Here’s a concept. If you want to hit on a woman at the bar or at least make a good impression, try to do it while not spitting in a bottle. Just a thought. And if the apple of your eye is a total stranger, moved though you are by her presence, try to avoid screaming out a marriage proposal. It might be too soon. And while your friendly bartender in no way claims he’s an expert in any of these matters… the E Harmony dot com of the Barland mating dance… he feels pretty sure these are “don’t’s” you don’t want to do. In fact, if last Wednesday night’s outrageous performance is any kind of eye-popping indicator take it to the bank!
The night was nuts anyway, lots of hollering for some damn reason, maybe it was something I poured, but then this group of guys took it up a few notches. They started with me as three at the bar, two Bud’s and a Coors Light, then quickly grew into eight so they took it to the tables. Which was fine. The first three were daytime regulars so I figured they’d be cool. But then somewhere around the fourth or fifth beer this octet suddenly morphed into one big tailgate party. And the only thing missing were tickets and turned around baseball hats. They screamed and high-fived at every zinger, which seemed to be every five seconds, they whistled and hooted at every female who ventured down the stairs to come in, and when the piano man started to do his thing, much to his well-hidden angst, they bayed like a bunch of wolves in a fucking full moon. It was awful! Then one guy stepped to the fore and took it to a new level. The basement!
This rather attractive young female, who with two other women had survived the gauntlet of cat calls coming in the door, ventured up to the piano to ask if she could sing. But before she got to ask that question, as she stood there politely waiting for the piano man to finish, this knucklehead left the pack and cozied on up to her. And though he clearly wasn’t the alpha dog, by that I mean alpha in looks… too tall crew cut, much overweight and a mug that looked like it should’ve been blowing on a tuba… I admired his courage at least for taking a shot. But when I saw what he brought to the piano that admiration ended. In one hand he had a bottle of Bud which was actually filled with Budweiser, and in the other he held a bottle that was filled with brown spit. Spit from the pinch of snuff that was wedged in his lip.
Now before I go any further here and before I lose my mind, let me just make this point regarding this habit. And it goes like this. Doing snuff in a bar is about the vilest fucking habit in the history of decorum. Public decorum. And I don’t care who I offend because it’s a fact. For to make a point in a civil conversation, then have to pause to spit, is nothing short of, “Excuse me, I have to spit up.” And to do it in front of a woman doesn’t even make sense. I mean do you actually think any sane woman would want to kiss a mouth that entertains snuff? A mouth that’s been lined and soaked in brown saliva? Well here’s a clue. Unless she’s one of the Yokum’s you can bet she doesn’t. But amazingly some guys haven’t a clue, which brings me back to the beta dog gnawing at piano girl.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“It’s Dana,” she replied.
“Hey, my name is Nate and I think you’re awwwww-some!” Then he spit in the bottle.
“Nice to meet you, Nate.” Then she inched away.
“So what are you gonna’ sing, Dana? I can’t wait.”
“I’m not sure yet, I want to see what he knows.”
“Hah, you’re awwwww-some!” Spit in the bottle again.
The piano man finished his song at that point, and none too soon for Dana, for it gave her a chance to quickly end this encounter. So she leaned in and whispered some words to the man, they both went over his song book, finally arriving at Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”. Which she proceeded to sing. But while she was warbling her heartfelt words, not greatly but sure as hell sweetly, our man who was holding two bottles almost lost his mind.
“You’re awwwww-some,” he screamed, over her singing, “I love you, I fucking l-a-h-h-h-h-h-h-v-e you, Dana, I love you!!!”
Not exactly, “Did my heart love til now? Foreswear it, sight. For I ne’er saw true beauty til this night!” But then Nate’s not Shakespeare.
Then came the big one. “I want to marry you,” he shouted over Time after Time. “Do you hear me? I want to fucking marry you, Dana, I love you!” Then he walked over to the table where her two girlfriends were sitting, sitting in shock and awe by the way, and asked the following question with a straight face. “Is she married?”
“Huh? No,” said the one, clearly flabbergasted.
“Is she lookin’?” asked our boy, spitting in his bottle.
Now they’re trying not to laugh.”Gee, not to our knowledge,” managed the other one.
“Damn!” he said, forlornly. (As fucking if!!!)
Now stop for a second and think about what’s going on here. If that’s possible! This guy went from, “Hey, my name is Nate,” to professing his love and a marriage proposal, all within the span of four spits, I mean minutes, and now not content to leave it at that, even though Dana wasn’t lookin’, he continued his courtship with more fervor after her song.
“Let-her-sing-a-nother-song, let-her-sing-a-nother-song,” he chanted over the crowd. “I fucking love this girl, let her s-i-i-i-n-g!!!” And with that the real alpha of his pack, this time referring to size… the guy was six foot five and at least two eighty… corralled our suitor and dragged him back to the pack. It was like grabbing a child and threatening to send him to bed. For our boy fell silent.
Dana never did sing that second song, despite the crowd’s encouragement, she was probably afraid it would stoke Nate’s fires anew. And he’d show up at her goddam table with a ring and a pre-nup. But she definitely did have a night to remember, or maybe just one to forget, for as Cyndi says, “Girls just wanna have fun.” Not get married!
So what about Nate when the dust finally settled at his table? Well the hangdog expression on his face clearly told the tale. Which is, his mouth was not only snuffed but so were his dreams. So he took a final swig from his bottle, but being so out of sorts, one can only hope that that bottle was the one with Bud in it.
And what’s the lesson to be learned if indeed there is one? It’s… don’t spit where you court, and don’t court while you spit, and give it at least an hour before you propose. In other words don’t rush things.
See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, have yourself a good one.