No, this isn’t a prelude to the Beatle’s Anthology of Hits – just a prelude to another issue demonizing me lately – that is – the state of loneliness.
For whatever reasons, the Christmas holiday season is just another big hurdle for me to get over. There’s something about the celebratory commercialism of the season and good will (ugh!) toward man that makes me want to shoot myself in the head. I know that because of the lack of a better, more fulfilling option, I’ll be forced to spend another holiday season preoccupied with lamenting past mistakes and lost friends; greater still, not being able to sip warm eggnog with a good woman, while making love in front of a roaring fire; worshipping her ‘Shakti’ with every sip we take, every tantric ritual performed.
So, what’s a guy to do? Yes, you guessed it – head for my local bar, El Villa. I’m driven to it, especially during holidays, because I know a smile and a cold beverage will always be there to greet me as I sit down. At that instant, I could ask for nothing more. I am familiar at El Villa, my name and preferences are known, it is a good welcoming feeling. El Villa for me is a refuge from the world where I can rest quietly in the cool darkness and listen to talk, gossip and general philosophizing on life by men and women that know it well. How quickly my loneliness is replaced with a warm acknowledgement of my existence. It is at these moments for me ‘one is not the loneliest number'.
Merry XMAS folks! May you and yours have a happy and fulfilling holiday season!
Next topic: My encounter with a ‘lazy-eyed’ Lesbian?
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Pleasure Of Women Friends
The implacable, unvarnished truth of the matter is; I believe ‘pleasure’ is one of the most important elements to find in life. I’m a firm believer of ‘Epicureanism’. Pleasure brings happiness, and life is not worth living if you are not happy. Okay, so what’s my number one pleasure? No, it’s not ‘twittering’..lol! For me, what gives me pleasure is befriending women…smart, successful and intoxicatingly exciting women; women that not only have a passion for life but have an element of ‘spontaneity’ that gives them a certain allure that can’t be easily dismissed. Both of these characteristic traits in women stimulate my ‘adrenaline’ highs. Women that ‘get’ and ‘hold’ my attention are frothy, marvelous creatures – nothing in life can displace their ‘essence’. For me, women are the untouchable assets to mankind that make life worth living, worth getting up in the morning, the ‘life force’ in my existence. When I’m down, the women I befriend buoy me up and carry me through; which is something else I never would have guessed all those years ago, would be so important to me now. I can’t imagine living life without women, just as I can’t imagine enjoying the sheer majestic physical beauty of this planet without the benefit of eyesight.
Monday, November 10, 2008
CrabShack Blues
Hi Folks,
It’s 'happy hour' at the ‘Crab Shack’ and I’ve made a gallant effort to arrive early enough to grab a good seat and ‘tip a beer’ before the ‘regulars’ converge on the scene.
The previous week I met four or five of the regulars and it turned out to be a pretty good evening. I introduced myself to the group and while we didn’t have all that much in common, a few jokes and witticisms were exchanged and that was enough to meet the initial threshold of acceptance. For the most part these folks are self-indulgent boors with only one solitary interest, yachts and the bikinis clad women that accompany them. So why am I hanging with these folks? For one, the bikinis clad women aspect may be something to explore! At any rate, we exchanged e-mails and phone numbers with promises that ‘they’ would contact me and let me know what was on the agenda for ‘this Friday’ and that we’d all meet at the Crab Shack and go from there. Regretfully, I never received an e-mail, so was hoping they’d be here tonight.
Okay, I’m here…..where are they? Not to be folks, I’ve been stood up. I felt like Charlie Brown when things go wrong, grab the blanket. Only, I had no blanket to grab. Another ‘wasted’ Friday night I’m thinking. Fortunately, there was a new female bartender working this night. She served me promptly without any fanfare or even a ‘howdy’. Peculiar for a bartender since most are arguably quite social. At least you should be sociable if you want to make a buck. That observation aside, I decided to ‘hang around’ rather than make an early exit. Maybe a bit of ‘small talk’ with her might cheer me up and salvage something of my ‘only night out’ of the week.
Physically, she was ‘okay’, somewhere in the neighborhood of 5’6”, 120 lbs in what looks like a well ‘toned’ body. Admiringly, in a pejorative way, her demeanor and body language suggests ‘body obsession’ rules her life. I’m sure her physique would probably be the envy of many sweaty bodies at the gym. For me, I have a more cognitive approach, a more realistic view of my appearance. ‘Body morphing/sculpting’ and for that matter any ‘highly disciplined’ physical activity that requires an inordinate amount of time and commitment isn’t for me. Let me have my well-earned ‘paunch’ and gravity-displaced pecks, I earned them! God knows, to keep ‘svelte’ and ‘lean’ like she is she probably suffers from some form of dysmorphic disorder. Laugh all you want, there are more women than you think who suffer eating disorders just to get the kind of look she has managed to acquire.
Denigrating comments aside, she does have great eyes. You know, those eyes that communicate that ‘who me?’ look. They were deep-brown in color and exposed a kind of softness about her, a disempowering quality that would indicate she’s ‘approachable’. I hope so. I’m about ready for my next beer, so now is as good a time as any to introduce myself.
She saunters by as I interrupt a request by a ‘waiting’ and ‘wanton’ hostess for a ‘Manhatten’. A rare request, haven’t heard of that drink since the early 60s. “Excuse me, ma’am, I blurt out as she whisks by, may I have another Ultra draft?” I quickly follow with, “Don’t rush, I’m still working on this one.” She acknowledges with a nod of the head. Waiting, I scan the bar area for anybody that may have passed by me without my knowing. Nada…not one person has come into the bar area since my arrival more than 30 minutes ago. I’m still at a loss as to where any of the ‘yacht club’ members might be. The weather is exceptionally nice today so I’m betting there was some ‘last minute’ planning to ‘bar-hop’ by boat in lieu of the regular routine of coming to this bar. What the hey….don’t blame them, right?
“Excuse me, here’s your beer, sir”, the bartender quietly advertises to me. She follows with “I apologize for the delay, it’s just kind of busy on the restaurant side tonight”. Awoken out of my mental malaise, I said, “no problem”. By the way, my name is Rick, what’s yours?” “I’m Jennifer. Are you new here?” she asks. “Pretty much so”, I replied. “I was expecting to see some of the folks I met here last week, the ‘yacht clubers’ as I like to refer to them. Kinda disappointed none of them showed up.” She responds, “I know who you’re talking about and I believe they’ve all gone to Pensacola over the weekend, the weather is so nice and all.”
I’m thinking now the ice is broken. One question leads to another until we got to a point where I had a pretty good picture of her status and goals in life. Hey, once on a roll I’m quick to the point. And here I thought I would be intimidated by her. I can say with honesty, women this attractive can be intimidating. Especially, for an old goat like me that looks ‘the part’ yet still has the ‘howl at the moon’ yearning to copulate with someone half my age. In any case, the last thing I want is to be too forward, especially not knowing her very well, nor she of me. I’m still thinking, even with all our conversing, she may still have some kind of dysmorphic disorder. It would be my luck I should piss her off and she engages in some sort of trichotillomaniccontest with me. As if I don’t have enough problems in my crummy life! Fortunately, none of the above occurred, nor do I believe she’s so afflicted.
“Jennifer, can I ask you something personal?”. She responds, “No, go ahead”. “Do you have a boyfriend”, I brazenly ask. I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth, that I asked her this question; not after only knowing her for 30 minutes! How crude of me, I thought. How desperate it must sound. I’m thinking, I’d probably be offended if someone I hardly knew asked me such a question. But I did. “Yes, I do Rick”, she responds. No note of hostility from her, thank god. I really felt dumb at this moment. Anyway, she continues, “His name is Joe Smith, he’s a biker and a lot of fun. I’ve dated otherwise ‘nice guys’ but they just don’t have the ‘risk/reward’ attitude I like in the men I date. He’s been to jail a couple of times but I think he’s straightened out.” “Oh, I say”, rather condescending. She doesn’t seem to notice the deferential response. She bends over to fill the ice-bin and I notice a ‘skull ‘n’ bones’ tattoo on her lower back, just above the crack in her ass. All the while I’m thinking, “what in the hell is she thinking going out with an ex-con?” Then again, I’m looking at the crack of her ass; question answered. She finishes filling the ice-bin, then asks me the same question. Not only the same question but compliments me on being a seemingly “nice” guy with “nice” manners that would make someone a ‘nice’ boyfriend. I responded that, “I’m divorced and looking, thanks for the compliments”. I’m not sure why I replied to her this way because I’m “not” looking. Maybe my answer was a shield to protect my ever-ebbing desire to find a partner. To admit ‘not looking’ would be an affront to my masculinity, whatever the hell all that means. I’m sure there’s some neuro-linguistic programming theory at work in all this. Whatever, I certainly don’t have enough time in my life to figure it all out.
So what we have here folks is a dismal attempt to make ‘something’ from ‘nothing’ in terms of establishing a potential relationship. Let’s face it, old man time is taking it’s toll on me. I’m just becoming an anachronistic artifact with only a limited amount of redeeming value to the breeding stock of the human species. My ‘y’ chromosome pairs are becoming fragmented and diluted with ever diminishing levels of active DNA strands. It’s just so depressing, getting old. That, and being ‘nice’, it’s all a plot against me.
Even a ‘nice’ guy can’t help but think Jennifer would certainly be fun to be with on occasion. But, in her words ‘nice’ guys finish last. I often feel like womankind has a perverse craving for jerks, while nice men are handled best with six-foot poles and sterilized gloves. And I know that in the treacherous World of Dating, I suffer from a frightful natural disadvantage.
I think I must have been born nice; I certainly don't recall choosing to be this way. Half the time I can't even explain what being nice means. I understand it is related to politeness, empathy, honesty, and other such calamitous behaviors. How did I ever inherit these mediocre traits? An evolutionary regression is my best guess, a defiant recessive gene disinclined to remain hidden in my chromosomes. Or perhaps I was corrupted during my excruciatingly long and happy childhood. Whatever the case, I fear pursuing the question is futile.
What I do grasp with utter clarity is that nice guys must fight a bleak battle to stay off the endangered species list. To be nice can be a man's ruin. Few things can damage one's reputation as thoroughly as the indictment, 'Oh, he's so nice.' Other women besides Jennifer have been callous enough to say this to my face (they meant it as a compliment, of course), consigning me with those miserable words to the dreaded friend bucket-a fate akin to involuntary early retirement. Being good enough for friendship, and endowed with endearing niceness, apparently disqualify me from romantic considerations.
Wherefore this cruel paradox? I've frequently toyed with perfunctory explanations. The ingenuous answer is to blame the misguided stereotype that all nice guys are boring geeks who have to be agreeable if they want to meet women-as well as its corollary: men who are witty and audacious aren't nice because they don't have to be. But I like to think most women don't fall for this fallacy. Perhaps, instead, they assume nice guys are too good to be true; surely some evil secret is lurking beneath that tranquil surface.
And why do women tolerate the stellar treatment they receive from jerks? I just know by conversing with Jennifer that ‘her’ ‘Joe Smith’ doesn’t give crappola about her in any way, shape or form. Maybe, like Jennifer, they believe it’s too compelling a tradeoff to resist? Good sex, witty conversation, fancy dinners followed by thrilling nightclubs, biker orgies, all this and more in exchange for a barrage of lousy manners, thoughtless insults, and daily arguments about nothing. Not a shabby arrangement. Not when one adds other incentives, like the ecstatic thrill of his inconstancy. Or the delightful suspicion of being on the receiving end of his crafty deception. Maybe they think the jerks are going to change. Women, like Jennifer, will play a waiting game, wagering their jerks will turn nice before they turn eighty. Even with all the ‘negatives’ I conjure up being a ‘jerk’, the profile remains somewhat alluring.
I think after tonight’s conversation with Jennifer becoming a jerk may be a sound strategy to save me from a lonely middle age. The beer is kicking in now. Self-absorption is giving in to the ‘Walter Mitty’ world of make believe. I love it. I’m going to make a pledge: no more mister Nice Guy. No denying, itwill be a daunting task. I have been hindered from the outset by a string of innate defects. I find it difficult to lie; I generally prefer to be forthright. I'm protective and caring. I tend to anticipate needs and fulfill them. I have the annoying habit of listening well. Chivalry is my mother’s tongue. I have concluded, grudgingly, that to be a jerk may be unachievable. The competition I will be facing is formidable. I'd be a feather-weight learning to fight in a land of three-hundred pound giants. Jerks have been training to be jerks since they were toddlers. They looked up girls' skirts in grade school. In junior high they had one girlfriend at school, one in the neighborhood, and they were playing home-physician with their cousin in her parents' walk-in closet. At twenty, they had managed every trick in the portfolio. Lying, cheating, scheming, seducing. By the time they reached thirty they had refined their skills to a cruel art. I knew a guy who broke up with his girlfriend because she developed a nasty rash on her forearm. How am I ever going to top that?
How best can I convert from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’? I’ve got a Books a Million discount card, I’ll devour self-help books on the subject. I’ll watch countless French films to bring out the colder, more cynical me. I’ll start a Nice Guy Association (NGA). I’ll be the first to sign up. My introductory speech will be brief and to the point. ”Hello”, my head bowed and my eyes on my matching socks, “My name is Rick and I have been a nice guy since 1946.” I could also pursue more desperate measures. I will avidly follow the progress of the Human Genome Project, praying they'll soon discover a cure for the filthy gene accountable for my wretched state.
Who am I kidding? I know this retransformation from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’ is just an irrational pursuit of unobtainable results. Walter Mitty sucks! An inner voice tells me I must accept who I am and be content. Pursuing any noble crusade to find my egocentric, brutish side is pure folly. I am who I am. I’m ‘hardwired’ to be Mr. Nice til my last breath.
Better pay my bar bill, time to go. “Jennifer, it was nice meeting you, here’s a ten-spot, keep the change…see you next Friday”. I’m thinking on my way to the car that Jennifer is really pretty nice but now that I know her a bit better, I just can't seem to get too excited about her anymore. I don't know...if only she weren't so damned nice.
C’ya later folks.
It’s 'happy hour' at the ‘Crab Shack’ and I’ve made a gallant effort to arrive early enough to grab a good seat and ‘tip a beer’ before the ‘regulars’ converge on the scene.
The previous week I met four or five of the regulars and it turned out to be a pretty good evening. I introduced myself to the group and while we didn’t have all that much in common, a few jokes and witticisms were exchanged and that was enough to meet the initial threshold of acceptance. For the most part these folks are self-indulgent boors with only one solitary interest, yachts and the bikinis clad women that accompany them. So why am I hanging with these folks? For one, the bikinis clad women aspect may be something to explore! At any rate, we exchanged e-mails and phone numbers with promises that ‘they’ would contact me and let me know what was on the agenda for ‘this Friday’ and that we’d all meet at the Crab Shack and go from there. Regretfully, I never received an e-mail, so was hoping they’d be here tonight.
Okay, I’m here…..where are they? Not to be folks, I’ve been stood up. I felt like Charlie Brown when things go wrong, grab the blanket. Only, I had no blanket to grab. Another ‘wasted’ Friday night I’m thinking. Fortunately, there was a new female bartender working this night. She served me promptly without any fanfare or even a ‘howdy’. Peculiar for a bartender since most are arguably quite social. At least you should be sociable if you want to make a buck. That observation aside, I decided to ‘hang around’ rather than make an early exit. Maybe a bit of ‘small talk’ with her might cheer me up and salvage something of my ‘only night out’ of the week.
Physically, she was ‘okay’, somewhere in the neighborhood of 5’6”, 120 lbs in what looks like a well ‘toned’ body. Admiringly, in a pejorative way, her demeanor and body language suggests ‘body obsession’ rules her life. I’m sure her physique would probably be the envy of many sweaty bodies at the gym. For me, I have a more cognitive approach, a more realistic view of my appearance. ‘Body morphing/sculpting’ and for that matter any ‘highly disciplined’ physical activity that requires an inordinate amount of time and commitment isn’t for me. Let me have my well-earned ‘paunch’ and gravity-displaced pecks, I earned them! God knows, to keep ‘svelte’ and ‘lean’ like she is she probably suffers from some form of dysmorphic disorder. Laugh all you want, there are more women than you think who suffer eating disorders just to get the kind of look she has managed to acquire.
Denigrating comments aside, she does have great eyes. You know, those eyes that communicate that ‘who me?’ look. They were deep-brown in color and exposed a kind of softness about her, a disempowering quality that would indicate she’s ‘approachable’. I hope so. I’m about ready for my next beer, so now is as good a time as any to introduce myself.
She saunters by as I interrupt a request by a ‘waiting’ and ‘wanton’ hostess for a ‘Manhatten’. A rare request, haven’t heard of that drink since the early 60s. “Excuse me, ma’am, I blurt out as she whisks by, may I have another Ultra draft?” I quickly follow with, “Don’t rush, I’m still working on this one.” She acknowledges with a nod of the head. Waiting, I scan the bar area for anybody that may have passed by me without my knowing. Nada…not one person has come into the bar area since my arrival more than 30 minutes ago. I’m still at a loss as to where any of the ‘yacht club’ members might be. The weather is exceptionally nice today so I’m betting there was some ‘last minute’ planning to ‘bar-hop’ by boat in lieu of the regular routine of coming to this bar. What the hey….don’t blame them, right?
“Excuse me, here’s your beer, sir”, the bartender quietly advertises to me. She follows with “I apologize for the delay, it’s just kind of busy on the restaurant side tonight”. Awoken out of my mental malaise, I said, “no problem”. By the way, my name is Rick, what’s yours?” “I’m Jennifer. Are you new here?” she asks. “Pretty much so”, I replied. “I was expecting to see some of the folks I met here last week, the ‘yacht clubers’ as I like to refer to them. Kinda disappointed none of them showed up.” She responds, “I know who you’re talking about and I believe they’ve all gone to Pensacola over the weekend, the weather is so nice and all.”
I’m thinking now the ice is broken. One question leads to another until we got to a point where I had a pretty good picture of her status and goals in life. Hey, once on a roll I’m quick to the point. And here I thought I would be intimidated by her. I can say with honesty, women this attractive can be intimidating. Especially, for an old goat like me that looks ‘the part’ yet still has the ‘howl at the moon’ yearning to copulate with someone half my age. In any case, the last thing I want is to be too forward, especially not knowing her very well, nor she of me. I’m still thinking, even with all our conversing, she may still have some kind of dysmorphic disorder. It would be my luck I should piss her off and she engages in some sort of trichotillomanic
“Jennifer, can I ask you something personal?”. She responds, “No, go ahead”. “Do you have a boyfriend”, I brazenly ask. I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth, that I asked her this question; not after only knowing her for 30 minutes! How crude of me, I thought. How desperate it must sound. I’m thinking, I’d probably be offended if someone I hardly knew asked me such a question. But I did. “Yes, I do Rick”, she responds. No note of hostility from her, thank god. I really felt dumb at this moment. Anyway, she continues, “His name is Joe Smith, he’s a biker and a lot of fun. I’ve dated otherwise ‘nice guys’ but they just don’t have the ‘risk/reward’ attitude I like in the men I date. He’s been to jail a couple of times but I think he’s straightened out.” “Oh, I say”, rather condescending. She doesn’t seem to notice the deferential response. She bends over to fill the ice-bin and I notice a ‘skull ‘n’ bones’ tattoo on her lower back, just above the crack in her ass. All the while I’m thinking, “what in the hell is she thinking going out with an ex-con?” Then again, I’m looking at the crack of her ass; question answered. She finishes filling the ice-bin, then asks me the same question. Not only the same question but compliments me on being a seemingly “nice” guy with “nice” manners that would make someone a ‘nice’ boyfriend. I responded that, “I’m divorced and looking, thanks for the compliments”. I’m not sure why I replied to her this way because I’m “not” looking. Maybe my answer was a shield to protect my ever-ebbing desire to find a partner. To admit ‘not looking’ would be an affront to my masculinity, whatever the hell all that means. I’m sure there’s some neuro-linguistic programming theory at work in all this. Whatever, I certainly don’t have enough time in my life to figure it all out.
So what we have here folks is a dismal attempt to make ‘something’ from ‘nothing’ in terms of establishing a potential relationship. Let’s face it, old man time is taking it’s toll on me. I’m just becoming an anachronistic artifact with only a limited amount of redeeming value to the breeding stock of the human species. My ‘y’ chromosome pairs are becoming fragmented and diluted with ever diminishing levels of active DNA strands. It’s just so depressing, getting old. That, and being ‘nice’, it’s all a plot against me.
Even a ‘nice’ guy can’t help but think Jennifer would certainly be fun to be with on occasion. But, in her words ‘nice’ guys finish last. I often feel like womankind has a perverse craving for jerks, while nice men are handled best with six-foot poles and sterilized gloves. And I know that in the treacherous World of Dating, I suffer from a frightful natural disadvantage.
I think I must have been born nice; I certainly don't recall choosing to be this way. Half the time I can't even explain what being nice means. I understand it is related to politeness, empathy, honesty, and other such calamitous behaviors. How did I ever inherit these mediocre traits? An evolutionary regression is my best guess, a defiant recessive gene disinclined to remain hidden in my chromosomes. Or perhaps I was corrupted during my excruciatingly long and happy childhood. Whatever the case, I fear pursuing the question is futile.
What I do grasp with utter clarity is that nice guys must fight a bleak battle to stay off the endangered species list. To be nice can be a man's ruin. Few things can damage one's reputation as thoroughly as the indictment, 'Oh, he's so nice.' Other women besides Jennifer have been callous enough to say this to my face (they meant it as a compliment, of course), consigning me with those miserable words to the dreaded friend bucket-a fate akin to involuntary early retirement. Being good enough for friendship, and endowed with endearing niceness, apparently disqualify me from romantic considerations.
Wherefore this cruel paradox? I've frequently toyed with perfunctory explanations. The ingenuous answer is to blame the misguided stereotype that all nice guys are boring geeks who have to be agreeable if they want to meet women-as well as its corollary: men who are witty and audacious aren't nice because they don't have to be. But I like to think most women don't fall for this fallacy. Perhaps, instead, they assume nice guys are too good to be true; surely some evil secret is lurking beneath that tranquil surface.
And why do women tolerate the stellar treatment they receive from jerks? I just know by conversing with Jennifer that ‘her’ ‘Joe Smith’ doesn’t give crappola about her in any way, shape or form. Maybe, like Jennifer, they believe it’s too compelling a tradeoff to resist? Good sex, witty conversation, fancy dinners followed by thrilling nightclubs, biker orgies, all this and more in exchange for a barrage of lousy manners, thoughtless insults, and daily arguments about nothing. Not a shabby arrangement. Not when one adds other incentives, like the ecstatic thrill of his inconstancy. Or the delightful suspicion of being on the receiving end of his crafty deception. Maybe they think the jerks are going to change. Women, like Jennifer, will play a waiting game, wagering their jerks will turn nice before they turn eighty. Even with all the ‘negatives’ I conjure up being a ‘jerk’, the profile remains somewhat alluring.
I think after tonight’s conversation with Jennifer becoming a jerk may be a sound strategy to save me from a lonely middle age. The beer is kicking in now. Self-absorption is giving in to the ‘Walter Mitty’ world of make believe. I love it. I’m going to make a pledge: no more mister Nice Guy. No denying, it
How best can I convert from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’? I’ve got a Books a Million discount card, I’ll devour self-help books on the subject. I’ll watch countless French films to bring out the colder, more cynical me. I’ll start a Nice Guy Association (NGA). I’ll be the first to sign up. My introductory speech will be brief and to the point. ”Hello”, my head bowed and my eyes on my matching socks, “My name is Rick and I have been a nice guy since 1946.” I could also pursue more desperate measures. I will avidly follow the progress of the Human Genome Project, praying they'll soon discover a cure for the filthy gene accountable for my wretched state.
Who am I kidding? I know this retransformation from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’ is just an irrational pursuit of unobtainable results. Walter Mitty sucks! An inner voice tells me I must accept who I am and be content. Pursuing any noble crusade to find my egocentric, brutish side is pure folly. I am who I am. I’m ‘hardwired’ to be Mr. Nice til my last breath.
Better pay my bar bill, time to go. “Jennifer, it was nice meeting you, here’s a ten-spot, keep the change…see you next Friday”. I’m thinking on my way to the car that Jennifer is really pretty nice but now that I know her a bit better, I just can't seem to get too excited about her anymore. I don't know...if only she weren't so damned nice.
C’ya later folks.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
El Villa....My Bar!
El Villa…My bar! “Where should I go tonight?” It’s an age-old question, and the answer is often rooted in habit or inertia – you go to where you usually go. It’s Saturday and for me that’s going to my local watering hole here in Fort Walton Beach, FL…. El Villa.
Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that; everyone likes to go somewhere that feels comfortable and familiar. Okay, so it’s not the Four Seasons! And yes, folks, if you’ve been in Fort Walton Beach for any period of time, you know it’s a bar. A bars’ bar to be perfectly honest. And yes, again, on Friday and Saturday nights, it’s a ‘meat market’ of sorts. So what of it? Like Fort Walton Beach has anything more exciting going for it that I should feel guilty frequenting an establishment like this? One thing you can be certain of, Friday and Saturday nights, my nights out, El Villa rocks!
Okay, I’ll admit for the casual ‘first timer’ you could be intimidated coming into the establishment. The first time at El Villa was a bit unnerving for me as well. On first impression driving up, ‘SUSPECT’ in capital letters immediately comes to mind. It’s an old building with a distinctly circa 50s look about it. The craggy looking cedar shingles coupled with a dimly lit and smallish main entrance give it a forlorn and mistakenly ‘off-limits’ look. The inevitable 'hard- used' pickup trucks parked in the parking lot add to the desolation that seems to shroud the property. It is what it is, a ‘locals’ bar, what others might call a ‘dive’.
It isn’t the kind of place that invites the unknown traveler through its doors. But trust me, once inside, any reservations you may have experienced beforehand is soon grounded and baseless. Enter the Villa and you find yourself immediately optically challenged like a blind man hunting a black cat in a dark closet. Encindo man would feel right at home. Fortunately, our visual receptors have the great ability to ‘adjust’ to our surroundings. You notice everyone turns to look. For a moment you are framed in the spotlight, scrutinized. It is an instant initiation rite into the community within.
Like many local watering holes, there is a large-screen television, pool tables in a backroom area, dartboards, a Golden Tee kiosk and a jukebox. In the furthest corner of the establishment is a small stage and dance-floor. The bar stools are comfortable and the bar itself worn smooth by countless elbows. The bar area itself is replete with video kiosks that provide the elbow-benders mindless entertainment on those occasions when conversation becomes either a bore or has the relevance of a dick as hard as brie cheese. For ‘regulars’ of such establishments, these entertainment amenities are mere accoutrements to the magnetism of the place. In any case, there’s something for everyone at the Villa. Whether it’s to imbibe in a drink or two during the weekdays, or go with heavy libation Friday and Saturday nights to the live entertainment provided by Johnny Lee; choose your poison.
Bottom line, El Villa is a dusty jewel. I wouldn’t want it any other way. It has life, not the false, fabricated, cheerfulness that is found in chain eateries and pubs. El Villa’s success attracting and keeping a large following can be attributed to several factors. For starters, there’s the head bartender sometimes concierge. Laid back barkeep ‘Ron’ as he goes by has been serving customers at El Villa for a few years now. Ron is one of those old-school bartenders who achieved some sort of secret bartending psychology degree and is an ever-faithful practitioner. When you’re sitting at the bar and happy, Ron always has a joke for you, and when you’re sniffling in your beer, Ron has a joke and a pep talk at no extra charge. If you’re a woman alone, his chivalry is evident when he makes it a point to escort you to your car, if need be. He seems to love his job. Only when people use the pool table as a coaster or when it becomes clear a patron may have had ‘too much’ does he invoke his authority. Even so, he does it with a certain jocular charm and infectious wholesomeness that imbues ‘the Shoe’ without the feeling you’ve been stepped on. With the current bartender trend running toward the young and the clothes-less, Ron is a dying breed, but that only makes his kind and dignified style all the more appreciated.Patron loyalty is another added factor.
The Villa serves gritty raw realism in doses that sometimes can be overwhelming. I’ve got plenty of stories that attest to it. I’ll share the best of those in weeks to come…’El Villa – The Bad’. More importantly, patrons of the Villa for the most part are much like the Villa itself, eclectic, pragmatic, all while sporting a worn look. White collar and blue collar types seem to have perfect harmony relating to each other, quite extraordinary. Again, like the Villa, they seem to have an undying endurance about them. These are people that live life and some of those lives have been hard. You can read it in the creases of their careworn faces; you can see it in their rough and unkempt hands; you can hear it in their conversations. For the most part, they are people that make their way by the sweat of their brows and the ache of their backs. They know the meaning of hard work. Walk through the door, and you walk into something hidden, strange and wonderful, something that is all too rare in our lives. There is a closeness and familiarity that is alive and warm within those walls. For sure, the people that come to this bar and share life’s events, both good and bad, are the reasons the Villa continues to draw and endure. What can possibly be more entertaining than one’s own fellow travelers through life? Nothing is quite as fascinating to man, as man; or to woman, as woman.
Finally, there’s the Friday and Saturday night activity at the Villa wherein the establishment transforms itself into a music and dance venue and does it in a mostly successful way. The dance floor is packed and invigorating on these nights, thanks to the multi-talented Johnny Lee and his one man electronic accompaniment. Top 40 hits are his specialty and personal requests are received and responded to without fail. Of course, a ‘buck’ in the mason jar guarantees it! These nights Ron doffs his bartender hat and becomes concierge proteome - the head ‘meeter’ and ‘greeter’ to all whom pass through the portals those nights. Ron keeps a tight ship on these ‘dance nights’ and keeps it a friendly and non-threatening experience for the ladies. Women can come here knowing they don’t have to worry some shitface will have his appendage poking them in the groin ungratuitously.
The demographic is mostly middle-age women and older men. Now don’t get me wrong, women here like a little gray hair on the fellas. The only reservation they make is that when the urge for them to yell “spank me daddy” prevails, they don’t want the dude to be older than their dad. Beats phone sex when you need that ‘stimulation’. In a town packed with pretense, it’s nice to stumble upon a place where the patrons don’t wear sunglasses and egos are left where they should be, at the doorstep.
For me, I don’t ask for much: just good music, good people, a pool table, a dance floor and a beer that wouldn’t pass a paper-bag test. If you require mood lighting, Monet prints, middle aged men in mock turtlenecks, women with misplaced vanities, then head on over to TGIF or Chiles down the street and pay extra for the attitude. But remember this, you can’t buy ambience like at El Villa. You can’t attain atmosphere overnight. Such things take time, like fraying the bottoms of your favorite blue jeans. A good local bar like El Villa is worn in and welcoming. It’s full of stories. You can feel it. You can smell it. The floor may be sticky, the bathrooms may stink, but it’s MY BAR!
El Villa may not be for everyone, and that’s fine with me. I need room to stretch out my legs.
‘See the losers in the best bars,
Meet the winners in the dives,
Where the people are the real stars,
All the rest of their lives.’
Neil Young, “Sail Away”
Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that; everyone likes to go somewhere that feels comfortable and familiar. Okay, so it’s not the Four Seasons! And yes, folks, if you’ve been in Fort Walton Beach for any period of time, you know it’s a bar. A bars’ bar to be perfectly honest. And yes, again, on Friday and Saturday nights, it’s a ‘meat market’ of sorts. So what of it? Like Fort Walton Beach has anything more exciting going for it that I should feel guilty frequenting an establishment like this? One thing you can be certain of, Friday and Saturday nights, my nights out, El Villa rocks!
Okay, I’ll admit for the casual ‘first timer’ you could be intimidated coming into the establishment. The first time at El Villa was a bit unnerving for me as well. On first impression driving up, ‘SUSPECT’ in capital letters immediately comes to mind. It’s an old building with a distinctly circa 50s look about it. The craggy looking cedar shingles coupled with a dimly lit and smallish main entrance give it a forlorn and mistakenly ‘off-limits’ look. The inevitable 'hard- used' pickup trucks parked in the parking lot add to the desolation that seems to shroud the property. It is what it is, a ‘locals’ bar, what others might call a ‘dive’.
It isn’t the kind of place that invites the unknown traveler through its doors. But trust me, once inside, any reservations you may have experienced beforehand is soon grounded and baseless. Enter the Villa and you find yourself immediately optically challenged like a blind man hunting a black cat in a dark closet. Encindo man would feel right at home. Fortunately, our visual receptors have the great ability to ‘adjust’ to our surroundings. You notice everyone turns to look. For a moment you are framed in the spotlight, scrutinized. It is an instant initiation rite into the community within.
Like many local watering holes, there is a large-screen television, pool tables in a backroom area, dartboards, a Golden Tee kiosk and a jukebox. In the furthest corner of the establishment is a small stage and dance-floor. The bar stools are comfortable and the bar itself worn smooth by countless elbows. The bar area itself is replete with video kiosks that provide the elbow-benders mindless entertainment on those occasions when conversation becomes either a bore or has the relevance of a dick as hard as brie cheese. For ‘regulars’ of such establishments, these entertainment amenities are mere accoutrements to the magnetism of the place. In any case, there’s something for everyone at the Villa. Whether it’s to imbibe in a drink or two during the weekdays, or go with heavy libation Friday and Saturday nights to the live entertainment provided by Johnny Lee; choose your poison.
Bottom line, El Villa is a dusty jewel. I wouldn’t want it any other way. It has life, not the false, fabricated, cheerfulness that is found in chain eateries and pubs. El Villa’s success attracting and keeping a large following can be attributed to several factors. For starters, there’s the head bartender
The Villa serves gritty raw realism in doses that sometimes can be overwhelming. I’ve got plenty of stories that attest to it. I’ll share the best of those in weeks to come…’El Villa – The Bad’. More importantly, patrons of the Villa for the most part are much like the Villa itself, eclectic, pragmatic, all while sporting a worn look. White collar and blue collar types seem to have perfect harmony relating to each other, quite extraordinary. Again, like the Villa, they seem to have an undying endurance about them. These are people that live life and some of those lives have been hard. You can read it in the creases of their careworn faces; you can see it in their rough and unkempt hands; you can hear it in their conversations. For the most part, they are people that make their way by the sweat of their brows and the ache of their backs. They know the meaning of hard work. Walk through the door, and you walk into something hidden, strange and wonderful, something that is all too rare in our lives. There is a closeness and familiarity that is alive and warm within those walls. For sure, the people that come to this bar and share life’s events, both good and bad, are the reasons the Villa continues to draw and endure. What can possibly be more entertaining than one’s own fellow travelers through life? Nothing is quite as fascinating to man, as man; or to woman, as woman.
Finally, there’s the Friday and Saturday night activity at the Villa wherein the establishment transforms itself into a music and dance venue and does it in a mostly successful way. The dance floor is packed and invigorating on these nights, thanks to the multi-talented Johnny Lee and his one man electronic accompaniment. Top 40 hits are his specialty and personal requests are received and responded to without fail. Of course, a ‘buck’ in the mason jar guarantees it! These nights Ron doffs his bartender hat and becomes concierge proteome - the head ‘meeter’ and ‘greeter’ to all whom pass through the portals those nights. Ron keeps a tight ship on these ‘dance nights’ and keeps it a friendly and non-threatening experience for the ladies. Women can come here knowing they don’t have to worry some shitface will have his appendage poking them in the groin ungratuitously.
The demographic is mostly middle-age women and older men. Now don’t get me wrong, women here like a little gray hair on the fellas. The only reservation they make is that when the urge for them to yell “spank me daddy” prevails, they don’t want the dude to be older than their dad. Beats phone sex when you need that ‘stimulation’. In a town packed with pretense, it’s nice to stumble upon a place where the patrons don’t wear sunglasses and egos are left where they should be, at the doorstep.
For me, I don’t ask for much: just good music, good people, a pool table, a dance floor and a beer that wouldn’t pass a paper-bag test. If you require mood lighting, Monet prints, middle aged men in mock turtlenecks, women with misplaced vanities, then head on over to TGIF or Chiles down the street and pay extra for the attitude. But remember this, you can’t buy ambience like at El Villa. You can’t attain atmosphere overnight. Such things take time, like fraying the bottoms of your favorite blue jeans. A good local bar like El Villa is worn in and welcoming. It’s full of stories. You can feel it. You can smell it. The floor may be sticky, the bathrooms may stink, but it’s MY BAR!
El Villa may not be for everyone, and that’s fine with me. I need room to stretch out my legs.
‘See the losers in the best bars,
Meet the winners in the dives,
Where the people are the real stars,
All the rest of their lives.’
Neil Young, “Sail Away”
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Losing A Friend
I suppose there are countless reasons that friendships fail or end, but the broken bond feels deeply personal. I always thought friendships were supposed to be uncomplicated, sustaining, and reassuringly reasonable relationships. How is it then that in a matter of four days in November I managed to alienate my friend to the extent ‘she’ has essentially disavowed my existence?
For the life of me I cannot trace the arc of events that led to the failed relationship to shape it into a recognizable narrative that I can share with you folks. But no matter the sordid details, the fact that this friendship has seemingly failed is never all that surprising. Bonds of friendship in today’s world just aren’t that important, sadly. That friendships can end suddenly, inexplicably, is the refrain of a thousand pop songs. No one expects anything less. All I know is that the world, for me, has shifted on its axis; I will no longer be a part of her active, engaged, day-to-day life; or she of mine.
If she decides to never talk to me again, I will remain her strong, silent friend. If for no other reason than the respect we once had of each other and the good times even though few and far between. I can only hope that she can muster the courage to sit down with me to revisit the issues that brought a thriving friendship to a complete state of inertia. I’m not sure she can, or, in a sad statement of reality, wants to open the door to all that led up to this state of affairs to begin with. I can only hope.
For the life of me I cannot trace the arc of events that led to the failed relationship to shape it into a recognizable narrative that I can share with you folks. But no matter the sordid details, the fact that this friendship has seemingly failed is never all that surprising. Bonds of friendship in today’s world just aren’t that important, sadly. That friendships can end suddenly, inexplicably, is the refrain of a thousand pop songs. No one expects anything less. All I know is that the world, for me, has shifted on its axis; I will no longer be a part of her active, engaged, day-to-day life; or she of mine.
If she decides to never talk to me again, I will remain her strong, silent friend. If for no other reason than the respect we once had of each other and the good times even though few and far between. I can only hope that she can muster the courage to sit down with me to revisit the issues that brought a thriving friendship to a complete state of inertia. I’m not sure she can, or, in a sad statement of reality, wants to open the door to all that led up to this state of affairs to begin with. I can only hope.
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