by Randolph O. Mann
Editor's Note: I don't know either. Just go with the flow.
What more isssss there for me to sssssay? ,,, ? Blind luckkkkick is a clichéd phrase that comes quickly into mind. While scary crazy, on the other hand, would be a fundamental undersssstatement. Better yet, let me just spell out it out for you in piercsssing, drunken detail.
It is twenty-three hundred, I am seated at the distal corner of a very long stilted bar and I am drunk as a skunkkkk. The awkward tedium of an empty bar will test anyone’s character and this worthless ‘toilet’ broke mine somewhere between the third and the fourtttth round of drinks. As far as I am concerned ‘common sense’ should be telling us this just isn’t our night. Instead, our handicapped foursome has resorted to drinking ‘doubles,’ with a misguided strategggggy of extending the affect of ‘happy hour’ as long as possible.
This craggy neighborhood dive is totally deserted, except for an elderly bartender and the three blind-drunk guys, I mean, three drunk blind-guys seated on the barstools to my right.
Nino has been pimped out to stud for the weekend.
The lucky dog!
As a result, I have been conscrippp-ted into service as a surrogate guide dog. A thankless job, I reluctantly accept so this sightless trio of alcoholic womanizers can go bar hopping in and around Cow Hollow. AND ironically we drop anchor HERE, in A Blind Alley, of all places? Where collectively we find ourselves dry-docked in this second-rate ‘duuuump,’ with the four of us blankly staring into a ‘drunken fog’ that is obsssscuring our view of a particularly well stocked ‘back bar,’ when out of nowhere, the plumpessst member of our ‘crew’ blurts out an inspired epiphany.
“I can smell their excitement?”
I think to myself, excitement got ‘eighty-ssssssixed’ from this pathetic pub decades ago when that geriatric bartender stepped behind the ‘Plank’ and embarked upon his misguided career dead-icated to serving up endless weekends of boredom. I will swear to everyone within earshot the last time this sorry saloon reeked with excitement, Moscone was Mayor and you can trusssst me, my drunken friend that ‘ain’t’ excitement in the air. I’ll even go so far as to wager one of the ‘Hamiltons’ safely tucked away in my billffffold, the source of the ‘excitement’ attacking old ‘pie-eyed’ Tommy’s nostrils is the pungent scent from the urinal cakes hanging in the Men’s latrine of this tired tavern.
“Relax kid. Patience can be a virtue at times like these. Just go with the flow and embrace ‘their’ tasty party.”
RELAX? Rest assured this static salooooon is ground-zero for all things ‘relaxed'’ and as I glance around this pitiable pub I don’t see any signs of that changing anytime soon. I further ssssubmit, if we ‘settle down’ anymore ‘They’ would call that sleeping, which is ILEAGAL in any bar that is open for business in San Frannnncisco County my ‘plastered’ pal!
You can look it up!
I did and in Weber’ssss New Collegiate Dictionary there’s even a picture of this very bar, for Christ’s sake!
A nippy inspection of this derelict drinking hole reveals a wino’s wasteland complete with a vacant danccccce floor, a long forgotten ‘1015 bubbler’ abandoned against the far wall and THAT pathetic codger behind the ‘plank’ polishing ‘rocks’ glasses, in a hopeless effffffort to ward off the melancholy that is overwhelming this worn-out watering hole, ON THE FIRST NIGHT OF A THREE DAY WEEKEND, I might add!
“JUST SHOOT ME!”
“I got a better idea, Sport. Why don’t ‘we’ just refocus and take advantage of your mind's eye by peeking beyond the obvious? I suggest together we can breathe in the tasty ambrosia being held hostage inside that abandoned jukebox over there and embrace the rhythm of life by eavesdropping upon the taboo mirage of wild womanly bodies as they put on their yearly show. I am talking about a gyrating gaggle of opportunity that is teasing us with curvy figures snugly wrapped in skin-tight clubbing attire. I advocate listening as each of their memorizing garments is erotically contorted to and beyond the boundary of fashionable modesty. We can drink in every drop of the zesty feminine fragrances that are to be found hanging in midair as these wanton women scandalously improvise a same-sex display they refer to as an Initiation.
Granted gate-crashing, by nature, is a dicey matter. But it is well worth any risks associated with an opportunity to savor this erotic Rush Week finale. Estrogenic excesses will rule the hour, while matronly morality is given a holiday with the fresh ‘talent’ ripe and sugared for this year’s harvest. We should be thankful for any voyeuristic pleasure that can be gleaned from witnessing the hazing of such fine-looking ingénues. It will be courtesy of an endless supply of Appletinis, Cosmopolitans, Mohitos and Tequila Body Shots that each ‘New Member’ finds herself suitably anesthetized. Girlie squealing forecast the rampant debauchery that is in play tonight as their spherical bottoms keep time to the music. Feminine appendages hysterically cavort high above the elevated hardwood dance floorboards waving to and fro while their immodest gyrations persuade such flexible hemlines to slither upward from knee to hip as these ladies take part in the time honored rite of passage linked to joining this trendy ‘twisted sister’ sorority as the latest crop of Sorostitutes must now endure their own risqué trial by Party …”
AM I missing something?
Is my fat associate smok’en crack?
As I look around this loser’s lounge I don’t see any women ‘properly anessssthetized.’ This bar is totally empty!
Did I hear Thomas right, ‘Erotically contorted?’
I believe Tom also made references to some ‘illicit flaunting’ and ‘curvy figures frolicking.’ NOT IN THIS SSSSSNOBBISH NEIGHBORHOOD! For that type of diversion, my cubby friend, we will need to ‘flag down’ a cab and take a ride over the hill to North Beach or we could jusssst head straight down Van Ness toward SoMa, for that matter. Remember Tommy my boy, itsssss always the unloaded ‘pie in the sky’ that kills. AND if you don’t believe me, ask Margaret Hamilton she will tell you! So before someone in this empty pub getssssss hurt, ,, I suggest ‘we’ just put the overactive imagination down and step away.
“… With the juke box speaker briefly placed on hiatus and the stage lights temporarily muted, the assembled Sorority Siblings begin a measured rhythmic applause until the clapping is replaced with piercing shrieks from the collected sisterhood heralding in the initial cheesy trombone wailings escaping from the bubbly old juke box. Then with focused theatrical lighting softly bathing the elevated dance floor the reticent ‘twiddles’ are encouraged toward center stage by the persistent cadence of slapping female hands. The aggressive hand slapping mutates into a haphazard ovation once the pair of ‘New Members’ find their ‘marks.’ Suggestive hip movement from the nervous dancers entices an even greater volume to the screams coming from the bevy of ‘Big Sisters’ ringing the floorboards. Then as unrehearsed footwork is coupled with calculated same-sex touching the anxious brace broadcasts the boundless opportunity that is at hand for these plucky ingénues as gradually more and more of their skin is exposed. An interesting game of Can-You-Top-This has these sister-strippers exploring the exotic potential of each of their remaining garments. Dropping a ‘spaghetti-strap’ over a tanned right shoulder is answered by naughty fingertips leisurely drawing a taut hemline up an athletically toned thigh. Such a challenging maneuver is promptly countered with a provocative left shoulder shrug that encourages a second diminutive shoulder restraint to fall away which in turn persuades the girlish audience to musically chant, ‘take it off, Take It Off, TAKE IT OFF!
Both of the intoxicated hoofers give in to the incessant peer pressure as these adult dancers go to work removing their sexy, red party dresses. A task these gals accomplished efficiently with one gal dragging her naked arms beyond the flimsy spaghetti-straps hanging at each bicep before releasing her silky wine-colored gown so it can fall away. While across the dance floor an aggressive tug is applied to a taut crimson hemline so the second dancer’s supple clubbing dress can be stretched and pulled, up and overhead in a collaborative maneuver that simultaneously reveals a bouncy quartet of mammary glands in all their gelatinous glory...”
I am man enough to admit it! I find myself neck deep into the cocktail hour and things are getting a bit jummmbled. Rubbing my bloodshot eyes does nothing to bring Tom’s relentlessly ramblingssss into focus for me. Neither does shaking my booze clouded head which is currently suffering a bout of alcohol induccccced double vision. Even squinting into the far reaches of this dance hall is failing to center the affffforementioned feral festival of foolishness.
Try as I might, I find only emptiness filling this very blurry bar.
“…The initial clumsiness of yielding to such a vigorous demand for public nudity is short lived for this topless pair as they gradually find the ‘down beat and embrace the rhythm of the naughty David Rose instrumental tune. Exaggerated hip movement counter balanced with measured shoulder shivers successfully captures the full attention of all in the attendance while these half naked jezebels jiggle about the stage. The premeditated shifting of body weight between shapely, widely posted legs by these impromptu Strippers sends both of their diminutive pelvic girdles into arching trajectories igniting mocking catcalls and wolfish whistles from their crazed sorority peers. Then by mischievously tucking their thumbs, cowboy style, inside the minuscule waistband of their pocket-sized knickers while playfully shacking their good-looking behinds incites a second chorus of, ‘Take Them Off.’ Stretching the flexible waistbands to a near breaking point allows these dancing dolls to slide their diminutive ‘dainties’ downward providing the ‘leafless’ appearance their newly acquired BFF’s are chanting for. Self-rendered as naked from smile to shoe top the dancing debutants are encouraged to take a seat for ‘the tipping of their velvet’ as two bar stools join them on stage… ”
This might be justtttt the liquor talking or there could be a ‘blind spottt’ in my imagination. But at this point I am too drunk to figure it out. And quite frankly, Tom’s version of this empty bar soundssss much more interesting than my Friday night reality. So I have decided, if I can’t beat them, why not join them?’
“Tar-bender, give us another round, on ME!”
“...Reconciled to the time honored task at hand, each of the “Shower Ready’ applicants scramble into a very rigid, self-conscious, legs-crossed pose, atop the centrally sited seating assignment, as a human hallway is gradually constructed between the dance floor and the bar. Rhythmic clapping from the hoard of lusty female spectators announces the approaching spectacle, as the weathered innkeeper is encouraged to make his way from behind the bar and along the length of the feminine gauntlet. The aging bartender mounts the stage while politely waving to the grateful herd of veteran mustache jockeys ringing the dance floor. Gallantly the old man acknowledges the past dalliances linking himself orally with each and every member of this decadent Sorority and in some rare cases with their mothers too. As an appreciative crescendo of applause concedes this master’s oral proficiency and clearly acknowledges the compromised standing of EACH and EVERY alumnus in attendance. Then as focused eye contact between the graying bartender and both of his eager applicants respectfully solicits informed consent from the ‘tasty martyrs’ and courtesy of two female head nods the voluntary standing of each of the young ladies is shyly established. This in turn wrings piercing, orgasmic squeals of support from the assembled womanhood surrounding the stage as one by one each New Member spreads her legs, as they too intend to straddle the bartender’s tongue…”
Then the saloon door abruptly bursts open and I ‘shit-U-not’, SEVENTEEN (my new lucky Lotto number) ‘smoking-hot’ co-ed’s bound into this forsaken pub! AND like sexy little ducklings, these darlings waddle linearly the length of the mahogany bar in their skin tight, scarcely there, clubbing attire. Once all of the eye-catching vixens are assemble across the bar from the mature innkeeper each of the little girls pulls a brand new ‘Benjamin’ from between their chests and slaps it onto the wooden countertop before consecutively stepping onto the brass foot-rail and wantonly stretching across the bar so each gal can stencil her lip-print onto the waiting face of the cantankerous tavern owner. Then while this kindle of giggling sex kittens scampers onto the dance floor the Bartender announces loud and clear for all to hear.
“LAST CALL for alcohol!”
Last Call at eleven?
That can’t be right. Even factoring in ‘bar time,’ this old codger can’t be thinking of closing up shop this early.
So I stand up with the intention of formally lodging a grievance with the ‘upper management’ of this dilapidated beverage mercantile when I am struck dumb by an unforeseen mass mutiny to my right.
Ghostlike I watch an unsightly migration as each of the three blind ‘entities’ seated at my far end of the bar mutely extend their folded canes and without even batting an eye tap their way towards the tavern exit.
Dumbfounded, I retake my seat by slumping back onto ‘my’ waiting bar stool as the jukebox kicks in and this formerly desolate gin-joint starts ‘jumpin’ to life. The ornery bartender steps out from behind the bar before doggedly striding in my direction. He firmly marshals me onto my feet and prods me towards the door. Within seconds, I find myself standing outside, on the sidewalk, with my blind ‘posy’ in the dark. While the tavern door is slammed in my face and the tumbler sounds before the neon cocktail sign dims.
Just that fast, we have been ‘kicked to the curb.’
I turn my head and gaze skeptically as my three blind drunk comrades’ slowly stumble their way down Union Street towards Steiner. The visually challenged threesome pause at the corner to allow a yellow checker-board taxi right of entry into the vacant Muni loading zone as I watch wide-eyed and slack-jawed while two more ‘drop-dead’ gorgeous collegiate pixies, climb out the taxi’s side door and scamper down the upscale urban sidewalk all the time urgently yelling into their I-phones while tugging at the high-riding hems of their diminutive red party dresses. I stare in wonder as the pretty pair repetitively slap on the Pub’s locked front door which eventually summons an ad-hoc female ‘bouncer’ to usher the tardy co-eds inside.
“You got shotgun, Kid.”
Reluctantly I resign to the total absurdity of all that is surrounding me, I watch in silent disbelief as my trinity of unsighted friends wobble into the backseat of the cab. Then shaking my head, I wordlessly answer my cue by ducking into the front seat of the waiting cab and begrudgingly slam the passenger car door firmly shut to punctuate my personal frustration.
Inside, I find myself seating next to a very tall, bearded cabby who is sporting a magenta turban. I am courteously asked to secure my seatbelt by the hired driver as the taxi joins the traffic and I passively ask, “Tom, can you tell me the part about the tasty ambrosia again?”
Copyright© 2014 by Randolph O. Mann. All rights reserved.