4/4/07

Ok, so I will now tell the rest of Saturday’s tale. After parting company with Pat and John, I went home to get ready for Gallery Night. Gallery Night is when several of the smaller art galleries up and down Camp Bowie Boulevard open up and serve beer and wine and cheese and crackers and stuff while folks wander around and go, “Unh huh huh!” in that snooty French way. I've been going with Amy, the original Amy not the one from the railroad and now Da Fort Worth International Airport, for several years now. It’s a tradition get over it. Anyhoo, I go home, take a quick nap, shave, shower, and get dressed. I'm supposed to be at Amy’s at 1700 h and it is 1630 h when I am ready. What timing! I roll to Amy’s and have a beer with her, her husband Sam, and Jenny who is another friend that is going with us. We’re waiting for Edie now. Once she arrives we pile into Amy and Sam’s Escape, or something, and head out. At the first gallery I see a familiar face. It is the parts manager from the McCart BoP, the one who looks like Larry the Cable Guy. He recognizes that he knows me from somewhere but I let him steep. Tee hee. I figure I'll see him at the other galleries and let him off the hook eventually. I never did see him the rest of the evening. Oh well. The second gallery was more of a snooty artsy-fartsy store than a gallery but they had some cool stuff. The third place was another actual gallery and was the most crowded of them all. This was the gallery where we saw “Ozzie Osborn” last year. It wasn’t really him but he sure did look a lot like him. We rolled to another SNAFS (snooty artsy-fartsy store) and had a look around. A couple walk in and she starts talking to Amy while he talks to Sam. I happened to be standing near Amy at the time so I listened in on that conversation. When she said her name Segars and her husband Paul was doing something or other, I jumped in. “Wait, wait.” I said, “Paul Segars? Western Hills High School? Class of 1984?” She looked at me funny and said, “Yes, we both went to Hills.” I introduced myself and she said she recognized me. I doubt it because I used to look like Napoleon Dynamite but now look like Stone Cold Steve Austin. Ok, maybe if Steve let himself go, but that’s beside the point. I go over to talk to Paul. He looks familiar once I really look at him and he also claims to recognize me. We talk for a bit and before long I begin to worry that I never said my name. As we part, he says something like, “Good to see you again Tim” so I assume someone said my name, or he really did remember me. Who knows? From that place we went to another SNAFS and looked around. Actually, between those two places I went into a liquor store and bought a six-pack of Guiness since I knew I'd be the only one drinking them. We moved on. We drove to Bluebonnet Traffic Circle and hung out at a couple more SNAFS. When we finished there Gallery Night was over. Since it was only 2100 h, we weren’t ready to call it a night. Now before I go on I'd like to say this, I don’t have anything against actual gays, for crying out loud I just told y'all about Gallery Night, or riders of Sport Bikes, apart from them usually being douche-bag assholes with a death wish, so temper the rest of this tale knowing that. So with Gallery Night over, it was decided that we needed to go to the biker bar they had gone to on St. Patrick’s Day. I shrugged and went along. Turns out it was that biker bar on Belknap just as you enter downtown from I-35 or 121. If I'd known it was that place, I probably would have vetoed it. The place is called the Ass-House or something, Juan assumes because of all the faggot-assed bikers in their S&M leather poser gear. I said to Sam as we were walking from the car, “If there’s one thing I hate more than Hardlys, it’s Hardly riders.” “You might want to keep that to yourself in here,” he replied. It was loud and smoky and full to the rafters with weekend rebels in their pristine leather S&M outfits, prancing around showing off the tattoos they have to hide while working at the accounting office all week. Fuck! I hate those shit-for-brains! Anyhoo, the reason they thought I'd like the place, aside from assuming I wanted to see a bunch of closet-cases in their fantasy outfits, was the fact that every few songs the bartenders got up on the bar and danced. Yawn. It was like the time Sinbad’s lost their “stripper license” or whatever and the dancers had to dance in bikinis rather than topless. What’s the point? I was totally bored. Fortunately I hadn’t gone “third person” or I might have mouthed-off to one of the Butt-Pirates about how bad Hardly Dumbasson sucks. I swear, if I'd had a Sharpie I would have written the following on the bathroom wall: “Why settle for comfort, performance, or reliability when you can have a Hardly?” Have I mentioned I hate those morons? When we finally leave, I say to the folks in the car, “I want to go get a tattoo, some leather S&M gear, and a Hardly so I can be a rebel just like everyone else!” They all laughed. We dropped Jenny off at her house and went in to see her new bathroom that Sam had just built. It was quite nice. Amy was rubbing Jenny’s dog’s tummy when Sam noticed a pinkie. “Someone’s coming out to play!” he said. Amy screeched and ran for the door. “Ooh, that’s why I like cats,” she said. “They don’t do that.” I had to correct her and tell her that my old cat Rufus used to get a chubbie when doing the piano thing sometimes. She was aghast. We left and went back to Amy and Sam’s, giving her a hard time, pun intended, about it the whole way. Edie and I both decline a trip to Taco Cabana and head our separate ways. I'm not sure what time it is when I get home but I crash out immediately. Sunday wasn’t much of a story, but I'll save it for tomorrow anyway.