I went to a concert last night here in good ol’ Nash Vegas. I was supposed to go with a friend of mine, but she ended up bailing because of the cluster fuck that was driving down I-65. So after I saw Benjamin Button (superb), my friend Liz dropped me off at the bar downtown for the show. I wandered in on my own, and sauntered up to the bar for a beer. The bartender was pregnant. Granted, she was only four or five months along, but it was still a bit of a cliche to see a pregnant woman opening my beers as she rang up someone’s tab.
I tried not to judge too much, which for me, is saying a lot. Then the opening band decided to sing a song dedicated to The Swayze in one of our frat’s favorite movie – Road House. At this point, I couldn’t decide if I was ecstatic or appalled. I sat there, swiveling in my chair every time a waitress needed to get by, which was constantly, and soaked all of the insanity in. Finally, the main act came on and was thoroughly enjoyable. I ended up meeting two chicks who discussed Nash Vegas, ‘Bama, and life with me for about an hour or so. As I realized that I needed to get back to school at some point, I called a cab, thinking I would have plenty of time to kill before they ended up there.
All of a sudden, some shady guy walks in to the bar. He yelled in the middle of the bar, asking if someone had called for a cab. Embarrassed and slightly let down that I couldn’t stay for longer, I sheepishly walked out to the cab. Shady McSketchington then asked me for money since he “just got out of jail” – charming, I know. I steadfastly refused, and once I got into the cab, told the cabbie how to get back to campus. Then he tried to steal my sunglasses.
Welcome to Nashville, mother fucker.