A whole new meaning to “handle bar” mustache

My Honey had a show this weekend – a benefit for fallen soldiers. His band does quite a few benefits, in fact, usually whenever asked.  They’ll be doing another one next weekend for some children’s charity.

The benefit this weekend took place in the large parking lot of a local bar.  A very well known bar with a rather ignominious reputation. Those of us who grew up in this town all knew this particular bar for the Harley Davidson’s parked outside, a generally hairy and often scary clientele, and the colorful notations in the Police Blotter. Of course, all that meant to me was that I was dying to get a look inside.  Now the bar’s reputation has mellowed (apparently it even hosts a college night and karaoke!!), although there are still Harleys parked outside and the sandwich board sign announcing the Wet T-Shirt contest is still happily displayed when you drive by. Nevertheless, there was still a extra ounce of excitement for me that the show was hosted there – albeit in the parking lot. Perhaps I could connive my way in to use the bathroom?

There was no need to connive – they were more than happy to let me in.  I suspect they always would have. I never did use the bathroom, although in order to really accurately report to you my impressions of the bar, I should have ventured in there – maybe with a stick and a can of Raid.

I am please to tell you that the bar was every bit what I was expecting it to be, plus a skosh more disgusting. There were cheap counter-top slabs attached to pillars to set your drink on and battered bar stools to sit on if you aren’t too particular about splinters in your rear. The ceilings were very low and smoke stained.

The real glory was behind the bar and on the ceiling beams. There were skulls and shark teeth and pictures galore. Tucked inside one niche was the gas tank of a police motorcycle from the 1980’s. The thing that fascinated me the most, however, were the twenty or thirty bras strung up along the ceiling beams.  Now, I’ve been in many classy establishments that used tacked up women’s underclothing for decoration, but there was one bra that had me spellbound. It was silky, leopard print and it was huge. I’m not talking about normal huge. I’m talking about HUGE huge.  Elephantine. Gargantuan. E-freaking-normous. I could have put my head comfortably in one cup and worn it as a hat. I contemplated the power this brassiere must have had in order to hold up those puppies it was tasked with juggling. And, holy moly, it must have been really expensive.  The lady in question would certainly have had to be very drunk indeed to give up a custom made bra such as this willingly.

Besides, the decor, the people watching was extraordinary. I haven’t seen so many bearded and mustachioed men since I went down to Tombstone for Helldorado Days. One or two biker chicks held my attention for a while – that is until they decided to take a seat in the one and only booth and I was subject to an absolutely horrifying beaver shot. Seriously. I wouldn’t even begin to make that shit up.

I did my best not to stare, but honestly, I don’t know how good a job I did. I kept hunting through the crowd for the owner of that magnificent bra.