AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 7/24/2002 04:17:00 PM ----- BODY:
Overheard: A: Why does this popcorn taste so good? B: Maybe because it's sweetened instead of salted. C: Maybe because you're stoned instead of sober. Speaking of overheard, the other night Andy Hicks regaled Kellie, Tim and me with the fascinating tale of his adventures at Avalon with a 37-year-old hairdresser and her brood of much younger hairdresser-ettes. It was quite a wonderful story. When people tell stories like that I feel like I'm in a Skittles commercial. Speaking of news of the strange and wonderful, last night I rocked the karaoke with K and her Fitchburg peeps. At one point her friend Nick Howe and I decided that we would do a shot. "How about the three wise men?" Nick suggested. "What the hell is that?" Was my intelligent reply. "Jimmy, Jack and Johnny." I smiled. It was on. I took the shot and it fought me like a rodeo bull all the way down. "That didn't taste like whiskey," I choked, because it hadn't, you know, in much the same way that ingesting live fire ants does not taste much like swallowing flaming gasoline. "Oh my god," said K's other friend Danielle, coming over. "I saw hm mixing that. That was disgusting! SoCo and whiskey? What were you thinking?" Nick laughed. The bull almost got out from under me, but I swallowed a few times and said weakly, "What?" "Yeah," Danielle snorted. "Instead of the three wise men, he did Jim Beam, Southern Comfort and Johnny Walker. He said he didn't have any Jack." "Bullshit," I muttered, feeling myself turn green. I had seen two bottles of Jack Daniels' whiskey at the bar earlier while ordering what turned out to be a very substandard Long Island Iced Tea. I managed to keep it down, though, and was proud of myself. I sang a highly impassioned version of "Tonight The Heartache's on Me" by the Dixie Chicks shortly after that experience. Nick said I did great, but then again, Nick had taken the same shot I had. All of this was the result of a change in bartending staff at the little hole we go to karaoke in. A woman who remembered everyone's face, poured a neat drink, and gave discounts generously had quit for unknown reasons and was now being replaced by a guy who checked ID like a Nazi bookkeeper, poured drinks that were mostly mixers rather than alcohol and overcharged. I was just as pissed as everyone else, and had joined in a round of enthusiastic criticism when I realized that I had only been to karaoke at this bar twice, and I had only been served by the other bartender once. But no--and it wasn't the SoCo talking either--this was my bar too, now. How dare that prick come in here and pour us watered down Kamikazes? What is the world coming to? It's strange, these friends of mine. Old or new, sometimes things just fit.
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