The Shameful Drambuie Affair
4-12-1891
To the Esteemed, Much-Adored, and Just Generally Well-Liked Perriwig Pigg:
Much time has passed, my old China plate, since I've penetrated the well with my large, quivering plume and eructed the living ink onto paper to send you good tidings. Ahem. Well, anyway, we all know that I'm just ace in everybody's book, and I admit that freely. However, I have had my share of embarrassing moments, and I thought that, for the sake of my own hubris, I'd write a series of letters which would delve further into some of my missteps. After all, one cannot hope to grasp the big dipper if he hasn't the courage to straddle Pegasus. Er. Anyhow, here is the account of a shameful affair regarding Drambuie, Jimi Hendrix, and a generator.
In 1998, while working at Family Toy Warehouse, a pal of mine invited me to watch his band perform a set of rock songs at the old Chase Lounge, which was a ratty little swill hole just past the Char, NOT a piece of furniture. The guy, or kid in all actuality, worked at FTW as well. His name was David Deming but I always called him Davy Jones. At that time I was living in a one-room, low-income apartment at Wilbrien Apartments. It had a security gate, so I guess I could brag about how I lived in an exclusive Gated Community; the only problem with that is that the gate was more to keep us on the inside than to keep everybody else out. Anyway, I made about $5.50 hourly and worked about 30 hours a week, so I was basically eating powdered donuts for dinner every night. All I had was my Super Nintendo, my CDs, my love of beer, and my dreams of one day being a hoity-toit. I also happened to have a copy of "The Everything Bartender's Book" and I had fallen in lust with the idea of making every drink in the book. Never mind that I barely knew a liquor from a liqueur.
So, the day of the big gig arrives,followed shortly by a bad thunder storm. The band is late, which is sad, but even sadder is the fact that the 12 hayseeds in the bar couldn't give a damn less whether the band showed up or not. In fact, it seemed obvious to me that no one knew that a band was even supposed to play. I join yet another coworker at the bar, a Barney Fife lookalike named Otis, and proceed to make a complete pretentious jackass out of myself. A dishwater blonde with a physique like Karen Carpenter is tending the bar. Have you ever seen someone who is working their jaws like they're chewing gum without actually having any gum in? Well, she was. I don't know why. She asked Otis, his pal, and me what we wanted.
Otis: "An icehouse, please."
His pal: "Yeah, I'll have one too."
Me: "I'd like a champagne cocktail, please."
She didn't give me a dirty look. She just looked at me and said, "What did you say?" I repeated my request. "We don't have those", she informed me. She gave the other two guys their Icehouses and turned to me.
"How about a Rusty Nail?", I asked.
Now, you have to understand something about the Chase Lounge. It was about as big as a pump house and about as sophisticated as one. If you've seen the Boar's Nest, the bar/restaurant from "The Dukes of Hazzard", then you have an excellent idea of what the Chase Lounge looked like inside.
"What?", she said, just a little irritated.
I decided to help her out. "It's 1.5 ounces scotch to a half-ounce of drambuie, with the drambuie poured in last." What makes this bit so shameful is that, not only was I being a pretentious codpiece, but that I pronounced the word "drambuie" with a Glasgow brogue like the Scottish singer Fish did when he used the word during a Marillion song. I had actually learned of the liquer's existence from the song.
"What is it??", she repeated.
"Drrrombyewwwww", I said yet again, Scottish brogue and all, but now I was fairly humiliated.
Outside, it had started to absolutely come down in buckets.
"Look, man, the bartender couldn't get a babysitter, I'm just fillin' in 'til he can get back."
From here the conversation descended into The Cheese Shop skit from Monty Python and, again, I'm not making this shit up.
"I'll have a Moosehead. Beer."
"Don't have that."
"Okay. Do you have a Samuel Adams or Guinness?"
"No."
I gave up at that point. I knew it was hopeless. "I'll have a Corona then."
"Uh..." She looks toward the shitty little cooler. "Sorry, we don't carry that."
"Um, what do you have?"
"Budweiser, Bud Light, Icehouse, Natural Light, Natural Ice."
I think I got a Natural Ice so I could get drunk more quickly. That proved to be a mistake. This was also about the first time that the power died in the bar and the generator kicked on. Eventually full power was restored, but the storm was still raging outside.
The band showed up about a half hour after they were supposed to. By then I was on probably my third Natural Ice, and they're fairly potent, and the rednecks (a group to whom I belonged since the U.S.S. Drrrombyeww couldn't save me)had the jukebox pumping out...well, I don't remember, but it was either Lynyrd Skynyrd or Garth Brooks. I DO remember that some fucker had put in about 100 quarters. Well, the band starts setting up and I feel, even through the building buzz, that we're going up Shite Creek without a paddle. They are three college kids with the mandatory clone cool dude college haircuts and sports-related shirts in a room full of checkered jackets and Red Man chewing tobacco hats.
Before they can start playing they are introduced by some dude (maybe the proprietor, but where the hell was he when I was being debased at the bar?) and there is an uncomfortable moment when it looks like the rednecks are going to keep the jukebox playing while the band plays. It gets shut off (and I promise you that there was some very audible muttering about this) and the group, whose name escapes me, fires into its first song, Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile". I'm trying to figure out if the bass player is the singer or the guitar player. Guess what? NOBODY is singing. They don't HAVE a fucking singer. To me, playing these songs without a singer is like displaying popular works of art with all of the straight lines left out. The rednecks have no choice but to gather around, because it's too loud to hear yourself think. In the middle of the second song, which I believe was "Rock and Roll" by Led Zeppelin, the power goes out again. Boom-bap, boom-bap, all you can hear is Davy Jones drumming, keeping time like the song's still going. Apparently everybody kept playing, and when the generator kicks in, they are all still together, about 12 seconds further into the song like they'd never lost power.
Not bad, I must say.
Meanwhile, I've been drinking many, many Natural Ices (I was fairly hearty in those days) and feeling damned good. The power has gone off a couple of times by the latter part of the set, but the rednecks have become fairly receptive to the Dorm Monkees or whatever they were called. By the way, they really were a very tight band. The guitar player was exceptional. They launch into "Red House" by Hendrix (having already played "Voodoo Chile" and "White Room" by Cream twice due to a lack of tunes) and I, who have been sitting at the very back of the room propped up against the wall, feel like adding the vocals to the track, since I knew the lyrics. So when the first verse pops up, everyone gets to hear the drunken, pretentious, would-be Scotsman-cum-bluesman in the back shouting, "There's a red house over yonder/that's where my baby stays..." I sang a few lines and then the guitar player shot me a look so hateful that, even in my wasted state, I shut up immediately. But, for the record, I will say this: he was a prick to think that everyone in the crowd was going to be perfectly all right with the idea of playing famous rock songs with NO FUCKING VOCALS! It still pisses me off. It makes no more sense than having Marcel Marceau miming Pavarotti. None whatsoever.
To make a long story over, I'll say this: This is a tale of my own embarrassment. In the end, the band won the crowd over fairly well (albeit a crowd you could have put around a medium-sized campfire). Davy Jones had his gorgeously hot girlfriend with him that night while I had Otis, so I can't make fun of him. In the end, I came off looking like a complete twerp who needed a pitch cap applied to his head. The end.
So, dear Perriwig, I hope you have learned something from this cautionary tale, for I assure you that I did not. As I dabble my long, slightly curved quill into this warm, black ink, I can only think of you, perched upon your window seat, stroking your long, black beard with an amused, distracted hand as you read this. Now, to make this missive complete, I shall set my hot, waxen seal upon the parchments folds and pop it up your way. The letter, that is. Oh, and tell Oscar Wilde to put the tack back in my fucking stable.
Yours dearly,
...in conversation, I mean,
Rexford Badpenny, Cad about Town
To the Esteemed, Much-Adored, and Just Generally Well-Liked Perriwig Pigg:
Much time has passed, my old China plate, since I've penetrated the well with my large, quivering plume and eructed the living ink onto paper to send you good tidings. Ahem. Well, anyway, we all know that I'm just ace in everybody's book, and I admit that freely. However, I have had my share of embarrassing moments, and I thought that, for the sake of my own hubris, I'd write a series of letters which would delve further into some of my missteps. After all, one cannot hope to grasp the big dipper if he hasn't the courage to straddle Pegasus. Er. Anyhow, here is the account of a shameful affair regarding Drambuie, Jimi Hendrix, and a generator.
In 1998, while working at Family Toy Warehouse, a pal of mine invited me to watch his band perform a set of rock songs at the old Chase Lounge, which was a ratty little swill hole just past the Char, NOT a piece of furniture. The guy, or kid in all actuality, worked at FTW as well. His name was David Deming but I always called him Davy Jones. At that time I was living in a one-room, low-income apartment at Wilbrien Apartments. It had a security gate, so I guess I could brag about how I lived in an exclusive Gated Community; the only problem with that is that the gate was more to keep us on the inside than to keep everybody else out. Anyway, I made about $5.50 hourly and worked about 30 hours a week, so I was basically eating powdered donuts for dinner every night. All I had was my Super Nintendo, my CDs, my love of beer, and my dreams of one day being a hoity-toit. I also happened to have a copy of "The Everything Bartender's Book" and I had fallen in lust with the idea of making every drink in the book. Never mind that I barely knew a liquor from a liqueur.
So, the day of the big gig arrives,followed shortly by a bad thunder storm. The band is late, which is sad, but even sadder is the fact that the 12 hayseeds in the bar couldn't give a damn less whether the band showed up or not. In fact, it seemed obvious to me that no one knew that a band was even supposed to play. I join yet another coworker at the bar, a Barney Fife lookalike named Otis, and proceed to make a complete pretentious jackass out of myself. A dishwater blonde with a physique like Karen Carpenter is tending the bar. Have you ever seen someone who is working their jaws like they're chewing gum without actually having any gum in? Well, she was. I don't know why. She asked Otis, his pal, and me what we wanted.
Otis: "An icehouse, please."
His pal: "Yeah, I'll have one too."
Me: "I'd like a champagne cocktail, please."
She didn't give me a dirty look. She just looked at me and said, "What did you say?" I repeated my request. "We don't have those", she informed me. She gave the other two guys their Icehouses and turned to me.
"How about a Rusty Nail?", I asked.
Now, you have to understand something about the Chase Lounge. It was about as big as a pump house and about as sophisticated as one. If you've seen the Boar's Nest, the bar/restaurant from "The Dukes of Hazzard", then you have an excellent idea of what the Chase Lounge looked like inside.
"What?", she said, just a little irritated.
I decided to help her out. "It's 1.5 ounces scotch to a half-ounce of drambuie, with the drambuie poured in last." What makes this bit so shameful is that, not only was I being a pretentious codpiece, but that I pronounced the word "drambuie" with a Glasgow brogue like the Scottish singer Fish did when he used the word during a Marillion song. I had actually learned of the liquer's existence from the song.
"What is it??", she repeated.
"Drrrombyewwwww", I said yet again, Scottish brogue and all, but now I was fairly humiliated.
Outside, it had started to absolutely come down in buckets.
"Look, man, the bartender couldn't get a babysitter, I'm just fillin' in 'til he can get back."
From here the conversation descended into The Cheese Shop skit from Monty Python and, again, I'm not making this shit up.
"I'll have a Moosehead. Beer."
"Don't have that."
"Okay. Do you have a Samuel Adams or Guinness?"
"No."
I gave up at that point. I knew it was hopeless. "I'll have a Corona then."
"Uh..." She looks toward the shitty little cooler. "Sorry, we don't carry that."
"Um, what do you have?"
"Budweiser, Bud Light, Icehouse, Natural Light, Natural Ice."
I think I got a Natural Ice so I could get drunk more quickly. That proved to be a mistake. This was also about the first time that the power died in the bar and the generator kicked on. Eventually full power was restored, but the storm was still raging outside.
The band showed up about a half hour after they were supposed to. By then I was on probably my third Natural Ice, and they're fairly potent, and the rednecks (a group to whom I belonged since the U.S.S. Drrrombyeww couldn't save me)had the jukebox pumping out...well, I don't remember, but it was either Lynyrd Skynyrd or Garth Brooks. I DO remember that some fucker had put in about 100 quarters. Well, the band starts setting up and I feel, even through the building buzz, that we're going up Shite Creek without a paddle. They are three college kids with the mandatory clone cool dude college haircuts and sports-related shirts in a room full of checkered jackets and Red Man chewing tobacco hats.
Before they can start playing they are introduced by some dude (maybe the proprietor, but where the hell was he when I was being debased at the bar?) and there is an uncomfortable moment when it looks like the rednecks are going to keep the jukebox playing while the band plays. It gets shut off (and I promise you that there was some very audible muttering about this) and the group, whose name escapes me, fires into its first song, Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile". I'm trying to figure out if the bass player is the singer or the guitar player. Guess what? NOBODY is singing. They don't HAVE a fucking singer. To me, playing these songs without a singer is like displaying popular works of art with all of the straight lines left out. The rednecks have no choice but to gather around, because it's too loud to hear yourself think. In the middle of the second song, which I believe was "Rock and Roll" by Led Zeppelin, the power goes out again. Boom-bap, boom-bap, all you can hear is Davy Jones drumming, keeping time like the song's still going. Apparently everybody kept playing, and when the generator kicks in, they are all still together, about 12 seconds further into the song like they'd never lost power.
Not bad, I must say.
Meanwhile, I've been drinking many, many Natural Ices (I was fairly hearty in those days) and feeling damned good. The power has gone off a couple of times by the latter part of the set, but the rednecks have become fairly receptive to the Dorm Monkees or whatever they were called. By the way, they really were a very tight band. The guitar player was exceptional. They launch into "Red House" by Hendrix (having already played "Voodoo Chile" and "White Room" by Cream twice due to a lack of tunes) and I, who have been sitting at the very back of the room propped up against the wall, feel like adding the vocals to the track, since I knew the lyrics. So when the first verse pops up, everyone gets to hear the drunken, pretentious, would-be Scotsman-cum-bluesman in the back shouting, "There's a red house over yonder/that's where my baby stays..." I sang a few lines and then the guitar player shot me a look so hateful that, even in my wasted state, I shut up immediately. But, for the record, I will say this: he was a prick to think that everyone in the crowd was going to be perfectly all right with the idea of playing famous rock songs with NO FUCKING VOCALS! It still pisses me off. It makes no more sense than having Marcel Marceau miming Pavarotti. None whatsoever.
To make a long story over, I'll say this: This is a tale of my own embarrassment. In the end, the band won the crowd over fairly well (albeit a crowd you could have put around a medium-sized campfire). Davy Jones had his gorgeously hot girlfriend with him that night while I had Otis, so I can't make fun of him. In the end, I came off looking like a complete twerp who needed a pitch cap applied to his head. The end.
So, dear Perriwig, I hope you have learned something from this cautionary tale, for I assure you that I did not. As I dabble my long, slightly curved quill into this warm, black ink, I can only think of you, perched upon your window seat, stroking your long, black beard with an amused, distracted hand as you read this. Now, to make this missive complete, I shall set my hot, waxen seal upon the parchments folds and pop it up your way. The letter, that is. Oh, and tell Oscar Wilde to put the tack back in my fucking stable.
Yours dearly,
...in conversation, I mean,
Rexford Badpenny, Cad about Town
posted by Tom at 9:31 PM
5 Comments:
ROFLMAO!
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
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