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Evidence, finally

I’ve been planning to add a pictures page to the site for some time now, but assembling image pages for others to scoff online is a painfully tedious process. Marta didn’t let that stop her, however, and hers are online right now. There’re some of me in there, and there might even be some of you if you’ve hung out with me on one of our “camera nights”. Hopefully that will tide you over until I get my photo page up and running, an indeterminate amount of time from now.

Two recent discoveries, as yet blog-less, just came to mind.

First was the fact that modern churches across the country apparently worship with the same shitty Christian soft rock. Marta, Kelly and I returned to Wow! Bubble Tea on the Ave. last week, and I prompted each of them to consider what was wrong with the picture. “Shhh- just listen.” They both cocked their heads to the side and concentrated, and after a moment Kelly said, in a hushed voice, “They’re singing about Jesus!” We shared a good laugh and continued to eat the messy Thai food we’d brought into the store with us, smearing their immaculate glass-top table with peanut sauce and rice bits. Then the song changed, and Kelly and I looked at each other in shock, noodles hanging from our slack lips. We both knew every word. I’ll spare you the lyrics, but suffice it to say it was another soft-rock hit about Jesus, and we sang along loudly, swaying back and forth with our hands in the air. Marta was dumbfounded; her family is Ukrainian Orthodox Catholic, and she never even understood the words to the songs she sang on Sunday mornings, let alone heard them resurrected as trite pop masterpieces in a posh Asian bubble tea shop.

Second is the fact that there’s a bar serving four-dollar pitchers of High Life four blocks from my house, The Duchess. Laurel, Chris Baker, Marta and I tried their establishment on for size last night, and found it mostly to our liking. Chris was none too impressed with the clientele, Marta was pissed off that the four songs we selected on the juke never made it into rotation, and I could have done with a booth that was bolted to the floor, rather than came with me as I leaned forward. Laurel has decided not to drink for a while, and she was concentrating so earnestly on limiting herself to one beer that it was hard to tell what she was thinking. I didn’t quite know what to make of the atmosphere – mounted animal heads and hunting gear hung from the walls, and the redneck theme encompassed the furniture and decorations as well. But clearly, the bar is locked in internal struggle: below a stunning elk’s rack sits a 50″ TV; the jukebox has adjacent entries for Stevie Ray Vaughn’s Greatest Hits and Now That’s What I Call Music! 6; barely-legal babes in high heels and tube-tops pushed past a sign on the men’s room door reading “Yield for patrons with enlarged prostates” on the way to their own restroom. It was interesting if nothing else. In any case, the combination of over a dozen beers on tap, reasonable prices, and its proximity guarantees a return. That, and a program called the “Beer Hunter’s Club.” They serve 40 beers total, and if you ask they’ll issue you a check-card and mark each one off as you drink it. If you collect a full card, they give you a hat with antlers and install a plaque with your name on the wall. Let’s see… 3 beers a night for two weeks gets me an antler hat. Sold!

Posted in Musings.

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