Tonight I was knocking down a few glasses of my new favorite cabernet. My good friend Joe G turned me on to a bottle I had never tried before. I had always thought that cheap wine was terrible wine, but apparently I was misinformed. As it turns out, this new bottle is a very fine tasting Cab and only costs $7. Seven dollars for a good bottle of wine? All I can say is what the fuck? But It is true and I would attest to this under oath whilst swearing on a stack of AA Grapevine magazines. Mondavi CK Cabernet for all of those that are still paying attention. I apologize for the side track.
Whilst I nodded gently napping, I recalled an event so tumultuous during my young life, that I had to remind my wife of the whole miss mashed mess. She was not all that entertained, so I’ve decided to release the story to the wondering world. That would be whoever has put down their racing form and is still paying attention.
I was in a bar fight.
The only bar fight that I have ever been in, but I do need to document it before I forget about it and all my progeny think that I am and have always been a pussy. I relay it to you all and to future generations to prove to you that all is not as it seems.
One night, about 48 year ago, I was playing in a band at a local establishment named The American Hotel. The joint was a meeting place for the misplaced misanthropes of my home town and was renowned for housing old drunks with a social security check and an appetite for cheap booze and rowdy encounters.
That particular evening, I showed up in the late afternoon with the PA system to do an early setup for our band, which was to play that evening. An interesting side story is that I was pretty much the only guy in the band that had two shekels to rub together, and as such was the owner of the PA systems for the band. I can tell you that owning a PA system is both a blessing and a curse. Everybody wants to play with you, but you are stuck hauling this shit around in the back of your old Chevelle, setting it up by yourself, and storing all of that shit at your crappy one bedroom apartment when not in use.
So there was I, setting up the PA system and microphones for the big gig that evening, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but Jeff Klingbiel, one of the wise guys from my old neighborhood. He was drunker than a mother fucker and commenced to engage me in a gibberish conversation. I guess I offended him somehow, because the next thing I knew, he hauled back and threw a haymaker in my direction. I ducked the swing and Jeff spun around and landed ass first on the floor. The bar broke into some sort of melee and the bartender called 911, or launched a flare gun, or had some sort of direct line to the police station. Next thing I knew, the police were storming the building. My good high school buddy and current police officer, Neil Luck (RIP) spotted me from across the bar. He quickly grabbed my arm and advised me to get the fuck out of Dodge before I got hauled off to the drunk tank. That’s pretty much all I remember from that night other than maybe a few verses of Gimme Two Steps and maybe the chorus of Dead Flowers.
So what is the lesson from this tale of woe? What did I learn if anything? And what can be relayed to the generations to come about life, love, and laughter? Honestly, I wish that I knew. Maybe the lesson is choose your friends carefully and hold them close to your chest, lest you befall a fate from which there is no recovery. I’m pretty sure that I survived that night by the pure luck of the Irish, which is something that I only recently discovered – that I’m about half Irish DNA wise. So drink up and toast your nuptials before someone else toasts them for you.
Wow! So many obscure references: Chevelles, E.A. Poe, The Grapevine, Jeff Klingbiel, shekels, Neil Luck (I didn’t know that he was RIP sadly), The American Hotel (Barb McKinley’s dad owned it, RIP to both of them), and last but not least, ‘get out of Dodge’
Great post. Glad I never set foot in the American Hotel (that I can remember)