I went OUT last night. To a bar. To meet some friends, drink beer and listen to live music. It was an absolutely wonderful, blissful experience. I drank Sleeman's Honey Brown Ale. Sweet nectar of the gods. Of the five of us that were there (at a place called The Sidetrack Café), four have kids. We all enjoyed being OUT.
There were three bands on the bill last night; ostensibly we were there to see the headliners: The Dudes. I left at 10 PM after the second song of the second band - Run Chico Run. They were OK. So obviously I never got to see The Dudes. Other than my friends.
The opening act was awesome though. Bebop Cortez. A purely instrumental quartet whose musical stylings can best be described by the title of the group. If I'd had more money, I would have grabbed one of their CDs on the way out. The keyboardist was a hot little buxom brunette number with a mysterious 'I know something you don't know' kind of smirk on her face. Sported sort of a strange haircut that framed her face in such a way that your gaze was inexorably drawn to it. I applauded after every song in their half-hour set, wanting more. Music, that is. Not the brunette.
Every table in the Sidetrack, if you got there early enough to acquire a table (which we did), sported a small oil lamp. This became extremely hypnotic during Bebop's set since they incorporated some rather pounding bass and the small candle flame would dance and jump with the vibrations. I found myself entranced by the music, subconsciously moving to the beat, staring at the flame and thinking it was extremely neat that the same vibrations I could feel through my bum via the wooden seat of the chair were the same vibrations causing the light to bounce in front of me. The sight and sensation created a rather pleasant juxtaposition of events. (Please note that this is most likely the first time I have ever associated my bum and a candle flame in the same thought.)
Just after the group took the stage, a rather heavyset gentleman assumed a chair at a table close to ours. One of the last available before it became standing-room only. His rotundity, combined with the fact that he also sported the type of beard that didn't really justify the attempt (as would be the case with my face), immediately brought to mind a picture of Harry Knowles; he of Ain't It Cool News.
This same gentleman then proceeded to extract, pack, light and puff merrily on a pipe. This simply added to the image of inappropriateness I had, in the small amount of time, created about him. It takes a certain individual to properly pull off the act of smoking a pipe. A thirty-something fat man with a scraggly, unkempt beard is not that individual. My paternal grandfather, on the other hand, was the poster-boy for that individual. 'Bus' was a tall, balding man; what hair he had was shot through with grey, yet his eyebrows remained prominent and dark. He had thick-rimmed glasses that framed friendly yet sometimes piercing eyes, a short, dark moustache that complemented his eyebrows and he looked the perfect Scotsman dressed in a ruffled shirt and kilt. A worn pipe clenched in his teeth was simply appropriate. To this day, more than twenty years after his passing, the aroma of pipe smoke reminds me of nothing but him.
When Amy and I went on our honeymoon in Costa Rica, there was a man who sat in a lounge chair every day by the pool, reading or just taking in the scenery, with a pipe ensconced between his lips, more often unlit than smoking. Due to his age, sunglasses, the hat he wore and just his general demeanour, I had him dubbed 'the Captain' from about our second day there. He, too, looked appropriate with a pipe.
I left the bar at 10 PM, not because of a familial obligation, since I knew my wife and son would be in bed by that time, but I was tired, knew I had to work the next day (today), and didn't want to be lured to drink any more. Sweet, delicious, honey brown ale.
Man, I sure appreciate those brief forays into shared indolence now that they come so less frequently than Before Family. Sitting at the table before the music started, my one friend and I marveled at how not only did we have the time to do it so much more frequently in the past, but also how we were able to afford to do so. I never worked during university, but lived off summer savings and student loans. Now I stop to wonder where the money I do make goes, since I really had a hard time countenancing the purchase of beer at bar prices. (I still managed to convince myself, though.)
Nostalgia is becoming more and more a by-word for me these days.
