Tales from North Platte

I went to a bar called the Den last night, 4th and Jeffers, doentown North Platte. It's the most aptly named bar I've ever been to. Smoking is still allowed indoors in these parts (the facts of biology are nothing but communist conspiracies to take away our property rights.) and the wall of smoke in the place immediatly exsasserbated the cold I've been fighting for the past few days. My voice became raspy and mucus filled every empty spot in my head, making it difficult to do things like walk, talk, and breathe.

The concept of "cutting someone off" for being "too drunk"; well that's never really reached these parts either. I saw a man say to the Dog The Bounty Hunter look-a-like tending bar that he needed a nopherfrukindrrinkma. He was served without question. I ordered a pitcher of Fat Tire and Dog gave it too me for half-price, "Here you are bro."

I saw an old friend of mine named Jordon. He was also too drunk too drink, but I split a pitcherwith him anyway. I told him that he looked pretty faded. "Really" he asked. "Yes" I said, "You didn't notice?" "No" he said innocently, than he fell into his chair and laughed.

I put a dollar in the jukebox. I've been terribly spoiled by college-town jukes. I was looking for the Flash Gorden theme, nothing so obscure, but no. If one wants Queen, one gets "We Will Rock You" "We are the Champions" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" I picked Fat Bottomed Girls. I also wanted to play "Damn Blue Collar Tweakers" by Primus. I couldn't have been serious. There were only three Primus songs availible and I imagine I don't even have to tell you what they were. Jordon punched me in the arm when I wouldn't play some jam band. He looked like he wanted to punch me in the face. Five minutes later he hugged me, again.

Oh, and by the way, an ex-girlfriend of mine was also there. She's doing,well, better than I expected. I met her new boyfriend. He seems like a decent fellow. He offered me a cigarette. My lungs were wet sponges and I hadn't smoked for three days. I didn't want to be rude. It was a Marlboro medium, agonizing.

I told Beth that I have a story 'published'. I asked her questions about the kid who got stabbed in the heart with a pair of scissors. He made a full recovery, apperantly he's a close friend of hers and I've known him for years. Knowing somebody is a rather relative thing isn't it?

We played pool and danced, everybody getting along great. Than Beth go agitated over something. She spilled my pitcher of beer and than became compleatly distraught. She did laps around the bar and parking lot for about ten minutes before finally jumping in the back of a moving pickup truck and headed somewhere.

I asked if there were any parties around. No one knew of any. This was probably or the best. The combination of alcohol and mucus flooding my balance centers left me stumbilng home with a throat that had just scoured with a steel wire brush.