Desperado

So, my husband and I walked into this bar the other day...

No, this isn't a joke. We really did. It was this tiny little dive bar down the street from his hospital and everything about it screamed "iffy" - I half expected to see Jody Foster getting sexually violated on the pinball machine or Pony Boy, the Greaser, fighting off a group of Socs with a dirty switch blade.

Luckily, we didn't wander into any of those situations, but the clientele was interesting to say the least. Seated directly at the bar was a petite, 60 something Asian lady who struck a striking resemblance to LaToya Jackson - complete with a Captain's hat. As she simultaneously took drags from her cigarette and played pull tabs, I couldn't help notice the bald, beer-bellied Hells Angel biker dude wearing a black leather vest over a wife beater tank top. He had a stack of dollar bills in hand and pretty much declared himself  "DJ" while he planted himself at the jukebox and held us all captive.

While my husband chomped down some potato skins, biker dude went from playing "Murder was the Case that they Gave Me" to Sheryl Crow's "Are you Strong Enough to be My Man." I think he was in the middle of some sort of identity crisis and struggling to come to terms with his softer side - ergo the Sheryl Crow tune.

With Sheryl singing softly in the background, my husband correctly pointed out that nobody is "strong enough" to be her man. She's dated Eric Clapton, Kid Rock, Owen Wilson, Lance Armstrong...you get the picture. According to Larry, if Lance Armstrong isn't strong enough, even though he has won Tour de France like a thousand times, with only ONE ball - then sorry honey. Nobody is strong enough. Might as well switch teams and think about adopting a child.

That aside, let's get back to the jukebox. Don't you just love a good bar with a jukebox? I do. In fact, the smaller the bar, the better the jukebox - at least that has been my experience. Not too long ago, one glorious Saturday night, me and my girlfriend, Kristen, were chauffeured around town by her husband - who sadly knew little about what he had signed on for.

Kristen and I have 6 kids between us, five of them being boys, and all of them under the age of seven. Ready for our big night out, we eagerly left our children at her house in the capable hands of two 14 year-old girls who probably would have rather been just about anywhere else. But we didn't care. Dressed to the nines, we traded in our sports bras and sweatpants for sexier clothes...a bra with under wire, jeans, a tight shirt - free of puke stains - and of course, heels. We showered, blew dry our hair and applied make-up. We were "in it to win it" if you know what I mean!

Knowing we would soon be intoxicated, David agreed to be our personal driver for the evening. I'm sure somewhere deep down inside him, he too was more than willing to ditch the chaos of six children who were literally bouncing off the walls in some sugar induced food frenzy. Hmmm...supervise this circus I call home or chauffeur two drunk, hot bitches around town....Decisions, decisions....Hot bitches win every time! (If you are a straight guy).

We were truly pimpin in the family minivan - because that's how we roll. With one of the boy's little purple dragon toys wedged under my butt and perhaps a stray cheerio or two, David settled into the driver's seat and played his favorite Eminem mixed tape to get us in the mood.

Hi! My name is... What? My name is... Who? My name is...s s s Slim Shady!

All was going well - musically that is - until it wasn't. I'm not sure how we went from Eminem to Glee's rendition of "Don't Stop Believing" but we had taken a turn for the worst. As David frantically started to surf the FM channels in the minivan, we berated him as our DJ and tried to take the matter into our own hands. At one point, the station even landed on Desperado - which clearly is the way to END your evening, but not begin one.

He drove us to this new, hip, trendy bar somewhere within the confines of the Costco parking lot. The White Buddah Lounge looked exceptionally promising with the red velvet ropes and red carpet leading up to the strip mall entrance. Everything was white - the tables, the chairs, the walls, the curtains - but in a very hip, minimalistic kind of way. And despite the fact that there was not a single sole in the place, there were RESERVED signs on all of the tables. Apparently we had arrived just before the rush. We were told that we could occupy one of the enclosed curtain seating areas that was clearly reserved for VIPs - until the VIPS arrived. We were there nearly two hours and unfortunately, never met a single other patron, or VIP the entire night - but the $12 martinis sure were tasty!

As we pushed our way through the crowd of none, we decided to go to an old favorite - the Pub. This is the drinking man's bar. A place where you eat and throw your peanut shells on the floor. A place where you don't want to sit on the toilet seat when you have to pee like a race horse - until you are too drunk to care. The kind of bar that is open on all holidays - even Christmas - and pathetically always has a few cars out front. It also happens to have an amazing jukebox. We gathered our drinks, a couple bowls of peanuts and settled into a table in the back. Because I had verbally abused David the whole way there for being such a piss poor DJ and ruining our buzz with the pathetic songs he found on the radio, David "suggested" I take the $10 bill and shove it up my (bleep). I mean, try my hand at setting the mood with a song selection or two.

No problem. I got to the jukebox and impressively worked my way through the list. It took me the better part of a half an hour to pick the 30 songs that our $10 allotted us, but I did return victorious. I prepared the group to be ready to get their groove on because we were going to be there for a very long while. I'll be damned if I was going to leave before my very last song selection played. I know the value of a buck and did not want to waste it!

How will we know when it's the last song?

Oh, you'll know. It's only the most PERFECT song to end a stellar evening such as this.

We sat at that bar for about three hours because that is how long it takes to go through $10 bucks. Every time a song would start and end, we would get all excited and say, "What's next???"

Shook Me All Night Long...
Free Bird & Sweet Home Alabama...
Are you Gonna Be My Girl...
Brick House...
Brown Eyed Girl
SexyBack...
Blister in the Sun...
In da Club...

It just kept getting better and better.

What's next? Is this the end?

And then, like a scene out of Seinfeld, the four of us sitting at the table, we heard the words that signalled our personal finale. Instinctively, we gave each other a knowing nod, pushed ourselves back from the table, stood up, and waved to the other dumbfounded patrons as we walked toward the door in complete unison. Softly playing in the background...

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
You been out ridin' fences for so long now
Oh, you're a hard one
I know that you got your reasons
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow


Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone


Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
Come down from your fences, open the gate
It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it's too late

In that one glorious, well-timed moment - we were rock stars. We were George, Jerry, Elaine & Kramer. (Not exactly, but kind of). It was our curtain call. Time to go home. Time to slip off that uncomfortable underwire bra and put on our "mommy" jammies. Time for reality. Time for a glass of cold water. But those people in that bar didn't know who we were. For all they knew, maybe we really were famous...

Have a good night folks. Our work is done here... See you next week. PEACE.