Leda the Fluffball went for a spa day yesterday. Though I don't think her spa days are as relaxing as the human kind, since hers involve the removal of vast quantities of hair (rather like waxing, now that I think about it) and the unsnarling of dreadlocks. Because Leda is fluffy, you see, and all that fluff gets gross and matted and dirty and eventually forces the MiL to schedule an appointment with a professional dog groomer to get the fluff under control again.
Now, the grooming is a serious endeavor. A. and I dropped Leda off at 1:30 p.m. and were told to pick her up at 5:30 p.m. Since we weren't really all that close to our house and didn't want to drive home only to repeat the trip in a few hours, we went into the nearby city to go to the library (because A. is just as big of a library geek as I am). We then found ourselves with about an hour to go and decided to go to a tavern that's on the main road near the groomer.
At first, we couldn't even figure out if the place was open. There were no cars in the parking lot, though the beer signs were illuminated. There was a For Sale sign in the front lawn. There were like five doors, but the one that looked like the main entrance had boxes of beer blockading the door. We were just about to leave when A. opened a door at random and found a hall leading to the bar. So we went in.
There was one other person at the bar besides the bartender. The t.v. was showing "Dirty Harry." So A. got a beer and I, being hungry to the point of collapse, got some peanuts. And we sat there watching Clint Eastwood and that really creepy bad guy, shelling peanuts, drinking beer (and water), and eventually, talking to the bartender.
The bartender was the owner. He's trying to sell his bar because business has been down and he wants to retire. His father opened the place in the '60s. The decor has never been changed, as far as I could tell. There were signs all over the place advertising an "All You Can Drink Beer" night on Fridays for $12. I can't think that's a good idea, giving a bunch of good ole boys three hours to down as much beer as they can. This Friday is the first night it's occurring. A. was tempted to go, but this place is too far away to drive home from in the condition he would surely find himself in after drinking as much beer as he could hold in three hours. That is, drunk.
But the absolute piece de resistance, the crowning glory, the thing that made this visit all worthwhile, was a big bottle of Budweiser that had been placed in its own little glass case on the wall right at the end of the bar. A. asked the bartender/owner why that bottle was there. His reply? "Oh, that's my dad. He drank Bud all his life and wanted his ashes kept in the bar after he died."
Rock on.
10 comments:
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That is quite funny.
My girl hates going to the spa. She always returns home a bit depressed.
That is hilarious. You can't make that stuff up!
Aw.... see, people in the city THINK they know what a classic dive bar is but they have no idea. I went to bars like the one your are describing all the time when I lived in Vermont. That is quality realism right there...with a side of peanuts.
I love those kinds of places. When the "regulars" are there it's even better....when you get to see how they all interact with each other and what they drink....a total social experiment. I wonder where they will keep Dad, in his Bud bottle, after they sell the bar?
Now THAT is a great story. I'm giving thought to being stored in a chardonnay bottle now.
Ah, Cecil's!
There once was an establishment named the Thirsty Owl, just north of the Auburn prison. Somehow the owner whom is long deceased cut off an index finger. His son kept the finger floating in a jar of formaldehyde next to the cash register. A conservation piece for certain. Lance
Classic. If he has to sell the place, what will happen to his dad? Sniff. So sad.
What a hoot!!! great story :0)
Please tell me his dad's name was Bud.
Lie to me even.
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