So I turned 44 a couple weeks ago, and never in all those years have I ever heard this particular phrase; “I call you — you give me number”I SATISFY YOU. It’s okay; I’ll give you a moment to digest this. I’m absolutely certain you can only hear an offer like this at “The Brig”, which is our local neighborhood hangout; in layman’s terms, it’s a dive bar. It’s the kind of place that opens at 6:30 a.m. and closes around 2:00 a.m., but only because the law says they have to. And there really are cars and pickups and motorcycles planted in the parking lot at the crack of dawn, and still there when they sweep up the last cigarette butt.
But back to that proposal — it was, well, weird. Weird, strange, and funny all at once. I kept saying that I didn’t give out my phone number, but what I really wanted to tell this guy was that he could just find it on the bathroom wall. In any event, this offer was given to me by a very nice, but very drunk gentleman from Rhodesia, who was visiting the bar with a couple other friends. It turns out they were all substitute elementary teachers, who were hankering for some late night Saturday dance moves. Cinderella and I, as usual, were more than willing to oblige. We enjoy The Brig, not only for the atmosphere, but also for their vivacious and personable band known as “The Real Deal”. They’re comprised of a drummer with cornrow braids and beads, a guitarist with a very strange instrument (hey, get your mind out of the gutter), and a fabulous bass player who sings his heart out. Not to mention, gives Cinderella lovely foot massages and has a sexy bald head. They play absolutely everything under the sun, and have been known to take even the silliest requests such as “Brick House”, “Fast As You”, and “I Got My Hash Pipe” — my sister Jill’s personal favorite tune. Unfortunately, Flaming Ass Girl wasn’t there to participate in our boogie-woogie, disco-down, air-guitar moves. Boy, it sure was tough trying to have fun without her, but we somehow managed. Must have been the cocktails — or the pool playing — or the suave, debonair pickup lines.
And then, there are The Brig regulars. At a place like that, you MUST have some regulars. Apparently, they only show up on Friday nights, because not a single one of them could be found seated atop any barstool that particular Saturday. And the frightening thing was that we actually missed them. Yes, we missed the tall brunette with the shortest skirts this side of the Rockies, who seems to be stuck in 1985. She likes leather minis and fishnet gloves, and works her hips like there’s no tomorrow. And then there’s the “pirate” — ah yes, the pirate. He favors leather chaps, boots, a kerchief on his head, and a big gold earring. ARRRGHH. The very first time we saw him, we didn’t actually see him, as we did SMELL him. Boy, this guy is the ultimate poster child for Right Guard Extra-Strength. Whew, it was like that little cloud floating around Pig-Pen, but about a million times uglier. Plus, he has this suggestively bizarre way of dancing with his arms crossed, over his crotch, that’s really not fit to print. Hey, this is a PG13 blog. I’m not quite sure what look he’s going for, but I think it’s a cross between Johnny Depp in “Pirates of the Caribbean”, and “Captain Hook”. It’s an image, go with it. But no matter how strange or normal the crowd, we gals always seem to have a glorious time. We enjoy the funky bunch, the consistently creative band, and the bouncer with the most fabulous mullet since David Spade hit the big screen as “Joe Dirt”. I think everyone should have a place to call their own, like “Cheers”. We all need a welcoming environment, whether it be a place of worship, a place of beauty, or just a place to be ourselves. At the end of the day, don’t we all just want to be accepted? Don’t we all just want to be loved? I think we all do. And hey, if it takes a pair of Sharon Stone stiletto heels, or the mustached sneer of Captain Morgan, then go for it. You too, can be the real deal.