Monday, January 16, 2006
Kick It In Now, Second Wind
Ever need a couple of days off to recover from your weekend? Of course you have. That's where I'm living today.
Friday night was a Parrothead Club Happy Hour over at Teakwood's in Gilbert. As always with a bunch of Parrotheads, "hour" is a misnomer. This one went from about 5:00 to 8:00, and then moved up the road. Teakwood's is a phriendly place to waste away, and ranks near the top of Crime Dog’s favorite watering holes. They have one of those computerized jukeboxes that actually tie into the Internet and downloads like a gazillion songs. A quick search under "Buffett" produced not one, not two, but 165 songs. I asked our server, who was fantastic, I might add, to turn up the sound so we could hear it a little better. She did, but when I started inside to feed the machine, I saw two women lined up, cash in hand selecting songs already. No problem, I'm thinking, they'll probably play something we all like.
No such luck.
Next thing I know, the very twangiest, stomach-churning country music imaginable is pouring out of the speakers. Some shit about mamas, railroads, and pickup trucks, near as I could tell. Oh well, it can't last forever, so I head on in when they're done to begin selecting my music. With any luck at all, it'll play sometime before we all leave. So I select the first song, and a marvelous thing happens. A button pops up on screen that says something about how I can play my song right now for one additional credit. With some redneck blaring through the speakers about a dead dog, that sounds like a pretty fine option to me. Money well spent. So I push the button and select another song. Same thing happens, so I push the button again, and again, and again. When my credits ran out, I rushed outside to our table and took up a collection, then ran back in to make about a hundred more selections, pushing the "play now" button each time.
I hate that those women wasted their money. OK, that's a lie. I really don't give a shit, but they could have sat there and drank beer until Sunday and never heard those nauseating songs. I think Buffett was still crooning away when our happy hour broke up and everyone headed out.
A bunch of us headed over to Cafe Posada for karaoke at that point, and happy hour eventually turned into happy five and one half hours. We had 'em dancing in the aisles with an animated conga-line version of "Volcano." I sang, everybody joined in, and it was the highlight of the night. Z-Man, who was working in the bar that night, took the mike from me at the conclusion of the song and, with faux tears and emotion, said "I'm so proud of my Dad......" A regular chip off the old block, that one. Or maybe a slice off the old ham.
Saturday found me on the golf course nursing a hangover with Tipsy Tommy T From Texas, who was present for the Friday festivities and likewise impaired. More so, from the way his game went. I didn't know it was physically possible to hit a golf ball in some of the directions he managed. I got home just in time to crash out on the couch and watch New England fumble Denver right into the AFC Championship.
Sunday found the whole club out at PF Chang's Rock n' Toll Marathon manning Water Station #14 with the good folks at the Baptist Church next door. (Tell me that ain't a weird combination.) We set up the Tiki Bar, powered the amps and speakers, cranked up the tunes, and did our part to keep something like 30,000 runners, strollers, wheelchairs, and walkers properly hydrated and motivated. It was quite a field. We gave water to friendly folks from Alaska to San Diego, Maine to Miami, including a guy in a pink tutu and an Imperial Stormtrooper. Big "Lushes" Lou did a fantastic job organizing the whole thing, until he made the mistake of handing me the mike so he could go drain the main vein. He never got it back, placing The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog once again in the unsavory position of admitting "Yes. I'm married to that guy." By the time it was over, I had been labeled "Ham Dog."
Anyway, long story short.......OK that's a lie, since there's nothing short about it, but here I am on Monday, glad to be back at work so I can get some rest.
But I have been designated "Water Station #14 Announcer For Life." I got that going for me.
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Friday night was a Parrothead Club Happy Hour over at Teakwood's in Gilbert. As always with a bunch of Parrotheads, "hour" is a misnomer. This one went from about 5:00 to 8:00, and then moved up the road. Teakwood's is a phriendly place to waste away, and ranks near the top of Crime Dog’s favorite watering holes. They have one of those computerized jukeboxes that actually tie into the Internet and downloads like a gazillion songs. A quick search under "Buffett" produced not one, not two, but 165 songs. I asked our server, who was fantastic, I might add, to turn up the sound so we could hear it a little better. She did, but when I started inside to feed the machine, I saw two women lined up, cash in hand selecting songs already. No problem, I'm thinking, they'll probably play something we all like.
No such luck.
Next thing I know, the very twangiest, stomach-churning country music imaginable is pouring out of the speakers. Some shit about mamas, railroads, and pickup trucks, near as I could tell. Oh well, it can't last forever, so I head on in when they're done to begin selecting my music. With any luck at all, it'll play sometime before we all leave. So I select the first song, and a marvelous thing happens. A button pops up on screen that says something about how I can play my song right now for one additional credit. With some redneck blaring through the speakers about a dead dog, that sounds like a pretty fine option to me. Money well spent. So I push the button and select another song. Same thing happens, so I push the button again, and again, and again. When my credits ran out, I rushed outside to our table and took up a collection, then ran back in to make about a hundred more selections, pushing the "play now" button each time.
I hate that those women wasted their money. OK, that's a lie. I really don't give a shit, but they could have sat there and drank beer until Sunday and never heard those nauseating songs. I think Buffett was still crooning away when our happy hour broke up and everyone headed out.
A bunch of us headed over to Cafe Posada for karaoke at that point, and happy hour eventually turned into happy five and one half hours. We had 'em dancing in the aisles with an animated conga-line version of "Volcano." I sang, everybody joined in, and it was the highlight of the night. Z-Man, who was working in the bar that night, took the mike from me at the conclusion of the song and, with faux tears and emotion, said "I'm so proud of my Dad......" A regular chip off the old block, that one. Or maybe a slice off the old ham.
Saturday found me on the golf course nursing a hangover with Tipsy Tommy T From Texas, who was present for the Friday festivities and likewise impaired. More so, from the way his game went. I didn't know it was physically possible to hit a golf ball in some of the directions he managed. I got home just in time to crash out on the couch and watch New England fumble Denver right into the AFC Championship.
Sunday found the whole club out at PF Chang's Rock n' Toll Marathon manning Water Station #14 with the good folks at the Baptist Church next door. (Tell me that ain't a weird combination.) We set up the Tiki Bar, powered the amps and speakers, cranked up the tunes, and did our part to keep something like 30,000 runners, strollers, wheelchairs, and walkers properly hydrated and motivated. It was quite a field. We gave water to friendly folks from Alaska to San Diego, Maine to Miami, including a guy in a pink tutu and an Imperial Stormtrooper. Big "Lushes" Lou did a fantastic job organizing the whole thing, until he made the mistake of handing me the mike so he could go drain the main vein. He never got it back, placing The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog once again in the unsavory position of admitting "Yes. I'm married to that guy." By the time it was over, I had been labeled "Ham Dog."
Anyway, long story short.......OK that's a lie, since there's nothing short about it, but here I am on Monday, glad to be back at work so I can get some rest.
But I have been designated "Water Station #14 Announcer For Life." I got that going for me.
