Plowshares to Pool Cues

We met like two ancient samurai under the lantern's light at dusk, our chosen weapons in hand. Battle will be done tonight; fields of green shall run red ere break of dawn. We meet with honor, and with respect, the nod of my head substituting a bow from the waist. My best friend, my brother. And tonight, my enemy. After choosing our battleground, we unsheath our weapons and let slip the dogs of war.

After the previous night of excess and competition, with Myth, Deuce, (Get to tha) Choppa, and his girlfriend Chickepeno, after the day's breaking of the fast in celebration of our fallen friends and foes (which Choppa and Chicky made to perfection), only two of us stood tonight. Accompanied by Chicky, Deuce and I prepared for battle.

The bar wasn't very crowded tonight, a welcome site if not for the bar's ledger, at least for us. There was a table of 6 near the back playing some card games, but the pool table was accessible. We had the same seats as last night, and got a few sodas and waters from Choppa, who was tonight bartending. None of us could fathom a round two of the excessive drinking we did last night. Bar tabs were too high, and stomachs too weak. I was surprised to hear that Deuce made the trip to town a second night in a row, so of course I wanted to come out and shoot some more pool. We've got another 9-ball tournament game coming up this week, we need to be sharp.

It's been an interesting change of dynamic within our social circle. Usually there are those certain few of us who, if they are not working, are always reliable for a night out. I've always felt like within the grand congregation of my local friends, a core group was rock-solid, my own Rat Pack. But over time, things change, and the objective side of my brain finds it fascinating to observe. Someone spends more time with a girlfriend, and soon his absence from the group is sorely noticed. I know this, as I've been guilty of this myself in the past. But of late, it seems like some connections strengthen while others wane, and the roster of closest friends has shifted. To see Deuce this often was a welcome new development. We didn't even receive a text in reply to our invitation to our missing member, one who would stand by my side many nights a week at the bars just a few years before. I know it's not an act of malicious intent, it's just a way things go. Even our choice of bar has shifted away from the dance-club atmosphere to the smaller, more close-knit venue.

Anyways, games of pool were shot and we ate part of a chicken jalapeno pizza (the inspiration for Chicky's nickname, as it is her favorite pizza to get at the bar). I won an impossible three games in a row against Deuce, including missing my first shot at the 8 and ruining my run-out, before he promptly reminded me who was the better shot in the long run. But last night took its toll; the jalapenos weren't sitting right on stomachs not yet recovered. The night was doomed to be an early one.

Two warriors stood facing each other, shoulders bobbing in heavy panting breath, sweat on brow and the taste of blood in mouth. All adrenaline drained from their bodies, their weapons, though light in weight, hung heavy like lead. Battle was fought this night, between friends, between brothers. Honor was upheld, and respect earned. The warriors part ways, their cues cleaned and resheathed. They will meet again, soon, on a different field of battle, this time to defend their home turf together against invaders from another bar. Challengers who would maneuver their armies around the field, eliminate all of our resources as they pocket balls, and win a war of attrition.

Together the warriors will stand, Deuce, Choppa, and myself. With our skills in the craft of billiard warfare honed and tested, we shall repel all opponents, and then claim for our own the next tier on the tournament bracket on our path for victory and conquest!

And unless we all decide to celebrate Easter in the same fashion as we celebrate a Friday night, we'll be ready.

Love It or hate It, you need It

"It's it. What is it?"

They say to “Fake it til you make it.” as if this idiom is some god-given key back to Eden. Maybe it is, and maybe I just haven't faked it enough to make it to his holy Christmas gift list.

But then again I've never really been the sort of person to buy season tickets for the home games in that particular heavenly arena (though once upon a time in my life, sure, I've flirted around with partying in the tailgating lots, but I think that was more for the burgers than anything). No, I've always searched for my proverbial “it” in other people, digging for my happiness in the approval and acceptance of those people around me, surrounding myself in people and seeking the praise and adoration of other people.

Hell is other people.

So as many self-help books and motivational speakers as stars in the sky have preached “fake it til you make it.” And they might have some sliver of a good idea there. Isn't manufactured happiness happiness nonetheless? I mean, we've manufactured artificial diamonds that are cheaper, stronger, more precise and perfect than the real things, and industrial drillers and brides-to-be alike are all the more happier for them, no?

The other night delivered melancholy to me, and I wasn't alone in it. Deuce, who was recently dealt a Club on the river while all-in on the Diamonds flush draw, expressed his need for a little bro-mmiserating as well. Despite an early weekend shift for him and a daunting and expensive drive across the Range for me, I knew I couldn't leave Mr. Positivity hanging. It would be downright un-homey of me, and if Deuce values anything above all, it's his homies. How many times did I find unexpected (and to me, undeserved) consolation in his words of praise and his confidence in me as a person? It was the least I could do to return the favor. So I swallowed my relatively minor depressions and sped away to the rescue. I faked it til we both made it, and shit, I daresay we both had a better night than we could have hoped.

So maybe there is some magical genesis of it to be found in faking it. It's hard to say right now, though. Right now I definitely don't have it nor am I even faking it. Tonight I'm searching for it in the words of a girl, texts on my phone, and probably more foolishly in the imaginary words I'm conjuring between the lines. Her silence might mean she's fallen asleep. It might mean I'm at the base of the wrong tree and should give up my barking. It's definitely the search for it that led me to put myself through hell for some of the girls in my past, that's for sure.

If we read on in this hypothetical anthology of self-deliverance propoganda, we might come to understand that we cannot find our it in another person, we can only find their it and allow them to share it with us. But that doesn't work unless we have a full and firm grasp on our it, our sense of worth and well-being. Take it from me, it's pretty easy to despair at the seeming paradox. Just as the recent college graduate sees every job opportunity looking for 5 years of experience on an entry-level position and questions the sanity of the world, every person who, like me, feels like they can't have it until they get it from someone else, then gets told that they have to have it before they can get someone else's it, has at least once scoffed at the illogical absurdity of it.

Sometimes I still do.

So I guess I can read all these gospel instructions to fake it til you make it, and that will lead to finding someone to share it with, and though I can't believe them very easily, I'll just have to fake it til I do, then start faking it til I make it. Once I find it, I'll let you know.

...and the MP3s played on

No single criterion can make or break a bar for me more than the presence of an internet jukebox. Breaking the limiting bonds of physical media, these portals to a vast landscape of sonic potential supplement any evening of spirits and socializing with bottle-rattling double-bass kick drums and the hateful grimaces of the bar’s regulars.

Oh, sweet schadenfreude, thy name be Metal tonight.

You see, when my brothers-in-billiards and I stride into any back-water saloon, cue cases in hand, and we see that welcoming electronic glow of an LCD touch screen, we know our pool games will be soundtracked by the most unfriendly and unforgiving genre of music to be found in cyberspace. Any Roadhouse would have to have their own Swayze on retainer to quell the musical bedlam we’ll lay upon its unsuspecting patrons. Of course, maybe to say we’re not under suspect is to deny them credit; when a jugallo rolls in, ICP hoodie over Twizted t-shirt, followed by a man known for wearing his Mohawk with more colors than the NBC Peacock logo and yours truly, who has been finding Sampson-levels of confidence and strength in his ever-increasing rock-star locks, your average Iron Ranger at the bar will deduce that we don’t exactly listen to Conway Twitty.

It usually doesn’t take long into the first Fear Factory or 40 Below Summer track to summon grumblings of complaint from those who wished for beer and quiet reflection on their Monday night. The bar starts clearing shortly thereafter, usually through the first verse of whatever perverse ICP hip hop track Deuce picks out. Heaven forbid I’m in a foul mood: where I usually pick the tamest selections from Machine Head’s or Iced Earth’s back catalogue, there are times I’ll eschew any attempts at civility and instead play some Arch Enemy, Children of Bodom, or Shadows Fall.

I realize my readers are mostly uninitiated in the ways of heavy metal, so let’s put it this way: these two extremes could be defined as “Metallica” metal and “Cookie Monster” metal. I don’t know anybody who would still be unclear after that comparison.

We’re unapologetic about it, as well. It’s not our task to cultivate a scene or culture for whichever bar we’re shooting pool in. If the manager or owner of the bar wanted to meticulously maintain a reputation for being a certain type of establishment, they should employ an archaic disk-based jukebox and supply only music choices fitting of their wishes. But given the opportunity, our pool team is going to engineer an environment more fitting to our musical styling. Usually it proves beneficial; music we enjoy pumps us up and if our opponents dislike the taste of our medicine, they might choke at the table.

Our musical warfare isn’t always catching waves, Zarathustra, and the smell of napalm in the morning. Sometimes we get our Cold War spy suits on and work our malevolence in more clandestine ways.

A few years ago, when everyone lived in near enough proximity to make regular social excursions in Duluth possible, I’d find myself in the company of Hustler and F-Dot at whatever bar had an open pool table and cute bartenders. Often times it was Dubh Linn, with their 5 tables and short-skirted waitresses with legs up to here. Hustler taught me to shoot pool, showed me the b-rate joy to be found in pool movies, and generally was the closest thing to a frat brother I ever had in my fledgling community college career. He’d often wear the white letters on black “Hustler” t-shirt when we’d go out. F-Dot is the third of our Stooges. If I lived life like Spinal Tap, and Hustler lived life like Poolhall Junkies, F-Dot lived it like the Rat Pack’s Ocean’s Eleven, enjoying as many of the finer things in life that a rapscallion can. Sometimes we were joined by Prime, named so for his optimal love of Transformers and his recent personal transformation in the gym, going from doughy tri-chin to svelte stud in recent years.

Regardless of who joined us on these Dul-Sup adventures, we’d bounce from bar to bar, shooting pool, sometimes slamming Irish Car Bombs, and sating our hunger with appetizer menu items. There’d be the usual testosterone-driven conversation, the stereotypical male ogling of women. Hustler always had some girl fawning over him, and when we’d go out he’d do his best to pass down some seduction pointers to the awkward and shy F-Dot and I. Occasionally we’d play some 8-ball against whoever would put up a round of drinks against us, though I’ve long forgotten whether we were successful more than we lost.

Invariably, when the cues are put away and jackets go on, our most clever secret agent, F-Dot, would slink his way to the jukebox, dollar bills in hand, and surreptitiously queue up as many plays of Hanson’s “MMM-Bop” as he could afford. We’d linger near the door at the end of the bar for a bit, paying our tabs or sipping one last beverage while the current song finished up, and sometimes we’d endure the first iteration of our weapon of choice, but usually by the time the song starts to repeat itself, we could see the disgust creeping up on folks’ faces, and we’d walk out, chased by confused calls of “WTF!” and “Who the hell played this?!” Those poor souls we left in our wake, victim to a nightmare of pop culture we’d all just as soon forget.

I know it’s brazenly obvious to state “Music is sooo important to me!” and think that I’m the only one to feel the melodious gravitas of modern music. The universal appeal to music as emotional catharsis is banal to the point of inanity. But when you take a listener out of the familiar country of their car’s top 40 radio station and confront them with the barbs of extreme metal, or perhaps make them taste again the bitter pill of music once cherished yet poorly aged, their reactions are nothing short of stellar entertainment to me.

Sometimes the ultimate display of suave coolness in the hands of Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli, the jukebox can also be a terrorist bomb, a dark power that all too often falls into the wrong hands: ours.

For those about to rock: we salute you.

In Which Our Hero is Introduced

I thought silence was the worst greeting to get after you finish your turn at the mic at karaoke bars. But these jackals were malcontent, unwilling to suffer unspoken, but instead chastised me with sardonic “Good jobs!” and “Sing louder, we like when you sing louder!” Their word twists the knife plunged into my side.

Or who knows, maybe since they’ve never heard the tale of the scarlet woman and her love removal techniques, and my rendition deserved praise since there’s nothing to compare? At least Billy Duff’s excellent guitar work was unmarred by my warbled vocals and gut-wrenching crack in the high register of my limited voice. I’m talking ‘bout love remover. Love Removal Machine (by The Cult). Only my pops would appreciate the song. I’d have rather sung about blaming that Fire Woman, but when the DJ’s selection of Post-Zeppelin sash-wearing chest-baring hard rock bands with singers who look like the lovechild of Val Kilmer and Steven Tyler is limited to just this one song, I can’t always get what I want. Oh wait, wrong band.

It’s Tuesday night, which means it’s karaoke night at Snicker’s in Chisholm, led by DJME’s sole owner, operator, and miscreant Jamie (at least until the tequila kicks in and she tags in Thor). In religious attendance are the usual cast of characters, most of whom have not been bestowed nicknames, so here goes:

Thor: I’m glad to say I cannot take responsibility for this nickname, but apparently it is said he swings a mighty hammer. However, in public, Mjolnir is not this suited stud’s weapon of choice. Instead you’ll find him wielding the closest thing to a lightsabre we can legally import to the US. This awesome laser was purchased by…
Peepers: Thor’s girlfriend, and provider of dangerous yet ultimately awesome birthday gifts. She’s mostly a no-nonsense, down-to-earth girl with a strong ability to deal out the punch lines in our drunken banter, and when things go too far (usually courtesy of your hero and protagonist, moi) she can deal out physical punches as well. Named such for her bright eyes prominently lined in makeup and often changing colors in photographs, thanks to Photoshop.
Tits: Out of all the girls with gargantuan breasts there, Tits is the most unashamed – no, they are all unashamed. Maybe she just likes to display them more. Maybe I just don’t know any other nicknames for her and I wanted someone named “Tits” in my blog. Tits is more than just mammories, though. She plays World of Warcraft, likes to drink, and she made me drive her car in the cities, which sucked because her headlights point straight down to the road and I had to tailgate a semi just to piggy-back on its lights.
Bighouse: The only member of this cast that I’ve known for about 10 years now, since college introduced us through nerdy pursuits like Magic: the Gathering. This stout singer enjoys making people lose The Game when he’s not singing the best Cee-Lo Green this side of Christina Aguilera’s comically large chair on The Voice. He’ll also occasionally Rick Roll the bar, light a fire in the disco, or fill you in on the latest details of his upcoming wedding to…
Goody: or, soon-to-be Mrs. Bighouse, a huge Doctor Who fan who will sing her one song and then spend the rest of the night hanging out and laughing distinctively.

There’s more, but that’s the core crew and others will get introductions as they appear.

Now how about yours truly? I could go on in great and varied detail about my favorite topic: myself. I won’t, because like my belly, my reputation tends to precede me. I’ve been attending life for 29 years (I plan to live forever, so far so good) and karaoke at Snicker’s for 5 of them. I’ve only recently taken to singing songs that I’m good at, as opposed to ironically singing goofy songs with a group of people. I’ve seen the comings and goings of bartenders there, the kindling and burning out of relationships (including one of my own) there, I’ve seen drunks 86’d and tables flipped. It’s not quite my Cheers, but it’s a close second. I’m more rounded a person than just drinking and singing, though; I jam at home on my guitars, I play nerdy games like the aforementioned WoW and MtG, and I play more socially-acceptable games like Cards Against Humanity and pool (8- and 9-ball leagues). To round out my dorky character, I work in IT, love Star Wars, have read Lord of the Rings umpteen times (at least over a dozen times). I usually listen to metal music and occasionally independent hip-hop, attend concerts, and play air guitar in my truck often.

My skills in language and composition are rarely tested, though I once took pride in my works of fiction throughout my schoolboy days. However, one of my (wait, let me borrow one of your myriad baseball hats and put on a polo – popped collar – to say this) “bros”, Frank, sculpts words weekly over at kinkedslinky, and between his sensational reviews of Minneapolis-area restaurants and funny retellings of the goofy situations he and his lovely wife find themselves in, you’ll find some of the most heart-warming stories of family, friends, and the love gained and lost between them. Each time I soak in his words, they become inspirational fuel for the fledgling flame that is my writing “career”. Maybe if I keep this up regularly, I’ll become half as good a writer as he.

What do I hope to accomplish here? I’ll let my last text to Frank explain:

“I wish I had enough to write about but weekly posts of ‘karaoke again, I sang and people gave forced praise through gritted teeth. Also I flirted with that one chick and she mentioned something about snapping a picture of me to submit to one of those online predator databases’ just isn’t enough.

Well, maybe it is…”

So yeah, maybe you’ll get to read stories of the awkward social life of a person who learned how to be romantic from Corey in Boy Meets World (young Corey, not the older Corey who scores that hotty Topenga). Maybe you’ll get to read about how my pool team won first place in our division this year. Maybe you’ll get to read an amateur psychological study on alcoholism as this wacky crew goes to karaoke or other bars weekly.

Or maybe you’ll give up after these thousand words. I can get wordy, but future posts will be a bit briefer. There's a plethora of stories to be told about last night alone, so I'll parse them out in measured rations for you.

I plan on becoming better at ending my posts than Frank. So far, no good.