Last night my special someone, SW, and some of her friends and I, visited a local bar called Click’s. That might not be how you spell its name, but no matter how you spell the name, they have a jukebox. It’s not an old-fashioned jukebox, but instead it’s one of the digital contraptions. If you pay 50 cents you can hear one of a very limited range of songs by conventional bands, but if you pay a full dollar you can hear all kinds of obscure songs by those same conventional bands.
The first song I chose was this one:
As soon as it came on, before the song really even started (it was a live version, like in the video), I heard someone shouting from behind the bar. It sounded like a response to the music, and I expected it to be a negative one. Within a few seconds the bartender was standing right over my shoulder, glaring down. His head was shaved, and he looked somewhat rougher than the poets and literature students I’m used to hanging out with. He asked who it was who had played that song on the jukebox, and when I identified myself timidly, expecting the worst sort of vitriol, he surprised me by putting a shot glass in front of me and telling me it was one of his favorite songs ever. He told me he would give me the shot of my choice. I cried a little, I was so happy, and I chose Jameson’s.
My next selection from the jukebox had been this song (I don’t know who made this video, or what it has to do with the song):
What happened then? The same bartender walked up behind me again, and placed a full glass of Jameson in front of me. I had made his night, apparently, and he was determined to then make mine.
Knowing I was on a roll, I returned to the jukebox and made yet another choice. I considered Peter Gabriel, but thought it might be pushing my luck to try that out, so instead I played it safe and chose this:
That was all it took. The bartender invited me to have a shot with him, and we sat at the bar as the other bartender poured me more Jameson, into what SW said was an orange juice glass. I drank a little of it as a shot, then gave some of it to SW’s brother, then had a little more. By then I felt kind of sick.
For making it all the way through this whole post, I give you this:
Don’t feel guilty. Like me, with the Jameson, you’ve earned it.
I can’t imagine how sick your average barkeep is with your average jukebox and the people who use it. It doesn’t take long before songs about drinking beer and dancng in clubs get really, really old. It’s probably similar to what your average radio DJ feels, except they don’t have to make drinks for assholes and breathe their filthy smoke. People like you are like musical mana from heaven.
Where is that bar?
It’s near Mojo’s, on Ninth or Tenth (or Eighth?), across the street from a gas station. I’m terrible with street names. They have Big Buck Hunter.