to climax that her back turned brighter red. It was incredible to watch. That memory was filling my head beautifully, and the whiskey buzz was on its way up. Then a giant pack of frat boys and their bitchy women came through on a bar crawl, interrupting my brief intermission and dragging me back into the bar. They all ordered Miller Lite, like they were members of a death cult. Jim Jones would have smiled. We endured it. Greg scrambled to accommodate. There was one jackass who looked exactly like Lance Armstrong, only a bit more muscular. He was probably about my height, but with a good 20 pounds of additional lean muscle. Not a guy to fuck with. He sat down beside me to order a drink for himself and another for his girlfriend. In an effort to be friendly and cordial, I said, “Hey man, you look just like Lance Armstrong. I bet you get that a lot.” He replied, “Who’s that?” while leaning forward on the bar and kind of flexing a little in what appeared to be an effort to intimidate me. I explained who Lance Armstrong was, and he didn’t seem to care. I guess he had figured out that I wasn’t trying to start a fight, and beyond that point he wasn’t interested. Like a swarm of locusts, they eventually moved on, and left their beers all strewn about the place like bodies on a battlefield. Lance Armstrong’s meathead look-a-like went with them. I gathered up all the empties for Greg, in a modest attempt to repay him for all the free whiskey in my belly. Eventually we left for dinner, and I poured more beer down with it.

Same Ponytail

I bought a magazine. It had Nick Cave on the front, and short interviews featuring Lemmy Kilmister, Lou Reed, and Leonard Cohen. I couldn’t pass that up, too many cool people. I don’t write half as well as any one of those guys, but I like to try. There was also a free CD attached. It contained nothing that interested me, and probably constituted a reasonable portion of the $10 price of the magazine. But…fuck it. I’m stupid and impulsive. The cashier at the register was beautiful. She was probably in her early 20s. She appeared to be one of those punker girls who is going for the ironic 1950s housewife look. Horn-rimmed glasses sat atop her nose. Short bangs fell upon her forehead, with a ponytail in the back sticking up. A very conservative and concealing dress hung over her. Bright red lipstick framed a giant Cheshire cat smile. She was an abso-fucking-lutely stunning girl, with all kinds of cool tattoos peaking out from underneath her clothes. She told me the total. I gave her my credit card. The signature on back was almost completely worn off, so she asked for a photo ID. I produced my driver’s license quickly and handed it to her. She smiled again, looked at it and back at me. I smiled back and said, “Same ponytail.” At which point she laughed out loud, covering her mouth demurely, and replied, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Then I said, “Yeah, if I ever get a haircut, I’ll be fucked. Never be able to use that credit card again.” And smiled. She laughed again, and said, “Oh, no!” with a gentle sort of amused faux-sympathy. I wished her a good night, and she returned the well-wishing with a big smile. I’ll probably never read the magazine.

Big Baby

There is one particular bookstore at the end of the Southside that my wife and I frequent for its bathrooms. It’s a great place to relieve yourself on a Saturday afternoon or early evening. Yesterday, I was in the men’s room in a stall. Things were going well, in a normal and predictable turn of events. Then I heard the door open. Two people entered. One was silent and the other was obviously a child. The child was dancing around anxiously and whining. At this point I realized that there were only two stalls. I was in one, and the other was out of order. The kid probably had to shit and was waiting for my stall to open. I tried my best to accelerate things, moving as quickly as possible. If I’m ever the cause of some little kid shitting his pants, I’ll have to go home and hang myself with piano wire, like a war criminal. He started really whimpering, and I restrained myself from apologizing and coaching the kid. “Sorry kid. I’m hurrying. It’ll just be a second. I’ll be right out. Hang in there!” I finished everything reasonably well, flushed and got out. The door opened and I could see the kid and his silent escort. They were two little black kids. The small, whimpering one was about four or five. His silent escort appeared to be his older brother, who was about ten. They went into the stall as quickly as I had exited. While I was washing my hands, I heard them talking and struggling to get situated. They neglected to close the door. The older kid said, “There you go, big baby!” I dried my hands, smiled, left, and thought about giving my little brother a call.

Haircut

I got a haircut today. I donated eight inches of hair to Locks of Love. The girl sat me in the chair, pulled my hair back into a tail and said, “Oh, look. I can take a good eight inches!” and I wanted so badly to make a terrible and hilarious comment, but I didn’t want to get stabbed in the face with the scissors. There was also a part of me that was scared that she might call my bluff, and then she’d discover that I didn’t have eight inches to give. Beyond all of that, I wanted to be able to come back and get another haircut in two years. So I didn’t say anything. She took eight inches of hair, and I’ve still got sufficient length to wear the remainder in a ponytail. It’s convenient that way. I don’t have time in my life for high maintenance hairstyles, or anything that will require a haircut more often that once every two years. I donate my hair, not because I’m nice, but because it’s a free haircut once every two years. This is the second time I’ve donated my hair. It’s always a remarkable feeling, getting all that hair removed. It’s a relief, kind of like a big bowel movement. It feels good, and for a while it allows me to believe that I don’t look like a caveman.

An Open Letter

It’s a mistake that we forgive the ignorant beliefs of the elderly. The excuse that they are a product of a different time is a poor one at best. There’s no excuse for bigotry. It doesn’t matter how educated or uneducated they might be. It doesn’t matter what historic catastrophe they’ve endured or how many years of manual labor they’ve contributed to humanity. Ethnic hatred is a crown exclusively for living, breathing pieces of shit. It doesn’t matter where they’re from.

I’m glad you’re 85. You will be dead soon, and the world will be a better, cleaner, more beautiful place in your absence.