Can't Stop Boppin' Monkey Dance
2005-03-09,

When you need to shine a little perspective on your life, I recommend heading to a bar that's teetering back and forth on the edge between quaint suburb and rough rural.

Last Saturday night, H's dad played out - as he often does now, during his happy retirement - with a blues/rock band, this time on the outskirts of our own town, so naturally we were obliged to go, both out of respect and out of wanting something to do. Not to mention, he usually only plays with really good musicians, and, having been (like my dad, though mine doesn't really play anymore) a drummer since his teens, he definitely knows what he's doing.

We (being H, two friends of ours, H's dad and myself) went out for some Mexican beforehand and then, after parting with H Dad so he could go to set up, stopped in to a local coffee house to kill some time before the band started. Lucky us, there was a guy-and-guitar show at the coffee place. He was on break when we got there, but boy we sure did notice when he started playing again. There was a total of nine customers in the place at the time, and we had to speak in raised voices to hear each other. He was a fine enough, guitarist, but, with a voice more suited to late 90's, lite-rock-safe 'alternative' that was trying to belt out James Taylor and 'American Pie', it felt, um, heavy. And affected. Hope faded after a while that he would just break into some cozy instrumentals, but luckily his set was short. Probably shorter than it felt, I think. I was happy with my chai nonetheless.

So we transitioned to the bar scene. Such as it was.

Called The Roadhouse (very original, for these parts), it's supposedly a restaurant by day and bar by night. I saw no cohesive evidence of the restaurant part, other than a sign or two denoting the day's special. The 'foyer' -which, I imagine, used to be a porch before this place was converted from house to bar - was pleasantly decorated with a ladder, some 2x4's, a couple of cement buckets and a few broken chairs. Inside, there was an array of tables and chairs around the bar, but the bar was definitely the main focus of the place. I couldn�t help but feel like it was a double-wide that had been built up. Maybe it was just the atmosphere.

The bartenderess was a blonde lady who was desperately clinging to �pretty�, and had a look in her eye like she was a professional handler of groping drunkards. She even had a mark on her chin that spoke of the treatment of a past boyfriend. She was a really nice gal. Other features of the bar were Office Lady Slumming It, One-Armed Vet, Skeevy Loner Who - While Harmless - Looked At My Wife Too Much, and others. Two features of the night were Mountain Man and our title character, Can�t Stop Boppin�. His name became evident after the band started playing; Mountain Man stood out right away.

The giant hulk sat at the bar for most of the evening. Not unlike Hagrid from the Harry Potter series, he was a mass of dark, wiry hair coming out from everywhere but the center of his work-grimed face. He sat at the bar for a long time, occasionally answering his cell phone - which looked horribly out-of-place in his huge hand. Once he got up to head to the men's room; watching his slow, steady steps and turns reminded me of watching tankers slowly making their way down the Cuyahoga river in the Flats, carefully carefully with the plates.

Meanwhile, Can't Stop Boppin' - in construction by trade, if his belt hook was any indication - started getting his groove on shortly after the band kicked in. Along with telling anyone nearby how freakin' great the band was, he would occasionally dance his way across the open area in front of the band. Or at least that's what I think he was doing. He'd do this little wobbly two-step, with his fists raised loosely to either side. I immediately got an image of a primate - an orangutan, let's say ("Orangutan!") - held by one hand, wearing a diaper for the sake of the video camera taping the event, and walking toward some unseen destination. But he was two-steppin' to the groove, and having a grand old time. Beer certainly makes people interesting.

Later, a couple of ladies that were heavy in girth, make-up and intent, strolled in and took their seemingly familiar places at the bar. Surely, they knew the exact time to the second when the beer goggles get strapped on. After that, Mountain Man's girlfriend showed up and cozied up next to him. They were exchanging stunted niceties, and at one point MM put on one of his work gloves and was caressing her hands sweetly, while they exchanged meek googley eyes. "See how my glove am so soft, honey?" Surely, it would be that same gloved hand that would have to teach her a lesson or two later on down the road.

Okay, that was unnecessary. Time to move on from this mumbo-jumbo.

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