8:19 a.m. - 2007-07-10
A weekend with Sandy, continued
Let me give you all some background on Sandy. She and I became friends about 15 years ago during our brief college overlap. She is originally from a small town in the middle of Virgina. She hated it. She hated everything about it--the good ol' boys and the cheap beer and the country music and the utter lack of interest in literature, couture, and fine dining. Her favorite song line ever was "the one good thing about a small town is: you hate it, and you know you have to leave."
After living in NYC, her definition of "small town" has expanded to include ...anything smaller and less metro than NYC. She still loathes country music, is disappointed by good ol' boys, and as for her taste in food and drink... CrushBoy has ruined her for regular eatin'.
When Sandy gushed about finding a bar where the bartenders breathed fire in the meat packing district, I was interested. We hadn't seen fire-breathing bartenders since the Zombie Hut moved to bigger digs during her return to Virginia. And the promise of window shopping at all the designer boutiques on the way to the bar didn't hurt either.
The meat packing district has become hip and trendy and has lots of expensive shops. But down on the corner is a lone holdout from the old days when meat was packed and union men worked hard and drank harder. That place is Hogs & Heifers. Sandy described it as a biker bar.
It is a *redneck* bar. Yes, my friends, Sandy, who considers *all* of Virginia to be too small town for her, took me to a redneck bar. There was country music, and men with facial hair and tatoos. There was PBR served proudly, and consumed with no shame. There was country music. There was a pool table, and a smoke stained ceiling and bras draped behind the bar. A woman in a halter top, blue jeans with a big-buckle belt and cowboy boots serving liquor and PBR with a smile and smart ass attitude. And going there was all Sandy's idea.
This place has some rules, though. For instance, if you're going to dance and you have two x chromosomes, you have to dance on the bar. One would think I'd be safe--I don't dance country. And then some smartass played "Bad to the Bone." It wasn't even five o'clock, and there I am, dancing on the bar. There are pictures and I have witnesses. A gentleman nicknamed Tex will vouch, as he bought me a shot of Rumplemintz. A guy named Mike will also back me up, though at first he thought I was called "Pat" instead of "Peg." (Which is an irony of a different color, and caused much chortling on my part.)
Sandy and I drank. We drank a lot, which is what happens when men buy you shots because you danced on the bar. We sang along to "Redneck Woman." We played pool with a chic, who grew up with the original proprietor, and her boyfriend. They all went to high school together. Sandy--who spent her last period in Virginia loathing a pool hall--ran the table at one point. It was a most ironic evening. I couldn't stop laughing about it. And we were at home passing out in bed from drinking by 11:30 pm. Just like college.
We'll be going back there. If only for the irony. And to get a better picture of me dancing on the bar. Besides, we never did get to see fire breathing! Now we have to go back. The things I do for my friends....
