Honky Tonk Heaven

Christine Wy's post (Stranger in a Strange Bar) brought back a similar "I should NOT be in this bar" memory from my time in college. Luckily, my experience was much less traumatic…

Though a Kentucky Boy, I was far from a redneck, and I viciously avoided any connection to things I perceived as such. Yet, one autumn evening I found myself in a bar that prided itself on its burgers, PBR, and western wear (yes, friends, the bar sold cowboy boots).

It was a dark and creepy place. Old men sat in the shadows, peering from underneath the rims of their cowboy hats. They were not modern cowboys, shot to mainstream by early 90s Pop Twang. These cowboys were not pastel and trimmed. They were ragged and tired and very drunk. They probably had very little in common with Clint Black.

Their eyes followed us three college kids as we walked into their bar. I'm sure I probably ordered something very inappropriate to the scene, something like a scotch and soda.

But, here's the punchline. My view of this place was being filtered through my own sensitivities and preconceptions. I hated country music; I hated everything I saw as "redneck." Beer even fell into that category for me. What can I say? I grew up in a small town where "Bud" was a synonym for "beer." I didn't know any better. (For the record, I still hate Nascar.)

Truly, the judgmental eyes that night were all mine. The bar, a fairly famous place in Nashville, had tons of traffic and was in a touristy part of town. It was a honky-tonk (said so, right on the sign!) but certainly not a dive. As the night went on, my tension eased. The regulars and the bartenders were very friendly. My friend, Camus^*, garnered the respect of the crowd by requesting the house band to play an obscure Johnny Cash song. In short, I had completely misjudged the place.

I guess it's all about perspective. Some things look so much worse in hindsight–many of my former apartments, for example. But some things, like Robert's Western World, become a fond memory.


^*Pseudonym used to protect his record collection…

Goal Keeping

I recently had a conversation about Goals. I, with quite frankness, told a friend that I "didn't have any of those things." I wasn't trying to elicit a response. I was just being truthful.

Okay, I suppose everyone has some goals–goals with a small "g." A goal of mine is to keep my job. A goal is to spend less and save more. But, those aren't Goals, ya know?

I know at one point I had some Goals, but I can't seem to find those darned things anywhere! And, truth be told, I'm sure I wouldn't want to find them. Most likely they would be haze-of-college goals, which means they are built on little more than haze…or pot…or whatever. (I had better press on from here; I'd hate this to become a "college angst" post!)

Now, I'm not saying that I'm happy about not having any Goals. That would just be sad. I just don't have any.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I have gotten two pieces of advice regarding Goals:

One friend said, "You should make 'Getting a Goal' your Goal." Now that's ridiculous. (Not to mention a vicious loop of logic.)

Another friend said, "Goals are not acquired. Goals are born." Yikes! That's pretty depressing. (And if I think something is depressing…)

So, I put it to you, dear commenter, "What's the deal with Goals, anyway?" I know I'm supposed to have some of those things, but–too bad–I don't.

Feelin' My Age (Maybe Not Acting It)

To nick the old cliché: "I'm gettin' too old for this stuff."



Since relocating to my new town of residence, I've experienced a statistical age shift in the people I hang out with. For most of my life, I've been the child of the group, one of the Pups. Now, I find myself more and more being the Old Dog.

I'm sure this is a function of being unmarried. I don't hang out with many (okay, any) married people. I have many married friends in the world; the significant phrase here is "hang out with."

Hanging out with people who are on the approach to 3-0 (unlike myself, rocketing away from it), I sometimes become involved in behavior I haven't indulged in since college.

In a lot of ways it's very fun; in a lot of ways it's very painful.



I'm proud that I could keep up with the marathon of beer that was Saturday night. I never was much of a sprinter, anyway, I just haven't been in training for a long, long time.

The sky was just starting to glow on Sunday morning as I was desperately crashing out on a near-stranger's couch. Next to me, my friend lay on my shoulder mumbling, "I have to warn you. I'm feeling a bit nauseous." Experience told me it was a false alarm, and soon enough her breathing was regular. Fast asleep.

The Old Dog looked around the strange surroundings and thought, "Man, I wish I had a toothbrush."