Most new year's resolutions seem to have something to do with booze in one way or another. By January 7th most of these guilt-fueled resolutions have fallen by the wayside. Rockabilly cats are not known for their tee-totaling ways and rarely make resolutions. A nice cold PBR goes hand in hand with a good show.
Depending on age, how much food you ate before or overall tolerance, booze can affect different people in different ways.
The following is a beer by beer description of an an average night at a Rockabilly show or party.
Expectations are high as you arrive. You belly up to the bar immediately upon your arrival, because you don't want to say hi to your friends beer-less. All your buddies are there and are all anxiously awaiting the arrival of hot rods and sexy girls. Beer#1 disappears real fast.
The line up at the bar is not too long and you get your beer pretty quick. The sound of loud pipes heralds the arrival of the first hot rod and you join the throng of greasers heading out the door to check out the cars. The phalanx of half finished beers near the door causes confusion when everybody comes back inside. The beer is now tepid , so everyone immediately requires another beer.
The opening act starts playing, but most people just ignore the first band. You and your friends are scoping out the gaggle of beautiful women that start poring through the door. More of your buddies start arriving as well and it will probably take a few more beers before you make the rounds. You take your first trip to the bathroom and do a hair check while you're there. Perfect. Time order another beer.
You are trying to impress some gal that you started chatting up. Since you're all excited you make grandiose gestures with your hands, thereby spilling beer #4.
Beer # 5.
You get back in line , but by the time you get beer #5, that chick is long gone. You go outside to check out some more hot rods and then go to the can again. Ooops, pomp is a little outta place. You whip out your comb and fix it. At this point your bag is getting a little itchy, so you scratch it before you go back into the bar.
You strike up a conversation with some dude who seems to know you. You yuk it up as some hilarity is exchanged and on your way to get beer # 6 you ask yourself " Who the fuck was that?".
Beer # 6.
As you are waiting in line, some hip hop kid cuts in front of you. You are nice about at first, but the rest goes by at lighting speed. He tells you to fuck off and receives a punch in the head a micro second later. Your friends break it up, but that kid sucker punches you. He then receives an even larger punch in the head and is subsequently banned for life from the bar.
You get back in line as if nothing happened as your friends and some old bikers in the corner give you nods of approval. Some of the chicks are secretly turned on. All the adrenaline has set your beer clock back by at least two, so beer #6 and # 7 are bonuses.
You and your buddies discuss the scrap. This testosterone fueled conversation is a bonding experience and is usually punctuated by " That little fuck!" or "that fucker had it coming" or "you fucked him up good". Everybody is all pumped up and having a great time.
Some of the girls start to come up to you and ask what happened. You tell them, while toning it down a bit. This a perfect opportunity to get a free grope. They feel a little sorry that you got a shot in the face and some won't say anything if you quickly grope their left butt cheek. If you keep it under three seconds they will just dismiss it a you being a " crazy guy".
Time to go to the can again. Your pomp is not too messed up, but your tooth hurts. Time for another beer.
The band is well into their first set and the music is good. You and your buddies get close to the stage and dig a few of the tunes, but after 8 beers, your attention span has wavered and you wander off in search of buddies or women.
You step outside to look at the cars again. One of your hot rod buddies has a bottle of Jaeger. You ask him if you can sit in the driver's seat. You clutch the steering wheel as you pass the bottle around to the five other greasers in the car and inside your head you are going. " Vro-ooom". All this testosterone is making your bag itchy again, but there's only dudes around, so you scratch away.
Things are getting a little hazy, but you're still coherent. Some random crazy drunk lady starts yammering at you. You are still lucid enough to realize that she is nutso and get the hell away from her. These crazy ladies will invariably always want to touch your pomp.
The music is still going strong and the Psychobillies have formed a mosh pit. You have this uncontrolable urge to dive in which you succumb to 30 seconds later.
You mosh for about a minute all the while screaming like a demented barbarian, but you are outta breath. You down the rest of beer # 9 and give your bag a little scratch.
You are all sweaty from that moshing and require another beer. On your way to the can, you are perplexed by all the squares that are present. Before hitting the urinal, you check your pomp because, even though you are getting drunk, you know your hair is probably messed up from all that moshing. You try to adjust your pomp, but are swaying slightly so it takes a little longer. As your standing at the urinal, you spot a wrinkled 20 dollar bill on the floor. You stomp on it so as to hide it until you are done peeing.
You wash off the 20 dollar bill, check your hair, give your bag another scratch and head back into the bar. You try not to stagger to much, but everybody else is loaded so they won't notice anyway. You buy a couple of shots for you and one of your buddies with that twenty that you found.
Your bravado has increased. You talk to various women that you know, maybe grab their waist as you lean over to hear what they are saying. One of two things may happen at this point . You either come to the correct conclusion that you are probably too hammered to follow through on anything or a pair of beer goggles suddenly materializes.
Drunk as your friends may be, they won't let you live that one down.
Things are getting hazier, but you still know where you are. You are now obsessed with your hair and make several trips to the bathroom to check it out.
You realize that the band is almost done and feel guilty for having missed a large chunk of the show. You check out the band near the stage, but are soon in need of another beer.
The bartender coldly informs you that it's last call. The answer is usually, " Last call?! Man, what time is it?". In your drunken stupor you are still able to realize that is is more productive to order two beers now, than argue with the bartender. " Gimme two beers !"
You chug that one pretty quick as you say goodbye to some friends that are leaving. The band is doing their last song and you start thinking that you're gonna need a ride.
Beer # 14.
You go talk to the band while a little voice in your head tells you to try not acting drunk. You somehow get roped into carrying some of the band's gear to their van, but get wind of an after hours party. You never get to finish that beer, because the staff just picked up all the glasses.
You sit in the car on the way to the party and it all seems surreal. You are, however still pumped up. The driver doesn't know here the house is. You do, but are finding it difficult to give accurate directions.
You get to the party, but there is no beer. You drink whatever is available and usually end up with a tepid shot of Fireball in a plastic cup.
You are getting a little paranoid because there are seemingly strange people there. You search out your greaser buddies and hang with them for a while and have semi incoherent slurred conversations.
Beer # 16.
After another shot of Fireball or Amaretto, or whatever the hell else was in your glass, you come to the conclusion that you are really hammered and it's time to go.
You mutter a few goodbyes and head on out the door. You stand on the sidewalk and try to get your bearings.
I call it beer-radar, because , amazingly, you always find your way home.
You wake up the next day in need of coffee and a greasy breakfast. You are happy to discover that all your clothes from the night before are hanging neatly in the closet and that you plugged your cel phone into the charger.
Your hair is an absolute mess, but you are happy because you had a blast. You tell yourself " I can't wait for next weekend".
"Too many nights in a roadhouse".
Junior Brown 1993