There's nothing like a neighborhood tavern for inexpensive, strong drinks and few, if any, guys who look like this. Last night I went to Seidenfadens, pictured above, to hear Johnny Berry and the Outliers, who play country music like Hank Williams, Sr. and Johnny Cash played it, only they aren't dead.
"Hey," you may be asking yourself, "isn't Seidenfaden the German word for shameful joy?" No, that's schadenfreude. Seidenfaden was the last name of the guy who opened the tavern in 1921. I think he's buried somewhere behind the bar.
I was really only going to have a drink or too, honestly. But then the music started playing, the crowd got rowdy, and the bourbon started flowing. I don't remember a lot about the last few hours of the night, other than the following:
-I think I made passes at girls with big asses.
-I ate a diet-busting burrito. It was probably good; I seriously don't recall.
-I fell down. This actually happened, because I have the scrapes and bruises to prove it. As clumsy as I am, this is only the second time I've fallen while drunk. The first time, I fell out of my chair at a casino bar. My brother was there to witness that one. This time, I fell at the residence of the good people who let me crash on their futon. Unfortunately, I crashed on their hallway floor first. I hope I didn't weaken the foundation of their house.
The next time I go to Seidenfadens and/or see Johnny Berry and the Outliers, I'm either going to drink less or wear this suit.