The Dynasty of Music

How my grandfather inadvertently is the reason my husband plays.

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We are going to have a little history lesson today, because I LOVE history, and this is a cool story about The Husband and my families. The Husband and I grew up together in a very small town, the same little farming town both of our grandparents grew up in, and our great grandparents, and so on. We went to school together, the same school our families attended. Our families even had farms right down the road from each other. We have some very deep roots here in our lovely rural mid-Michigan village, and that is where our rockin’ story begins.

As I mentioned back in my first blog, my grandpa played an upright bass in a western swing band throughout the ‘50’s and 60’s. I, unfortunately, never got the chance to hear him play it. I only saw this larger than life beast of an instrument and an old black and white picture sitting on a small table next to it. The fiddle was always tucked behind a bed in the upstairs of the old farm house, covered under an old sheet. As a child, my cousins and I would sneak over and peak at it, plucking the thick strings quietly, letting off its thunderous tones. Fortunately, the rest of our big, Irish catholic family was being naturally too loud downstairs to hear us messing with Grandpas fiddle. It still sits in the upstairs of that old farm house, now occupied by my parents, it seems the only place it should live, relocating it just doesn’t seem right. It’s a bit more weathered these days, but a beautiful steadfast remembrance of my childhood memories and my grandfather. With the exception of my Grandmother talking about her “band wife” experiences (which are much different from the 2017 version I am living) I don’t remember much of anyone talking a whole lot about it, how he came about playing, or anyone else in the band. So, this is where the story begins for me, my grandfather and his big upright fiddle.

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My Grandfather and his big, beautiful bass. I wish I could have be able to watch him play.

I do know, after some fishing, the band played at town halls, old stages, and barn dances across rural mid-Michigan. One being a barn down the road, a family close with ours, the same family in which I would one day, far in the future, be deeply and legally (maritally) tied to. Where my future father-in-law (just a child at this part of the story) saw him play. He says my Grandpa was amazing. “I love watching those guys play, but especially the way your Grandpa hammered on those strings of that big bass.” He told me.  This inspired my father-in-law to try out the bass, as a teenager in the 60’s western swing would not have been a sound music choice, nor would an upright bass, so he went with the electric bass. He still plays to this day, he played in some great local cover bands. His lovely wife, my mother-in-law, even sang for them and played a little percussion. One of my childhood memories of my father in-laws band playing was at our towns (something)centennial celebration, right in the saw mill that sits next to our home now, the home my husband grew up in, and his father before him (roots, people, lots of roots here). I am sure the little boy, my future husband, was running around somewhere as well. As a teenager, they would play at my uncles annual Halloween bash, at this point the future husband was most definitely there, sneaking out back with the other group of teenagers (which included me) to get into teenage trouble, it’s all laughable now, but then I was only a starry-eyed teenager, pining for his attention, trying my hardest to act cooler than I really was. Thank dear, sweet, baby Jesus he actually finds my awkward, straight laced personality somewhat charming and irresistible… I think.

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My father-in-law and his bass. His archives for music is pretty amazing. He’s like the encyclopedia of classic rock.

Before that, though, there was that little boy (one of six), who watched mother and father on the stage with the same inspiration his father had as a child watching my grandpa. With a little guidance from his dad he taught himself to play bass, and with each ‘generation’ they take the music a little further. It now melts my heart to see our son watch him play, and practice with his dad. I wonder if he will follow through, if our son will take the music even further than his most talented father has. It also warms my heart to think that my grandfather is, inadvertently, the reason my husband now plays bass. Sure, it was his own hard work and dedication, it was his father’s own ambitions, but along the line, my grandfather was an inspiration. Our roots run so very deep, an intertwine in a dance that has been written for us in a way that amazes me every day. My husband has almost been chosen for me, but I am getting away from the coolest part of our love story. Of the very beginning of The Husbands journey to music love, a story that keeps writing itself.

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And finally, The husband and his bass. Always learning, always challenging himself… and, I mean, damn, I am pretty lucky!

Find Your People

The female strength is in numbers.

We tried and tried to get off the couch, we planned, we gave ourselves five more minutes, put away our phones, yet here we still sit. The Husband in the pocket, me, my lap top, typing away. It has definitely been a Sunday. We will take to kids to the park for our bike rides and swimming and grilling, but for now we sit, we absorb the busy weekend and create. The kids are now patiently going from video games, to toys, food, tv, more food… why are they always so hungry??? We sit here half way between sleep and creativity. I guess everyone needs that day of rest, that time to unload, and use our outlet. That day is going to be this particular Sunday. I sit here listening to the deep click-clacks of his bass over the radio and reflect on this weekend.

It was an amazing weekend, full of friends and family. The band families came over for a cook out and fire last night (our lives revolve around food and drinks, a necessity at every gathering). It was fun, there was a lot of laughs, and good conversation while all the children and dogs ran around. The radio was cranked, pounds of meat coking over the fire, instruments were out and ideas passed around. The good band family is definitely one to keep if you find it. I love gatherings of great minds and strong hearts, I think that would, at the least, describe all the people in our lives. It is important for bandmates to be close, for obvious reasons (they are practically living together at points). Beyond that, though, their loved ones as well. Band wives see each other a lot: gigs, practices, hangouts. We stop by to pick something up, drop something off, you will get to know each other’s children and the group in whole. They can become your closest support system, nobody will know better what you are going through than a band wife and more than that a band wife from the same band. These gals are so great and strong in my opinion, we are all from different walks, taking different steps, with completely different personalities but we all share one fact, our loves have been brought together to create, and we all have to deal with the chaos that follows. The band family usually extends from immediate family. I have gotten to know parents, siblings, friends, and roommates. It takes a village to raise a band, to support them, to keep them up and running. And I know that this band is in the depths of a great village.

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My people: Band wives go through a lot, why not stick it out together. Excuse the boys in the back, apparently musicians can never get in enough pictures. 

It also takes a village to help with the stress of having a very busy other half that is running all the time, between practices, gigs, travel time, late night focusing and early mornings rising (because music doesn’t always pay the bills and most of these guys are juggling a nine to five along with everything else). When you are the half at home, it can get just as tiring, and we need as much support as we can get. Even if it’s a quick bitch fest in the parking lot before the doors open at a show, one of those rare occasions where all the ladies were able to get together, sans kids and musicians. These are the people you surround yourself with when in this situation. The band family is important, and having an amazing group of girls you can gossip, complain, laugh and relate to is much of a necessity. I like to think we hit the jackpot with the band family, our kids all like getting together, we all get along, and sometimes fireworks (literally) happen. I think my best advice as a band wife would have to be find other band wives. Because even though family is awesome, a lot of times they don’t always understand the ridiculousness we deal with and finding people to relate to is a human need. Like every walk of life, find your people, keep them close, they can become vital to your well-being.

Wrangling the Beast

A band wife’s survival guide to the pocket.

I got the kids ready, made sure they were showered, teeth brushed, hair done. I made sure to pick out their outfits so they looked decent for the family function. Then I planned the appropriate time for me to get showered, shaved, powdered, lotioned, hair done, make up on, and the allotted time to frantically ravish my closet because I have nothing nice to wear, ever! The husband was done hours ago, and was patiently waiting for us to finish up. That’s when it happened. We were wrapped up, ready to go, and not a minute too early. I open the door to shoo the children to the car and turn to ask if the husband was ready. That is when I heard it, the strum of the acoustic. Oh no, I had him wait too long, he has slipped into…. THE POCKET!!!

Band wives around the world understand the pain. The pain of their significant others focus, their one-track mind. We will beg, plead and eye roll with every one of their requests to just play “one more song”. The Husband claims these will be his last, dying words, “Just one more song, Babe, and then we can go.” Poetic, really. I can brow beat him all I want, he isn’t going anywhere. Even our children understand this, my son will dramatically say, “uh-oh, mom, is Dad in… the pocket?!” (dun-dun-dun-dun). Yes, I have dealt with this for many, many years and there really is no solid how-to on pulling a loved one out of the pocket. urbandictionary.com defines being “in the pocket” as, “A complimentary reference describing a live musical performance, akin to an athlete being in “the zone””. Which is cool, let them detach themselves from the world and get lost, it’s what they do best. Though, when we are running late as it is, or trying to watch a movie, have a serious conversation, or we are trying, ourselves, to decompress from the loud, busy day, the strumming, singing, shredding can get a little overwhelming. To the point where you may fantasize about using that damned wooden box as batting practice to bust some knee caps and break some fingers. Hey, band wives are still only human. So, before you go all Godfather on that guitar, we need to avoid the pocket from ruining our day.

Prevention is key, my rookie mistake in the above scenario is that I let him get bored. He was waiting on the kids and me to get ready and that is when a musician becomes most vulnerable to the pocket. Keep them busy during this time, give them lists, chores, keep them occupied, they love this. If you nag long enough at them to do the dishes or vacuum while you are getting ready they will thank you in the long run, or have them go build you that book shelf you’ve always wanted. Idol hands, people, idol hands. This will keep them busy enough to avoid the pocket. If bossing him around doesn’t work, you could always invite them into the shower. This always seems to work for me, but you will have to adjust your schedule and give yourself a few more minutes because he might, well, err, become a distraction and get you off… track. It’s the sacrifice you will have to make to keep the pocket at bay.

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A rare photo of the beast when in pocket. Always approach with caution.

If you find your husband has fallen into the pocket you must approach with caution. Pulling him out with force could be catastrophic. I have heard of musicians that have fallen into comas after trauma shock of being forced out of the pocket. It could end up fatal. You need to approach slowly, I like to start with gentle eye contact. Once you have locked their eyes, keep your facial features pleasant, you don’t want the musician to feel threatened in any way, they could revolt in this case and it could have opposite effects. Once you have gained their trust in knowing you will not attack, wait until a quieter part in their song. Do not try to interrupt them during a solo! I repeat: if you try break a solo, you could be breaking your own knee caps, but they won’t use their precious acoustic for that. Your best opportunity to interrupt is always as the song ends, but there is a very small window because a new song is already being planned (or a repeat of the last, depends on how well they executed it). At this time, using a soft, non -threatening voice, you need to say what needs to be said. Make it important, make sure it’s going to peek his interest, and keep it short so he doesn’t get distracted. Now that you have his attention you need to slowly coax him out of the pocket very carefully, keep the gentle eye contact and your voice calm and pleasant. One wrong move could send him reeling back in to a face-melting, two-hour solo. Once you have his instrument down, make a bee line straight to the door, this last part is very important even one small detour, like going for your purse could pull his focus in the other direction and you will have lost him. Once you have him securely in the car you should be ready to go. I cannot promise he will be happy about this transition but he will be ready to go.

It is important and vital to allow your musician to go into the pocket, always encourage it at appropriate times and only use the tools given to pull one out in emergency situations. ONLY when it is vital and necessary. If you notice a loved one slipping into the pocket, and time allows it, just keep an eye on them, throw them a sandwich and some water (you don’t want them getting dehydrated), sit back, and enjoy the serenading. You can even allow yourself to be pulled in there with them and pretend they might be playing for you, because even if it doesn’t always seem like it, you are important to them.

Tarnished Silver

Breaking the Stereotype of the Band Wife Life

This past weekend I went on a weekend trip with the husband, or I should say, following the band around. It was a hot, exhausting, and very fun weekend full of great memories and friends. Yes, another weekend trip away, this time with The Husband. I left the kids at home and hit the big city. I am getting the hang of these rush out of work, get the kids set up, and hit the road trips, all the spontaneity has my head reeling. First, up north, now to the west side of the state, maybe one day I will make it out of the state. In all reality, though, the band trips are not always what they are cracked up to be, I finally got a taste of what the guys go through and it wasn’t a walk in the park. There are a lot of stereotypes out there and for all the musician typecasts there are ones for us band wives. It hit me as I was standing in a sweltering line outside of one of the venues, with my ticket in hand when I ran into a friend and they were astounded that I, the wife of the band, would have to stand in lines, let alone buy a ticket. Most people have a very misconstrued idea of what a band wife is. There are so many stereotypes of us, from Yoko to your average groupie. To be honest, they get a little annoying and leave me somewhat self-conscious of how everyone views me and these blogs. I hope to shine light on some of these.

“I’m with the band” is a joke. Sure, we get to go in the back during set up time, carry a guitar case or two, we might not even have to stand in a line, but it is a very rare occasion when they don’t charge the “support staff”.  I pay the ten to twenty dollars to get my wristband and get in the door at least every other weekend. We may get dibs on the first tickets but we are paying full price and the bar is no different. Nothing sets us apart from any other fan, and I am OK with that, because for every ticket sold is one step higher they go, for every ten dollars we pay, they get two back. We are not just there for emotional support, we help fund the broken-down RV they just bought and the CD’s that need to be printed. Paying for a ticket beats paying out of pocket for the band needs, because what is his is mine, and what is mine is his and what is ours goes to the band.

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I give you the band mobile, their touring chariot, the living quarters of not so rich and famous. 
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She’s a little stinky but it gets them safely from city to city.

“You get to go on tours, sight see, and spend all that travel time with your husband” How about not. Let me walk you through my romantic, touristy weekend with The Husband. First, I rushed to the Friday night show, where after packing up, heading to the store for hotel snacks and drinks, and getting home, our heads hit the pillow around two a.m., six hours of sleep later we were up and ready to hit the road. We arrived at the venue at eleven because that was when they said to be there, which these places are never on time. I don’t know who runs these joints but get it together already! We then were stuck in the parking lot of a strip mall (with, literally, a strip club) waiting, all day. We had an SUV attached to a huge trailer fully loaded with an immense amount of band gear, we were not driving it down town to sight see. They don’t put these rock places near any landmarks, nice parks, or museums, they are on the outskirts, the other side of the tracks, with the strip clubs and the dollar stores. Cities like to hide their riff raff. Thank God for the Five Guys or we would have starved. It was miserably hot all day, I felt sick from the lack of sleep and healthy food (OK, and maybe just a touch of hangover, but I blame all the hotel water I drank that morning). This is touring, it is not glitter and gold, it is hard and tiring. This was only a short trip in state. If anyone thinks I am going on a cross country trip, getting into that busted ass RV with five stinky, sweaty, over partied and under slept dudes for weeks on end you are sorely mistaken, Dear Sir’s. Touring is not a vacation. I really can’t complain (though I just did), I was with The Husband, and as you all know, I will always take what I can get. We were in great company and made some hilarious memories, so the weekend trips I will do again, but I will stay out of the guy’s hair during the long hauls.

On of the highlights of the “touring” experience: my traveling buddy. Most definitely not a Yoko!

 

The Yoko Effect. I can guarantee that ninety-nine percent of us are not trying to break the band up. I know we can seem a little too involved at times (probably an understatement for me, I tend to get real involved) or we can get a little bitchy from time to time, but it is hard when our only time with them is usually shared with band mates. I know what I am in for but it won’t stop me from whining occasionally about him not being around. We don’t always want to be there but we love them, and when you love someone you want to share all their passions, and when there is music involved their passion is most likely one tracked. It becomes a fight or join scenario. It is very challenging for us to be with someone who is always on the go, and if the only way to get quality time is to follow the band around, damnit all, I will! The person I love the most is in a band, and I want to see him successful, happy, and proud; I want to see the band flourish. I guess you can call me a groupie if you so wish (but only for my husband), but don’t ever call me a Yoko!

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The reason for the band wife life, this guy, which I sometimes have to watch perform from the merch table. It’s not all that perfect, and its not all that terrible. Its tarnished silver, but it’s all out of love. 

 

 

 

The Desultory Trip

A weekend away from the band wife life.

I am looking up at this mountain from the bottom. Sitting on the patio of our vacation rental, I see the now green ski slopes and wonder when they were built, how much man-made work they put into them and how much of it was nature itself. I am looking forward to the rain coming in, an excuse to sit here all day and admire my mitten in all its beauty nature has given it.  From somewhere inside the beginning of a vast forest, that edges on the left of our patio, I hear a musical of birds, and a morning dove echoing. I wondered how far away or near it is. In all the mountains spread, you start to lose depth and gain perspective, my favorite thing about woods and being consumed by nature itself.

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I traveled to the great north on an invitation, to be with family and friends this holiday but I had leave the husband at home. One thing you should have as a band wife is an acceptance of spontaneity, you have to roll with the punches, and go with the flow. Sometimes The Husband might have used up all his time off on a band trip and sadly, cannot take a long holiday weekend off as planned. So, I muster up enough courage to drive four hours up north at night to be with our family. I am not a driver, and the thought of driving all by myself with our babies in tow was terrifying. But I made promises and we deserved a relaxing weekend away.

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My babies walking down the mountain

 

He will not miss every vacation and trip, we spent a week in Florida and did the whole Disney trip just this past fall. Which really wasn’t our cup of tea, but for the kids, we made an exception. We packed up and took off for a week in Orlando. It was busy and hot and all I could think the whole time is how they literally did “pave paradise and put up a parking lot” just as Joni Mitchel sang. It’s the cacophony of tourists and noise, new buildings being constructed and old ones tore down. It broke my heart, and left me feeling exhausted.  We get so busy; our lives are filled with noises and activity. Everywhere I go is loud, my job comes with its fair share of noise, shows are busy and loud, even at home we are making noise between The Husbands acoustic, the kids activities and my big mouth. It’s nice to be able to just get out from under all of it and unplug for a few days. Here we are, in the big great north, without the husband, not exactly how I wanted the weekend to go but I have been able to get time to think, to relax, enough peace to gather my thoughts and fill my lungs with some fresh mountain air. With my flow of thoughts this weekend comes this random blog post about all of them. Much like this weekend I don’t know where it’s going, no beginning, middle, or end.

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My thoughts, like the vast scenery, rambled on all weekend.

 

We have hiked the mountain, swam many laps, played multiple card games and laughed until we were sore, yet in the back of my head I still wish the husband could be here. This is the band wife life and it is what I chose. I could have stayed home this weekend, I could have made it to his shows but the noise of our everyday life was getting to be too much, much like Florida, leaving me exhausted, confused, and homesick. I chose to disconnect. I made the choice to go to the mountains, to forget about work for a while, to get lost in the woods every day while I am here, to clear my mind and find my peace. As a band wife we need to remember to be patient, selfless, flexible, supportive, ready to go at any moment, but most importantly we need to remember to stop. Stop occasionally and breath or you will suffocate. I have repeated this before, and most of these thoughts of mine are selfishly about yourselves as women (or men, whichever) but this is so important if you are with someone who’s hobby or job or where ever this talent they have may take them because it may take you farther then you want or possibly leave you behind. As in any relationship, focus on yourself when focusing on them becomes too much.

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Like A Stone

My Song to Cornell and All The Tortured Souls Alike

The Husband headed out at three o’clock this morning for Nashville, the guys have been planning this trip for quite sometime with a lot of excitement at the potential it could bring. I also took today off of work to get some things done around the house, because the excitement was all too much. That, and I have been putting in crazy overtime lately, have been getting behind on all my chores and the thought of having the house to myself all day was way too appealing. This morning I thought I would wake up, roll out of bed, and cheerfully do some much needed house work. Instead, I rolled over to my phone, checked my Facebook like we used to check the newspaper, and was hit with some heavy news. Front man Chris Cornell had passed late last night, in Detroit, no less (Michigan girl here). So, once I got the kids off to school, I sat with my coffee processing it all, I shouted from my dining room table “Hey, Google, play me some Chris Cornell” She answered like the steadfast computer she is and played me an all-day playlist, from his multiple bands, live, recorded, unplugged all of it. While I cleaned, and brooded, I heard the hauntingly beautiful crooning that was born in the grunge era and pulled us through the past two decades. I don’t usually mourn celebrity deaths, and it might have been with all the excitement of the husband going on the road, or too much coffee and cleaning by myself this morning, but it hit me pretty hard. This man’s voice was incredible, and the worlds music will be a little less, now.

Later in the day, I read an article that they are speculating it was suicide and it reminded me of a conversation the husband and I had a while ago. We were talking about how it seems like all great musicians are depressed. This is the stereotype, right? So many musicians we have met along the way suffer, not all, but many. My personal knowledge of artists, most (remember, I use MOST very strongly, we are not all built the same) that I have met, they seem to think more deeply, or maybe it’s that they put all their deepness in public form, rather than keeping it inside. Who knows? I see these deep tortured souls and I wonder what came first, the chicken or the egg? Is it that, through these deep tortured souls, comes the beauty through their artform; or is it that the art challenges them to become deeper, to think deeper, to process more. Who knows?

I hear terribly unhappy childhood stories, drug use, abuse, how writers drink too much and painters are always depressed. I wonder if there is a majestic part of our brain that holds a creativity that surpasses us novices. Pandora’s box, if you will, that can only be opened when something so tragic happens it breaks open, overwhelming us with the raw emotion that can only be expressed with pictures and words, music, comedy, or theater. I have seen so many people take their pain and anguish and turn it into the most beautiful works of arts, paintings, or music. Being a word girl, I have heard and read sentences of words strung together that have bought me to my knees, and honestly made me envy the gift they have. Are all these people feeling alone, lost, or scared? Maybe not, but maybe so. That Pandora art box at one point in their past was forced open and possessed them to let it flow out of their hands, through their paint brush, or maybe out of their mouths, through the pen or on a set of strings. I understand that your own thoughts haunt you, that you can wish and wish them away but you are still a prisoner in your own head. It seems endless and inconsolable. It can be a blessing, though, your outlet is another’s strength. Your words, and music, and images can be someone else’s journey into something more, something better, something that can take us to places we could never see with our naked eyes. To all the artists with the tortured souls, please remember that on your darkest of days you are always making the world more beautiful and tolerable for us who cannot find expression. When you find yourselves in despair, sing, write, play, paint, draw, laugh, dance, and act. Let your noise be your medicine and our saving grace. From all of us and the world itself: Thank you for you. You are needed, you are wanted, you are requested to take our black and white worlds beyond the shades of grey and bring us color that our own imaginations cannot create.

Pubs, Taverns, and Dives

My most memorable bar stories.

It’s no secret I am a dive connoisseur. I have been to many, many, many bars, venues, art studios, restaurants, pubs, taverns, and many, many, many others by other names but they all remain the same: dives. Though I may mock them often, I love them very much, they are my home away from home, my stomping grounds, where my heart and soul will always preside. I am always willing to sacrifice a clean bathroom to get my rock on (seriously, you should see some of these toilets they expect you to pee in). I have decided to make a compilation of the most interesting experiences I have had as a band wife, because it is always at the very least an interesting time.

 

  • The Frozen Pizza Pub: That one time when I went to order a beer at the bar and I saw the bartender pull out a frozen pizza out of the freezer and hand over to the waitress. Not even the good stuff, but the real cheap brand, they could have done better with Aldi brand (jokes aside, I love me some Aldi anything, that place is my jam). They even served it on the card board it came with, geniuses! The kicker: They were selling them for seven bucks a pop! Now you and I both know they went to Kroger and stocked up on a ten for ten deal!
  • The Hipster Paradise: There is really nothing I enjoy loathing more than a damn hipster, so when we walked into a venue that had an all vegan menu, smelled of essential oils, and served their beer in mason jars I was in gripe heaven! Seriously, mason jars are so hard to manage, they are too big to hold while you are rocking, unless you got some big old meat mitts, and then as you hit your third, fourth, or fifth it gets real tricky. They are just not practical for beers.
  • The coffee Shop Amateurs: Once The Husband played at an acoustic night at an art studio that supposedly seconded as a coffee shop, they had some very interesting art but their coffee was more interesting, a small, un-busy night I asked ordered a coffee which the guy behind the makeshift counter used the Sunbeam twelve cup coffee pot that was teetering on the side of the counter to brew a pot of the most generic cuppa I have ever tasted. This did not bother me that much because I am not a coffee snob, give me whatever you got, as long as it’s dark and strong. I take it like a pill, its only purpose is to give me life, I am not concerned with the quality. What bothered me was that it took him forty-five minutes to brew a pot of coffee, in a coffee shop…. Dude, you have one job.
  • The Anti-Social Bar: The Husband was playing at a venue that did not have food, and we were starving, so he sent me to the next-door hole in the wall to get some food. This was possibly the smallest, darkest hole in the wall I’ve been to. The door was an actual hole in the wall, I felt like I stepped back into 1978 and there were only three lonely old men sitting on either corner of the bar, and two old ladies running the joint that were not too pleased to see they had customers. Their menu consisted of hot dogs and your basic fried bar foods. A few of their unusual items were cheese and crackers or sardines and crackers, which I know for a fact The Husband loves sardines so I was planning on getting him a side of that but when we got up to order the little ol’ bitty bypassed me. Once I piped up, after she fried up the others’ orders, I ordered a pizza, she huffed loudly and said in a tone only an eighty-year-old woman who’s worked behind a bar for way too long could get away with using, said, “You know that is going to take me twenty minutes?” at that point I knew I pissed her off and was scarred, so I nervously mumbled something like: “Uh… I guess I can get a basket of chicken strips” Then she hobbled over to the fryer whilst lecturing me on how she could have made the strips with everyone else’s. I was so afraid of the lady that I bypassed the canned fish all together, grabbed my food, and booked it outta there. Nothing is scarier than an eighty-year-old bar tender. You know that woman has seen some shit
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None of these pictures are of bars I have been to. I would never disclose the names and locations of these stories because I love my bars. 
  • Ok, so maybe I only have a top four memorable bar moments. I had more but they were all slightly too offensive, even for this blog. So enjoy my stories and maybe if I can think of more I will post a second half to this, or maybe I will forget again, because I am pretty sure most of my brain is made up of mashed potatoes (mmm.. potatoes) at this point in the game.

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