Another Saturday night

A lot of people who know me think I hate country music; and that's true, in a way. I hate "new" country, which is nothing but twangy pop played by preening Nashville models. Give me Johnny Cash, Hank Williams (Senior) and local semi-legends Johnny Berry and the Outliers.

I saw them at Seidenfadens bar last night. It was an interesting evening, to say the least. We arrived early enough to snare seats at the bar, knowing it would be asses-to-elbows crowded as soon as the hipsters woke up and realized it was the first Saturday of the month.

The band played in front of a large window. They weren't through their second song when some crazy woman, who I assumed was a potentially dangerous street person, started doing an insane person's dance in the street right next to the window. She was doing "The Monkey" I think, only the monkey was all loopy on malt liquor. And she was giving everyone the double middle finger, the clever clever girl.

When the band's drummer accidentally made eye contact with her, the nutty lady ran into the saloon, grabbed a microphone, and began singing a barely coherent song. Only Hitler deserves such abysmal karaoke; we sure didn't. Then she traded insults with a jeering, increasingly angry crowd. When someone suggested she take her crazy ass home, she replied "I'M NOT CRAZY. I HELPED DELIVER BOTH OF HIS KIDS!" and pointed toward the bartender.

I quickly turned my head and looked at the bartender. He embarrassingly nodded. It was true. The babbling wino had pulled two children out of this guy's wife. Only in Louisville could there be nary a difference between a ranting street lunatic and a medical professional.

The bartender then politely asked her to leave, and a potential angry mob situation was averted. Everything was fine, the music was good, the beer was cold; but then all of a sudden I'm surrounded by hipsters WHO SMELL LIKE FRIED DOUGH.

These people smelled like Elephant Ears! Was there some sort of hipster carnival in town last night that would make these twentyish boys and girls reek of State Fair food? And why do people who stink love to get as close to you as possible? At one point I shouted "Hey, Funnel Cake, leave a little room for the Holy Spirit" but no one heard me.

They spread out a little once the bartender gave them their precious cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Okay, I'm about to make an official Death Wore a Feathered Mullet Half-Assed Generalization: If you drink PBR, you're a fucking dolt. It's horrible swill that actually tastes like the can it's in. Shave your lumberjack beard and have a real beer for once in your life.

And the weird thing is, I had a great time last night!