The LOUD Night @ Wayne's Honky-Tonk (Part V)

We’re on our way to Wayne’s Honky-Tonk in my Daewoo. Out of Zen’s mouth slip several nuggets of scandalous family history. And since she reads this, and since I’m already in trouble for my brief mention of it, you’ll have to ask her about it yourself. 

The crowd that haunts Cosmo & Shrewd Bar rarely, if ever, mixes with the crowd that haunts Wayne’s Honky-Tonk. But this is only a guess; one based purely on appearances and conflicting musical tastes. But surely you’re allowed to get shitfaced at both haunts. 

Whereas Complex Cosmo is all BLARE, Wayne’s is all TWANG. 

We’re somewhere between late October 1st and early October 2nd. Either way, tonight is still all about bashing the Bongster’s birthday. Don’t ask me if it was yesterday, or if it is today. Have I even wished him a happy one? It beats the hell outta me if I’ve said anything other than, “Hey, Man!” at him. 

So, just in case, 
Happy birthday, Bongster! 
(He reads this, too.) 

There’s a live band, but the honky-tonk platter’s over-full. There ain’t no room to wiggle, but that ain’t no biggie. My madman can’t cut loose footloose to Country & Western. 

You might say I’m several pairs of cowboy boots away from the bar. Definitely, I’m squished into a corner. When somebody finally abandons a seat, my rear end claims it like I’m playing the last round in the World Championship of Musical Chairs.* Only now, I’m squished in this corner with everybody towering over me. 

Everybody’s squeezing past everybody else. Everybody’s got bottles or mugs or pitchers of beer. I dunno, maybe sardines crammed into a tin would call this fun. Oh, that’s right, they’re dead before they get to the tin. I think you should design a person-size tin where folks can be packed together, for a time, in beer. No, not like a party bus. More like a sensory deprivation tank... full of beer. Until then, we’ve got Wayne’s and countless watering holes of its ilk. 

This place attracts an older crowd. And since the band isn’t on a mission to blow out your eardrums, there’s a lot more chit-chat happing here. Unlike the painted black everything at Complex Cosmo, everything at Wayne’s is more caramelly woodish in color. 

One of the barmaids likes my suede jacket. I thank her for liking it. She runs her fingers real close to where the stoner-chick at Cosmo singed the sleeve with her joint. 

But maybe everybody here at Wayne’s is just as happy or miserable as everyone back at Complex Cosmo. The general expression at Complex Cosmo is one of either rage or BLARE-induced trance. But then a sulky mien isn’t always indicative of a bleak worldview. Plenty of Pollyannas wind up in rehab. They wind up in rehab because they’re too Pollyannaish. 

*(05/01/22: Seriously, musical chairs should be an Olympic sport. And a professional sport. Wouldn’t you watch pro-musical chairs? C’mon, let’s start the National Musical Chairs League! Tout de suite!) 

2 October 2004 

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