Saturday night was a total fluke, because originally I was to join Jenn at FOUND, but The Rock cast his Father’s Day vote to listen to some music and spend some couples time (poetic license on that last part), and so off we went to a complete dive lounge in horse country where his cousin played the steel guitar, and I loved it like nothin’.
First of all: the music. Such a great country band that played Fender Stratocasters and other kinds of guitars I know nothing of, with road-weary singers and red-haired sirens fiddling violins. Right there, I’m in heaven. Then, the people. Oh, the clientele. What a sweet spot of characterization. I tell you, go to this bar and you will never lack for stories.
Such as the coiffed Latino in the tightest Wranglers you ever did see twirling his frizzy Cougar partner around the dance floor in intricate and choreographed sequences. He moved quite feminine, with flourishes and swoops and she, a matronly 50-something with fried long blonde hair and short shirt barely hiding a flabby stomach, looked like she’d hit the love jackpot. Smoldering looks and suggestive hip swirls and oh my! the Harlequin of it all.
Then: a 60-year-old mullet-headed firecracker in stocking feet and polyester dancing with a stiff-kneed 70-ish man, who was well-dressed and keenly-appointed, also without shoes. I wondered about them as they made their way outside for a smoke or to go to the bathroom. I thought they should have footwear. The silk-shirted man (we thought maybe he was diabetic? or had double knee replacement?) moved awkwardly, but obviously loved to dance, and so asked my friend for a twirl. She said “no,” and I almost stepped in, though he didn’t ask, and he instead danced with the monkey-grinning man sitting alone at the bar. The one who was “sad inside” according to The Rock.
And the hookers! Or so I thought. But, pretty sure they were. Or hopped up on Ecstasy. Accompanied by two limp-locked stringhairs, the two girls (one, a pretty Asian woman in tight black spandex and lustrous waves and the other, a hot-bodied rough face wearing half a shirt), shimmied and gyrated at the the pinball machine for 20 minutes before being escorted out by the greaseheads.
Then, the gangbangers. Two roughnecks sitting by the back door with tattoo’d scalps, hatchet faces and glower eyes. They disappeared early and I was glad. I thought they’d beat us up in the parking lot for liking country.
And you should have stayed until after 10! That’s when the rhinestones entered en masse and the swoop-layered gentlewomen and the drunk fake IDs. Also the server! I think she was the one who was “sad inside” because her jokes were loud, false and desperate. We left her a nice tip.
Next to the bar I spotted a 7-Eleven and Mexican food joint. Our Suburban ground the gravel as we drove away, and I wondered if the coiffed Latino really loved frizzy hair or if she were just a good dance partner.