Thursday, January 08, 2009
I didn't expect to do my burning it down drinking as soon as Tuesday night, but then I remembered Tuesdays are "old school night" 2-for-1 PBR or Old Style and also remember that I'll likely be in Green Blah at some point as some friends who haven't gotten back to me about it want me up there to watch the local "junior A" hockey team. I'm told they fight a lot, and I'm also told it's dollar hot dog night, which might mean it's also dollar Labatt night, if they still do that.
I got to the bar and asked for two Old Style's because Tuesday wasn't a good enough day for PBR, but the girl served up two PBR's anyway and already had them open before I could say anything. Oh well, shit beer is shit beer. So I did a "This beer has seconds to live" and chugged the bastard before even sitting down and starting into my book. Yep, my body is a temple and tonight I'll tear it down.
During beers 3 and 4, the bartender came over to her ipod and changed it from sad bastard music to Iron & Wine, even sadder bastard music. Just because I sport a beard these days doesn't mean I want to hear shit by other bearded douchebags, unless that bearded douchebag is Warren Oakes from Against Me!. I'm reading a book about The Replacements, so I want to hear some 'Mats or anything that's not sad bastard music. I lean over to see if they've got the internet jukebox plugged in and they don't because they're the kind of bastards that don't want you to listen to Frank Sinatra when you're drinking. They want you to put up with the guy who plays loud jungle trance dance music shit on his ipod while he tends bar. Dastardly devices, those ipods. I don't care if the guy can make the shamrock in the foam in my Guinness, that's of little consolation when my ears are filled with this music that requires you to be high to enjoy it.
But I didn't have it in me to turn that shit off and I didn't feel like walking the two blocks to the other place that's got cheap beer, $1.50 cans of Schlitz, so I put up with the fact that I've got to hear this really shitty indie tripe. I'm almost done with my book anyways. When I got towards the end, I teared up a bit because they printed the eulogy given for Bob Stinson and was quite possibly the best eulogy I've ever heard. But I was getting to the end of my fourth beer and I can't possibly order with tears in my eyes and we don't have enough of a rapport for me to use hand signals or a nod or something, so I've got to nurse this one until I regain composure. A Lucky Strike helps out with all that, as does noticing guy-who-used-to-sell-me-CD's-at-the-shitty-chain-music-store getting the girl.
Somewhere between beers five and six, I finished up that book, which means I can give it to my bro next time I see him, someday. After beer number six, I was tossing around the idea of seven and eight but I looked around and noticed I was surrounded by yuppies not here for 2-for-1 shitty beer night, so it was time to go. Turns out six was the perfect number, as I only slipped and fell on the ice once on the way home.
said Tommy T. at 10:53 AM - #
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I got to the bar and asked for two Old Style's because Tuesday wasn't a good enough day for PBR, but the girl served up two PBR's anyway and already had them open before I could say anything. Oh well, shit beer is shit beer. So I did a "This beer has seconds to live" and chugged the bastard before even sitting down and starting into my book. Yep, my body is a temple and tonight I'll tear it down.
During beers 3 and 4, the bartender came over to her ipod and changed it from sad bastard music to Iron & Wine, even sadder bastard music. Just because I sport a beard these days doesn't mean I want to hear shit by other bearded douchebags, unless that bearded douchebag is Warren Oakes from Against Me!. I'm reading a book about The Replacements, so I want to hear some 'Mats or anything that's not sad bastard music. I lean over to see if they've got the internet jukebox plugged in and they don't because they're the kind of bastards that don't want you to listen to Frank Sinatra when you're drinking. They want you to put up with the guy who plays loud jungle trance dance music shit on his ipod while he tends bar. Dastardly devices, those ipods. I don't care if the guy can make the shamrock in the foam in my Guinness, that's of little consolation when my ears are filled with this music that requires you to be high to enjoy it.
But I didn't have it in me to turn that shit off and I didn't feel like walking the two blocks to the other place that's got cheap beer, $1.50 cans of Schlitz, so I put up with the fact that I've got to hear this really shitty indie tripe. I'm almost done with my book anyways. When I got towards the end, I teared up a bit because they printed the eulogy given for Bob Stinson and was quite possibly the best eulogy I've ever heard. But I was getting to the end of my fourth beer and I can't possibly order with tears in my eyes and we don't have enough of a rapport for me to use hand signals or a nod or something, so I've got to nurse this one until I regain composure. A Lucky Strike helps out with all that, as does noticing guy-who-used-to-sell-me-CD's-at-the-shitty-chain-music-store getting the girl.
Somewhere between beers five and six, I finished up that book, which means I can give it to my bro next time I see him, someday. After beer number six, I was tossing around the idea of seven and eight but I looked around and noticed I was surrounded by yuppies not here for 2-for-1 shitty beer night, so it was time to go. Turns out six was the perfect number, as I only slipped and fell on the ice once on the way home.
said Tommy T. at 10:53 AM - #
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