It's not about the house.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Four Nuns Die And Go To...

This week, I realized anew just how crucial it is for me to get the new book in the can, like, yesterday. Meaning literally a week and a half ago. Which naturally sent me into such a tailspin of writer's block that I actually slept. And cleaned the bathroom. And went to Wal-Mart. And mended my fine-booty Ralph Lauren jeans that finally tore.

I like the way those jeans came out, though. Wanna see?

I've really got to get the camera set up on this computer. 
The BlackBerry may be very useful for many things, 
but every picture I take with it looks like ass. 
And not fine-booty Ralph Lauren ass, either. 
Just ass.

The jeans tore because I shot pool in them, which I knew would happen if I did, which is why I was taking care not to wear them to shoot pool. But I didn't plan on shooting pool that night, it just kind of happened. I was on my way to the grocery store (see above, re: writer's block. I've found an excuse to go to the grocery store every day this week as well. Desperate shaving cream emergencies, you see. And dishwashing-detergent ones. And beer. This time I think I may have been after a Kit Kat bar), and then suddenly I was in the parking lot of my new local.

Oh! I finally found a local! Found it about a month ago, actually, but it only really became my local just this week.

It's a real one, too. Not one of these pussy-party bars for horny 20-somethings and middle-aged folks who are (as they say around here) "upta camp," but a real, live, honest-to-god local bar. With one pool table (in the front, thanks very much), a jukebox (it's digital, but they all are these days, so I forgive it), Sam Adams on draft (not my first choice of beer if I've got one -- which I do: they have about a billion more kinds in the fridge -- but at $4 for a 20 oz draft, I'm not complaining), and a full menu to boot (this is a novelty for me, and all I've tried so far are the brownies, but let me tell you, after five or six Sam Adams drafts, they fucking rock).

It's called Hawg Heaven.


It's one of these places that feels like it's been there forever, but it turns out to be just eighteen months old. Owned and run by a married couple (it's the second marriage for them both) whose names are Don and Kathy, but they'd like it if you'd call them Mom and Pop. Kathy tends bar and makes brownies and mothers everyone; Don cooks food and smokes cigarettes (not in the kitchen, don't worry) and shoots a killer stick. He says I'm good enough to beat him, if only I'd get the idea that I can't out of my head. I think he's just being nice 'cause he's the owner, but I appreciate that he's not shy to kick my ass.

I actually did beat him last time I was in there, but only because I got fed up banking the eight. Which we'd gentlemen-agreed to do. So that was Chelsea of me. Doesn't count. And Kathy was there for me the night the jeans tore. She offered to go get the duct tape, but I like the jeans too much to do that to them. Besides, the place was dead that night, so there was no one to bear witness to my ass.

The only problem is that for a local, it's really not so very. I found it because I was driving around looking for a place, decided I had gone too far, and it was where I pulled in to turn around. It is literally as far as I am willing to go for a drink. It takes me a half an hour just to get there. Which also means it takes a half an hour to get home. So now that I've officially established myself as a regular, I'm going to have to be not so very regular myself. Until the book's done, anyway, I've decided to go there just one night a week. On Fridays. Like I hear real people with real jobs often do.

Maybe also Wednesday, though. If I've been very good. Because there's a nice bunch of people who are always there on Wednesday nights, and a girl can never have too many friends.

And, well, every other Monday is free pool...


Oh! P.S. Plus also! I finally got an answer as to why everyone up here assumes I ride a bike! Because everyone up here does. Simple as that. Everyone at Hawg Heaven thinks it's weird that I'm only getting my M-Class now, at 41. I sure as shit hope I pass the test...

5 comments:

HPH said...

Of course you *will* pass. The Course has a practice written test and they emphasize the important stuff. For the riding part, the worse thing is 'the box' (from he**) -- a figure 8 in the space of a parking spot at the mall. Go forth and practice now.

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