I can’t remember the last time I slept until noon. But it happened Saturday. It used to be a regular occurrence. I’d stumble out of my house around 1 p.m. with a bottle of Molson and a dazed look on my face while my neighbors would either laugh or shake their heads at me, but they’d always want to hear the story of the previous night. And there usually was a good one. Friday night wasn’t as nutty as the old days, but there was a lot of singing, dancing, drinking, and sex, and that was all before I even got out of the shower while getting ready.
Locale: Quencher’s Saloon
The place gets a thumbs up. Not in a trendy neighborhood, so not a lot of frat boy types high fiving each other and trying to score some tail. A nice mix of career drunks and some fringe characters with strange facial hair, and enough girls who realize you don’t need to look to Paris Hilton for fashion tips. Overworked, but efficient barkeeps that deserve the extra dollar that you’re thinking about adding to their tip. A mostly friendly crowd as long as you don’t insist on being a douchebag. All in all, it’s what a neighborhood bar should be.
The joint also has a decent jukebox that renewed my love for The Damned after my last visit. I wanted to have my name legally changed to Captain Sensible, but the Mrs. wouldn’t let me. Moist Rub warned me that getting married would change everything. Except my name, apparently. However, she almost relented to Captain Sensible when I suggested Rat Scabies as the alternative.
You know, these posts take me like six hours. You see, I start thinking about The Damned and then have to see what they’re up to. Then I watch a couple youtube vids. (Check out Love Song, Smash It Up, New Rose) Then I try to remember the name of that bar in Dallas with the good jukebox and then have to look it up (Elm Street Bar) and then I get all bummed out when I find out it just closed down. And then I obviously have to try to find out why they shut down (not real clear, but then I had to read the update on the Deep Ellum scene.)
Digression isn’t just a literary tool – I live it, too. But I digress.
We picked up Mrs. Cajones because, as usual, Mr. Cajones was getting drunk at the bowling alley. I’m kidding. He was furthering his career by bowling with people from work on a Friday night. Now that’s dedication. I like the people I work with but I don’t want to bowl with them on the weekend. Square dancing, maybe, but not bowling.
Anyway, we get to Quencher’s around nine, and the boys have already commandeered a table near the stage and let us join them. I don’t think we’re cool enough to hang out with them in their hometown of Dallas, but when they’re on the road it’s like Danny Zuko spending the summer on the beach with Sandy in Grease. It’s always fun when we break out into “Summer Lovin’”. A couple of the Mrs.’ school friends showed up as well, so I felt very safe in case someone broke out with a case of Lou Gehrig’s disease since they have all completed their ACLS certifications. Our buddy 213 also showed up so I also felt safe knowing that he would be able to handle any hazardous waste spills. And I’m not talking about the bowl of Earle’s Famous Chili he ordered **rim shot**. Mr. Cajones eventually showed up as well, but I really wish he would have changed out of his bowling shoes. Now that we were seven strong, we commandeered our own table by singing the Meow Mix jingle until the people at the table next to us couldn’t take it anymore and left. The Von Erichs also had another couple friends show up with their own entourage of five or six people, so it was way cool to see people turn out. I know how bad it sucks when everybody flakes on you. I have a Super Bowl party every year but nobody ever shows up except Mrs. F’er, and I think that’s just because she already lives here. She claims it’s because I never invite anyone, but what does she know.
The opening band was Indiana Bandana, celebrating the forgotten heroes of Indiana outlaw country lore. It didn’t suck and was fairly entertaining. I wouldn’t go out of my way to see them, but I wouldn’t leave if they showed up where I was already at. Kind of like lingerie models. Maybe they should change their name to The Lingerie Models.
And now what you’ve been waiting for – the review of The Von Erichs. They fucking rock. Between all the friends and fans that showed up (really no difference once you meet them), the regular Friday crowd at Quencher’s, and a decent spot in the middle of the bill, they seemed especially inspired and let it rip. They always promise loud and fast and overdelivered Friday night. They were the Nordstrom’s of country punk. If JD Power had witnessed the set, The Von Erichs would have easily earned one of those awards for customer satisfaction. They should invite JD next time. He probably gets tired of driving those cars all the time. That’s all I can say – go see them if they ever make it to your town. If not, find them a place to play and they’ll probably show up. They’re nice like that.
The Cook County Ramblers rounded out the bill that night and spent the night sounding exactly like that band that you just can’t place. Is it the Gin Blossoms? Not really. Maybe Modest Mouse? They are a little Modest Mousey, but not quite. The consensus seemed to be that the music was alright, but we just couldn’t figure out what was going down with the vocals. Also distracting was that the drummer looked exactly like Mr. Brady in The Brady Bunch Movie. Almost like he was always given shit about looking like that and finally just decided to embrace it and go with it. It had a good beat and was easy to dance to so I’d give it an 85. In fact, I did dance to a slow one with another girl to make the Mrs. jealous, but she didn’t seem to care. We actually had to explain to her that she was supposed to cut in. I guess the magic is gone.
The Mrs. and her friends did a pretty good job not talking about school, but we did have a fascinating discussion about a nerve on the inside of a guy’s thigh which, if scratched in the right spot with the right amount of pressure will cause his testicle to retract right up into hiding. Now that’s the kind of information I’m paying tuition for.
We all made it to last call and closing time. There was plenty of drunken hugging, pats on the back, and thigh scratching and promises to do it again soon. As soon as we figure out where to scratch to get it to drop again.