Friday, June 16, 2006

The Fireside

So an italian, a catholic, and a gay mormon go into this bar...

No, but really. Madge, Chef and I went out for a late night drink the other night. We went to this bar in our neighborhood casually called by locals 'the fireside'. I'd been there once before, but not for a very long time. We got there around 1:30 in the morning, just in time for last call...or what would be last call at most bars in Boston.

The bar is a U-shape with the bartender and all his goodies in the middle, surrounded by drunks. On one side of the U were a bunch of JP hipsters, you know the type. On the other, a bunch of wasted, old Teamsters. We sat on the Teamsters' side. I guess they felt closer to our age, or something. Plus, the view was better, even young hipsters are better looking than some old, drunk laborers. Nothing against labor.

The bar was playing Sinatra. They have a great fucking juke. And as we sat down a couple of the old Teamsters were dancing and singing, in a drunken embrace that was quite endearing. I definitely needed a beer for this. The three of us gulped our PBRs as we watched the old men stumble over the words and each others feet, dancing and singing their alcohol soaked hearts out. Their friend, who just happened to be sitting next to us, turned his head towards us, rolled his eyes and sighed, "Golfers". I guess I hadn't quite made that connection yet.

It got to be pretty late--past two--and the drunks were only getting drunker. Our favourite drunk, Munch (a 50-something short fat drunk man with a small education but a big fucking heart and a helluva nickname), was past the point of politeness, tact, and general manners. He had four jokes that he used in heavy rotation, usually in the same order every time. He called everyone 'bird'. "Who's that bird?" he'd grunt. "Who is this bird, eh?" he'd grumble. Apparently he'd spent some time in Southie, because he kept exclaiming, "Ha, spent four months at Castle Island!" No, it's not just you, it didn't make sense.

Early into the morning, Munch had to piss. On his way to the bathroom (which is located on the other side of the U from poor Munch), the jukebox started playing Sweet Emotion by Aerosmith. As Munch rounded the last corner, he couldn't control himself any longer. He went into a full on strip tease (without removing his clothes, miraculously) with highly stylistic choreography that included (and I'm not making this up)

  • licking his hand and slapping his ass
  • rubbing his chest, paying particular attention to the nipple area
  • grabbing the door frame and slowly and sloppily dry fucking it.

It was classic. And Munch was no amateur entertainer. He had the entire bar on their feet, cat-calling Munch and egging him on. Hipsters and Teamsters came together.

"Some sweat hog mama with a face like a gent
Said my get up and go musta got up and went
Well I got good news, shes a real good liar
cause the backstage boogie set your pants on fire

Sweet emotion
Sweet emotion"

As munch ended his show, by swinging open the bathroom door and blowing the bar a kiss before disappearing, the crowd was calling for an encore. The encore that luckily, never materialized. I think everyone forgot about it before Munch came out of the bathroom a few short minutes later. We had moved on, but we hadn't forgotten.

The night ended around 2:45 am. As Madge, Chef and I parted ways outside the bar, a large white van pulled up to the corner. A large old white guy stood outside the driver's side window and bid us a drunken farewell before sliding onto the road headed home. Goodbye Munch. Drive safe.

"You stand in the front just a shakin your ass
I'll take you backstage, you can drink from my glass
I talk about something you can sure understand
cause a month on the road an I'll be eating from your hand

Sweet emotion
Sweet emotion"...

Note to Greg, co-founder of National Corn Dog Day: There, I finally wrote in my blog again. I hope you are enjoying the World Cup!


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