There's this uber dive bar in San Carlos called the Carlos Club. It's this place that we drive past all the time and wonder at the incredibly fucked up lives the drunk white trash standing outside of it must have. It's kinda like someone took a mobile home, shook it up, and dumped it on it's end, and this is where all of the people inside landed. Yeah... just like that.
Anyway, new roomie chick calls up Saturday and says "Hey... so my friend's having a b-day, and someone told me that The Carlos Club has kareoke on Saturday nights. We're going, you should come." I said yes, including some very specific comments about it being a sketchy place that even straightboy roommate is afraid of, and that we might stick around for an hour or so and then take off... you know... make a show of support.
We park around the corner (to protect straightboy's car from being infected with the WhiteTrash virus), and begin our walk. We're both paranoid as hell, and he even requests that we call straightchick roomie to make sure she's there. "ring" "ring" "ring" "Hi, this is..." *click*. "She's not there." We kinda look at each other... he's rubbing his hands together in nervous energy... I look at him... shrug... "Okay... we're probably not going to die tonight. Lets do this shit." (in my oh-so-typical fashion), turn and walk up and in the door.
First off, yes, it's everything we expected, including the overstuffed chairs complete with brass tack edging. You have your choice of bartenders... the tattoo covered ex marine that will kick your ass if you order a faggy drink, or Alice Cooper, who looks like he's ready to bite the head off of something. We didn't want to know what. Fortunately, some looking around attracted the attention of Cocktail Waitress chick. Imagine your grandmother. Now add long bleached big curly hair, ala Dollie Parton... then add a shiny satin, sequined shirt, complete with wrinkle-ending tightness in the very visible boob area, and thereya go. But she's better than Mr. Cooper or Mr. Marine. "Yes, Appletini, please". We sat down next to straightchick roomie, and integrated.
Kareoke really is going, and people are doing there best. One of straightchick's friends is in her vocal lessons class. Poor, poor girl... apparently her singing coach hasn't told her she's tonedeaf. Straightchick roomie definately has a voice though, and starts belting'em out. Unlike my usual kareoke place, you put your name in, and you're up like, 2 songs later. I got up and sang The Thunder Rolls, nervous as all hell (my appletini hadn't quite kicked in yet) and the mic kept cutting out. Sucky, but people apparently got really into it, and I had people clapping my hand afterward. Good times... feelin better about this whole thing.
People are slowly starting to fill in the bar... some locals it seems, strangely absent of any whitetrash virus infectiousness. Cool. Birthday chick with an awesome husband that doesn't give a shit what she does, as she gets totally fun-happy drunk (she was cool)... then fabulous model chick with a significant 80's fabulousness just EXCUDING from every cell, and her gayboy posse, who she says isn't gay (Appletini response: "Really! Someone needs to tell them that!", followed by her telling me that I'm fabulous, and collecting my phone number ;)
8 drinks later (yes, 8), I've sang The Remedy (DAMN that's a fun song!) and Devil Went Down to Georgia (Thanks cekyr0 ;), and we're about to call it a night. 80's chick wants to hook me up with her friend that's just totally cute and totally hot and that I'd just love, "but he's younger... is that okay" *insert hysterical laugher here*. Straightboy roommate and I give hugs to everyone, including apparently the other straightboys there, and head home.
Laying in bed, I realize that I'm getting more drunk, not less... go do the sobering duty, then crash out. Wake sunday still drunk. Hangover recovery begins.
I had no sunday, but DAMN was Saturday night worth it :)