My friday night
So tonight began with great hope. We were going to a place in minneapolis called Gustav's(?-may not actually be called this but some part of it is? I'm sorry I know that's confusing) where reportedly they have polka music and they serve beer in glass boots and the second to last person to finish the beer has to buy the next one. I, to the great annoyance of the girl organizing the trip, kept calling it frauhaus, as I thought a german whorehouse by that name would be pretty sweet. Anyway, after I discovered that the polka at its basic level is a souped up version of the waltz I was very pumped and excited to go. Of course as the non-drowzy reader may suspect by now, this is not what wound up happening.
The car broke down about 6 miles from our point of origin and about 34 miles from our intended destination along highway 65. After playing extended versions of zoom schwartz perfigliano and ink pink we decided that we should hike back up the highway to a bar and have fun there. We saw a traffic light in the distance and hoped that it could salvage the remnant of our friday night. Four of us began our hike with great hope that the evening could be saved, and not only because we were in a dancing mood, and had a large square of delicious home-baked focacia (I'm sorry but correct spelling is unknown to me at present). Several of us had to go to the bathroom so we went to the hunter's inn first and had a beer. A strange man grabbed my female friend on the sides and said hi on his way out, it was that kind of place. We decided that we should press on to fatboys; it is sad that this became our city-on-a-hill so to speak as its a rather upscale biker bar that because of the price of the bikes on display I am hesitant to believe that many of the genuine cowboys of the highway visit very often. We arrived and quietly sipped our beers as the DJ attempted to coax people to the dance floor with heavy metal and other painful melodies. Eventually music more suitable to my style of dancing was played and I ventured to the dance floor.
For the first time in my life within 20 minutes of stepping on the dance floor I totally owned it. While I'm hesitant to toot my own horn I was startled by the number of women checking out my moves as my hips gyrated in sync with the music (thanks charity) and my contorted facial expressions showed my expressions of joy from both dancing and drinking. Granted I was only up against 25-35 year old white men from minnesota, not really on the cutting edge of dance moves, but hey I'm no great talent myself. I think the night hit its apex when I waltzed with a married woman named Joy; fortunately her husband was not in attendance. Another highlight was looking back and seeing an older gentleman in biker apparel conversing with my two friends, I was later to learn that he was inviting them both to Amsterdam for a wild time and seemed to express his interest in both of them, I think my friends were more amused than anything, which is good. Anyway I spent a fun 2.5 hrs dancing before we decided to head back. Sadly my closing game is still more like a Farnsworth (former unsuccessful closer/middle reliever for the Cubs) than a rivera (the closer for the yankees for those who don't follow the sport regularly) and I am back here alone, which is why I'm writing now I suppose.
This past week was good, cut down trees, closed down a dirt road to the great consternation of the locals (but hey, they shouldn't dump their old sofas, treadmills, and most strangely; their kilns there) and got a headache from a touch too much sharpie fumes, frankly thats a pretty good trifecta right there. I will close with two comments. First BJoyful which happens to be a pretty sweet license plate and also the inspiration to my dancing, and secondly I am drunk, eric I hope this post measures up. Finally, since I find myself long-winded and with a third comment, feel free to add your heckles and commentary here. I am, at least for the short-term, still your humble correspondent north of the twin cities metropolitan area and the king of fatboy's, if only for 30 minutes.
The car broke down about 6 miles from our point of origin and about 34 miles from our intended destination along highway 65. After playing extended versions of zoom schwartz perfigliano and ink pink we decided that we should hike back up the highway to a bar and have fun there. We saw a traffic light in the distance and hoped that it could salvage the remnant of our friday night. Four of us began our hike with great hope that the evening could be saved, and not only because we were in a dancing mood, and had a large square of delicious home-baked focacia (I'm sorry but correct spelling is unknown to me at present). Several of us had to go to the bathroom so we went to the hunter's inn first and had a beer. A strange man grabbed my female friend on the sides and said hi on his way out, it was that kind of place. We decided that we should press on to fatboys; it is sad that this became our city-on-a-hill so to speak as its a rather upscale biker bar that because of the price of the bikes on display I am hesitant to believe that many of the genuine cowboys of the highway visit very often. We arrived and quietly sipped our beers as the DJ attempted to coax people to the dance floor with heavy metal and other painful melodies. Eventually music more suitable to my style of dancing was played and I ventured to the dance floor.
For the first time in my life within 20 minutes of stepping on the dance floor I totally owned it. While I'm hesitant to toot my own horn I was startled by the number of women checking out my moves as my hips gyrated in sync with the music (thanks charity) and my contorted facial expressions showed my expressions of joy from both dancing and drinking. Granted I was only up against 25-35 year old white men from minnesota, not really on the cutting edge of dance moves, but hey I'm no great talent myself. I think the night hit its apex when I waltzed with a married woman named Joy; fortunately her husband was not in attendance. Another highlight was looking back and seeing an older gentleman in biker apparel conversing with my two friends, I was later to learn that he was inviting them both to Amsterdam for a wild time and seemed to express his interest in both of them, I think my friends were more amused than anything, which is good. Anyway I spent a fun 2.5 hrs dancing before we decided to head back. Sadly my closing game is still more like a Farnsworth (former unsuccessful closer/middle reliever for the Cubs) than a rivera (the closer for the yankees for those who don't follow the sport regularly) and I am back here alone, which is why I'm writing now I suppose.
This past week was good, cut down trees, closed down a dirt road to the great consternation of the locals (but hey, they shouldn't dump their old sofas, treadmills, and most strangely; their kilns there) and got a headache from a touch too much sharpie fumes, frankly thats a pretty good trifecta right there. I will close with two comments. First BJoyful which happens to be a pretty sweet license plate and also the inspiration to my dancing, and secondly I am drunk, eric I hope this post measures up. Finally, since I find myself long-winded and with a third comment, feel free to add your heckles and commentary here. I am, at least for the short-term, still your humble correspondent north of the twin cities metropolitan area and the king of fatboy's, if only for 30 minutes.
posted by Joe Little at 2:06 AM
2 Comments:
Definitely not drunk enough. Not nearly enough spelling errors, run on sentences. I'm gonna have to give it a 65. Good effort though.
Joe, I forgot to email you...but I'd love to put together at team to go to Trouble in Vegas...a club tournament to be held in Vegas, onFebruary 4-5th, which is superbowl weekend. I'm not kidding. Let me know via email if you are in or not.
There, you could try to own more dancefloors.
Whitney
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