Heaven on the Back of a Harley
I was pondering today, the weekend�s events and how �an environmental consultant walks into a biker bar� sounds like the opening to a most excellent joke. I really need to make up something to go along with this or at least get a punch line, but I�m not exactly sure what sort of joke I can throw together that could incorporate these two very different aspects. In the meantime, I�ll just tell a story about it instead.
Friday was �the shove of and get the hell out of my country� gathering for my friend the Model. Even though she already had a party for this specific cause, such things done in batches are surely better and I for one didn�t mind the excuse to go and drink in a biker bar. Yes, that�s right and honest to goodness, smoke filled, down and dirty ass biker bar. Her adoptive family of her mother�s ex-husband (ya follow me?) still lives in our blessed oasis and the years she spent together with this group of folks was quite precious and nurturing for all parties involved. So much so that she refers to her father figure as �pop� and his entire crew has welcomed her into their lives long after mommy disappeared to Idaho. Did I mention, dear reader, that my beloved Model has been riding hogs for the better part of a decade?
These folks are for the most part, the real deal. Burly, rough and grungy guys and the women are somewhat more bow-legged and shorter version of the men. All of them are a foul mouth, rambunctious lot not afraid to express an opinion on anything and stare down anyone who offers to hurl insults in their directions. The Model identified their appearance at the bar by the sound of their bikes as they roared past on the main street long before they materialized at our corner booth. The lone instance where I was hassled by anyone in the place was by a bouncer who took out his pent up aggression out on me and told me to sit up in the booth, even though I had been lounging in nearly the same position for nearly five hours and he only did so after the hogs were roaring away into the night.
If heaven born to me on the back of a Harley wasn�t enough to make this night amazing, a number of us crammed into my white stallion (car) and cruised around the parking lot smoking joints in full view of the local police department. Apparently they are around in case one of the many brawls happens in the place breaks out and they care about little else other than crossing their fingers that they don�t have to break up such an event. While they left alone a biker who was sitting on the curb holding his head in his hands, they didn�t hesitate to see what was wrong with a cute girl who was doing the same only a few yards away. Honestly, I felt safer with the bikers around than I did with the P.D.
While mingling with her family, I was introduced to one of their friends who had flown in for the weekend and still lived in the same general area as the rest of them had once been from. I spent a good chunk of my evening, downing PBR�s, bumping and grinding to Kid Rock and viscously flirting with an environmental consultant from San Andreas in her late 30�s who was vastly impressed with my charm. This also might be a good place to mention that with the lone exception of the Model, all of the women were under 5�4� in height; she and I standing next to them was like being in a deranged version of Munchkin land where the Lollipop kids carried knives instead of toting around giant suckers. The eagerly supplied northern California Humboldt county marijuana added to this delusion ten-fold.
If all of this mental eye candy wasn�t enough in and of itself to keep me entertained for the duration, there was also a matter of the bar. I was advised before hand that it is a common theme for the wait-staff to dance on the bar. In times of zaniness, the members of the crowd are also known to be high stepping along the top as well. I thought more of Coyote Ugly in my original mental picture and the throng of thongs lining the rafters initially confirmed this idea. With a great amount of gusto I am happy to report I was dead wrong. The wait-staff does dance on the bar, along with some of the patrons, this is true. But when I was told they dance on the bar, I didn�t understand that �dance� meant strip down to undergarments, grind on the patrons lining the bar for dollars and everything else you would find in your average run of the mill strip club. One of the �staff� displayed the most creative use of ceiling rafters I have ever seen, hula-hooped to heavy metal and on one of my trips up to the bar I was in the right spot to see the beaver make a brief and accidental appearance. Sorry fellas, chicks only; any notions of dance fever grandeur should be left at the door or you will be tossed out it by dudes who spend their knights wrestling with bikers. Compliance to all rules is highly recommended
The odd combination of well dressed individuals stacked in alongside grungy bikers surprisingly enough didn�t take away from the atmosphere in the slightest. The drinks were moderately priced and with the exception of the one rogue bouncer the staff was friendly and our waitress even permitted being photographed with a hand cupping one of her bra covered breasts. Now that I have the GPS location locked in, I can�t wait to go back�just as soon as I find me an old lady, buy some ass-less chaps and figure out how to wrangle up a respectable steel horse to ride. A cold PBR in hand is surely not worth two in the bush on a night in hog heaven.
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