Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Bill

The other night I was lying in bed, dead asleep, when I heard a scratching noise coming from inside my house. Waking up to the thought of being raped and murdered is less than ideal. And while I lie in bed for a good three or four minutes listening to the scratching, whimpering noise, my head started to get extremely hot and I realized, if there is someone in my home right now, the home that I am all alone in, this person is going to harm me and there is nothing I can do to stop him. I suddenly began wishing with all my might that when I reached under my bed, there would be a Remington 12 gauge pump action shotgun handy.

But there wasn't.

It was about this time when I came out of my dead sleep and realized that one of my roommates has a damn dog, a dog that I try with all my might to ignore, which is probably the reason for my scare. I completely forgot about little Belle, the tiny chihuahua, who is usually quiet as a mouse when her mother is home. Fear aside, I went to sleep, hell bent on buying a gun the next day.

But. I am from a home that does not believe in loaded guns. I grew up with a gun cabinet, full of rifles, shotguns, bows, arrows, ammunition, whathaveyou, but not one of those weapons was ever loaded and ready for use. It simply was not necessary. I also grew up with a very large man in my house who, when in a situation he felt was harmful to his children, no matter how asleep the large man was, would plundered through the house with strange lucidity, prepared to come to blows with whatever the thing was he felt was endangering the household.

I do not have that luxury now. What I do have, is a scared-y pants chihuahua.

So, what to do? Keep a loaded gun under my bed? The idea has me nervous. Then what? Keep an unloaded shotgun under my bed? What's the use. Put a sign on my door that says, "We have a gun. Don't break in or I'll shoot you in the leg. Probably not straight in the gut because, well, while it would stop you from doing what you're doing, I don't want to kill you, and eventually, you will probably die from a close range shotgun blast to the gut, and no one wants to sit in a courtroom over the fact that you're a dumbass. You should probably just leave while you have the chance."?

No.

You remember the Johnny Cash song, "Don't Take Your Guns to Town?" Poor Billy Joe was just a youth when he went into town for the first time. "He changed his clothes and shined his boots and combed his dark hair down"...? Remember? Anyway, his mother begged him to not take his guns to town, it's just asking for trouble. Damn it if Bill took his guns to town anyway, got into a bar fight, and tried to pull his gun, wasn't quick enough, and was shot.

Damn it, Bill!

DON'T TAKE YOUR GUNS TO TOWN, SON. LEAVE YOUR GUNS AT HOME.

Need advice, friends!

(Oh and if you are a serial rapist reading this post, I have already bought a gun and it's waiting on your ass.)

Quiet Time.

There are times when it's appropriate to be loud as all getout...

e.g.:

-in the middle of the a wheat field with your (naked) cousins, using candy Easter eggs as body paint.

-ordering a shot of whisky at 1:55 AM on West Sixth Street.

-screaming at your sister to give you back your super cool track pants stolen from HHS, 1999.

Then there are other times. When it's time. To shut

the hell

up.

To shut the hole in your face. Your trap. Your pie hole. Your yapper.

When I get off work, if it's not 2 AM, I like to go to a favorite spot of mine and sit at the bar and have a beer or two, wind down and go home. Most often, there's a friend or five around who are there and I'll politely exchange with them, then keep to myself and enjoy a beverage, maybe momentarily chat with the bartender, watch "Cheers," etc.

But sometimes, there's a loud crazy bitch at the bar, who has been there since Happy Hour, and wants to gab at everyone who walks in the door, about Obama and Healthcare and bisexuals and transgendered persons, and eventually will get kicked out because she's going to lunge at my friend Willis and try to strangle him, and all the while I am sitting, helpless to her ranting and raving, wishing that I would have done to a different bar to drink my beer, praying for her trap to shut.

What is it with loud people? Every day, my bar fills up with (mostly) men, watching sports, quietly. I watched last weekend as one guy who had brought one of his girlfriends along, rolled his eyes and sat in complete misery for three or four hours while she yapped her face off and he, trying to watch football, tried his best to respond to her questions and stay interested in her conversation, when really all the poor dude wanted to do was enjoy his Sunday, eat pretzels, drink beer and flirt with the bartender.*

And it's not just women. I know a couple dudes who realllly lovvve to be the loudest person in the room. While I know that I can be especially obnoxious sometimes too, I try not to make it a regular habit.

My buddy Todd said one day, "I wanna hang out and drink a beer with me." I get that. I think I'd enjoy it as well. I like me pretty okay. But then we started talking more about this idea.

Todd: "But I think I'd get annoyed with myself after a while."

Me: "Yeah, like all the crap about yourself you pretend is okay. It would really be starring you in the face then. There's no denying it."

Todd: "I think I would have to punch me in the face."

Me: "Yeah. I'd be like, 'Geeeeezzz, Brynnan! I've already heard that story, like, one billion times! And you're really terrible at the joke telling. Enough already! And you can go ahead and stop the writing everything in the air with your fingers, it's really getting old.' "

Todd: "Yep. I'd fight myself for sure."

I might just have to agree with that...

There are also times at the watering hole when you're sitting silently, minding your own, and the patron beside you, who is equally as kept to him/herself as possible, wants to engage you, but only briefly. I know the woman beside me doesn't want to talk to me, and she knows I don't want to talk to her. And the two of us, respecting the other's wish to not get too involved in one another, the conversation goes something like this:

Woman beside me at Donn's Depot, as she gets up to go to the bathroom: "Gotta go powder my nose."

Me: "Okay, I'll save your seat."

And later, as she is leaving for the night, the exchange that unfolds is one of familiarity and ridiculousness.

Woman: "Well, it's my witching time."

Me: "You're gonna turn into a pumpkin."

Woman: "I got a long way to go."

Me: "Be careful."

The End. Weird. And what just happened?

*I do not allow men at my bar to flirt with me. Unless I want them to.

The Woes of a Sports Bar When You're Only a Semi Sports Fan

While football fans make up a hefty percentage of my income (thanks, guys) I have to say that I could not be more pleased about the dwindling of this year's National Football League hooplah. Working in a sports bar has caused me great anguish in that I am unconsciously and relentlessly taking in information via ESPN and Sportsnation or whatever about Brett Freaking Favre and Wade Stinking Phillips. It is constantly (and silently because I refuse to put on the audio) sinking in my brain, allowing me to interject into fantasy football conversations, conversations that I do not wish to be a part of! How did I know that Eric Mangini was fired this morning? And while I like to sit at a bar/stadium and watch a football game like anyone else, I do not like to have my life steered by any one thing. Some of these folks live and breathe this shit.

Two of my Seattleite regs (Seahawks fans, congratulations by the way, that was weird) are two of my favorites because not only do they mix things up for me and keep me on my bartending toes by ordering the most random selection of drinks one can conjure in three hours, Ellie has what I think can only be diagnosed as National Football League Tourette Syndrome.* This is the sweetest woman I have ever met in my life and given one bad call/play, the woman turns into Cruella de Ville.

*NFLTS is a very dangerous and mostly contagious problem. Avoid loud/angry bar patrons when witnessing this display.

"TODAY ON: YOU'RE GONNA SEE IT A THOUSAND MORE TIMES TODAY!":

Will Favre retire? Should have a couple years back.

How many times can you play one airing of Sports Center in one day? Eleventybillion.

Is it okay to dump Gatorade on the owner? Only if he's an asshole.

Here's a report for you, Michelle Beadle: "Extreme Excess of Gatorade Leftover After Win Leaves Trainers Wondering: Are Our Players Getting Enough Hydration Out There?"