Honkey Tonk Tips

(Above: wall of a bar in Nashville)

Where do you go when you are in Nashville? You go to the Honkey Tonk. At least that is what all the signs, people, and commercials in that city said, and I had one reply. "What the fuck is a honkey tonk?" (please think about Jay from Jay and SIlent Bob Strike Back during his internet rant when you read the previous line, if you don't know anything about Jay and Silent Bob, get off my blog).

"Close your eyes" is the response of my Nashville native friend, "and imagine a tumble weed rolling across the dessert, and imagine the sound of two old fashion swingy doors of a saloon swinging." Apparently a honkey tonk is a western movie; however, when we got there I realized it is just a crappy bar with live music just like every other bar with one exception, the band members are prostitutes. Every band we saw in Nashvilel that night, and there were many because

some bars had two bands playing at the same time, had a tip jar. Now I am not against tip jars because money is awesome; however, I am against a band begging for you to fill said tip jar incessantly. They all cried, "We don't get paid, so please give us your money if you like our music."

I am unemployed, and I prefer to spend New Jersey tax dollars on an imported Yuengling beer instead of a crappy rendition of "Save a Horse Ride Cowboy". I did not have enough for both because apparently one song cost the good bar patrons 20 bucks! Hell to the no!

Because we gave exactly zero dollars to the bands, we were afraid to sing along, dance, nod our heads to the music, or even smile because it meant we enjoyed the free atmosphere. I was alright with this until the lead singer walked up to me and hit me upside the head with the giant plastic tip jar. I smiled, painfully, and said "I am sorry but I just spent my money on beer." She then said into the microphone, "Well as long as you are having a good time." Oh man! Physical

pain and a guilt trip! Mac made us gallop out of there so fast we almost forgot our government paid for beer.

(Left: drink paid for by your taxes, why yes it is an appletini- easy on the tini)

After the Potato Famine, They Fled to Alabama

How many of you expect the Irish to be in Birmingham, Alabama? I certainly did not, but there they were in all of their glory. Pale men with shaved heads drinking Guinness's and car bombs, wearing kilts, and listening to a fiddle. Irish flags littered the walls. Smithwicks and Newcastle littered the taps. I've seen similar bars in Jersey, but this just seemed forced so south of the Mason-Dixon line.

The funniest part about this night out was that not a single person from Ireland was there, yet they continually pledged commitment to the motherland, which I think is actually the nick name for England. These people were so passionate about their patriotism for a country that they never visited, and it was so intense that you wouldn't think that it was a completely Romantic notion, but indeed it was at that.

These guys had thick thick southern drawls. I am telling you, dear reader, that they said things like "yall" and "biscuit". My favorite part was the 9 min vocal solo that consisted of no singing and a lot of instructions. The lead singer of the band talked about the Emerald Isle, and everyone in the bar held up his or her drink for this very long cheers. Several men, wearing the band's tee-shirt that said in clear white block letters "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced", walked all around the bar clinking cups with every single person. I joined in for the first 60 seconds, but then I got thirsty and tired of the man telling me how to feel about the homeland of my great grandparents, and I drank my beer.

(Above: Album cover of that night's band)

Later I won a game of pool against a Republican Volleyball coach. It was a good night.