Crazy train* (running late)
Only in Temple could you hear a part-Hispanic girl yodel.
Grady and I had just walked into the Train Wreck Bar and Grill, a long, aluminum barn nestled in the shadow of I-35. "Wednesday Karaoke" read the marquee outside. Almost the first thing we registered once we were ID'd was the girl, who was about our age, up on a stage bathed in red lights, and wearing a shirt that said "Senioritis." She warbled surprisingly well.
It only added to my budding sense that this was the place to be. We'd just passed on a couple seedy joints, both of which had burglar bars on the doors and neither of which seemed to have windows. One, Texas Rumors, was announced with only a vinyl sign flapping on a pole near the highway. We couldn't go back to the nice bar in town since the night before, in a White Russian/three-dollar Martini haze, Grady had smoothly left our waitress his number on a mailing list card. But, damn, we had to celebrate the Spurs making the finals somewhere, and that's how we ended up at the Train Wreck and its well-lit lot.
Surveying the place my first impressions were, in this order: smoke, cowboy hats. The Stetsons, et al., mingled about the entire place Doonesbury-style playing pool, spinning ladies on the dance floor, throwing back bottles of beer. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I noticed all the plainclothes folks as well. We turned and mosied over to the bar, which was tended by a single scrawny blond with a robust rack and a barely repressed bitchy streak. She reminded me of Grady's ex, who was "mean to everybody she didn't know for no reason," as he put it.
The regulars — an even mix of white and Mexican and young and middle-aged — ordered beer in these giant be-spigoted containers that Grady and I dubbed "beer pods." Clear cylinders with red tops, they held two to three pitchers of the finest draft beer Central Texas has to offer: Bud, Bud Lite, Coors Light.
As soon as Grady and I posted up next to the foosball table, with iced-down mugs in hand, La Yodelita appeared from out of the darkness to ask, "Y'all want to play us?" Grady is a minor foosball prodigy, so my first thought besides "It's her!" was "Man, we're going to have to go easy on these chicks." Instead, the girl returned with her drunk boyfriend in tow. Long story short, the guy wore an unsettling facial expression that was one part wasted and one part country boy who wouldn't mind a fight. We sandbagged the second game and then retired to seats near a TV.
Nothing much out of the ordinary happened the rest of the night. The karaoke was enjoyed by all, it seemed. More than a few people with actual vocal talent performed. Probably the highlight was "La Bamba," which a Mexican guy about our age — who was shaped like Humpty Dumpty and rockin' tuck-no-belt — flat out nailed.
Looking around, though, Grady and I decided the place was ripe for a good bar fight. Not only did it have ample space, a good smokey ambience, pool tables for dramatic effect, and the ready accessibility of at least three weapons, including the wild card beer pods, but on the right night, the clientele might be just sketchy enough to reach a testosterone-induced, racially charged throwdown. Too bad, though: it was nothing but calm. I would've relished the chance to title this post "Temple tantrum."
The title, as is, is for you, Hengst. I still say Fuck Sabbath. Sorry this post is so late. I actually started it last Friday, but I spent most of this weekend out by the pool helping Amanda house-sit. Given the choice betweening skinny dipping in the middle of the day and (shudder) dial-up, well, I went with the unpleasant mental image.
Grady and I had just walked into the Train Wreck Bar and Grill, a long, aluminum barn nestled in the shadow of I-35. "Wednesday Karaoke" read the marquee outside. Almost the first thing we registered once we were ID'd was the girl, who was about our age, up on a stage bathed in red lights, and wearing a shirt that said "Senioritis." She warbled surprisingly well.
It only added to my budding sense that this was the place to be. We'd just passed on a couple seedy joints, both of which had burglar bars on the doors and neither of which seemed to have windows. One, Texas Rumors, was announced with only a vinyl sign flapping on a pole near the highway. We couldn't go back to the nice bar in town since the night before, in a White Russian/three-dollar Martini haze, Grady had smoothly left our waitress his number on a mailing list card. But, damn, we had to celebrate the Spurs making the finals somewhere, and that's how we ended up at the Train Wreck and its well-lit lot.
Surveying the place my first impressions were, in this order: smoke, cowboy hats. The Stetsons, et al., mingled about the entire place Doonesbury-style playing pool, spinning ladies on the dance floor, throwing back bottles of beer. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I noticed all the plainclothes folks as well. We turned and mosied over to the bar, which was tended by a single scrawny blond with a robust rack and a barely repressed bitchy streak. She reminded me of Grady's ex, who was "mean to everybody she didn't know for no reason," as he put it.
The regulars — an even mix of white and Mexican and young and middle-aged — ordered beer in these giant be-spigoted containers that Grady and I dubbed "beer pods." Clear cylinders with red tops, they held two to three pitchers of the finest draft beer Central Texas has to offer: Bud, Bud Lite, Coors Light.
As soon as Grady and I posted up next to the foosball table, with iced-down mugs in hand, La Yodelita appeared from out of the darkness to ask, "Y'all want to play us?" Grady is a minor foosball prodigy, so my first thought besides "It's her!" was "Man, we're going to have to go easy on these chicks." Instead, the girl returned with her drunk boyfriend in tow. Long story short, the guy wore an unsettling facial expression that was one part wasted and one part country boy who wouldn't mind a fight. We sandbagged the second game and then retired to seats near a TV.
Nothing much out of the ordinary happened the rest of the night. The karaoke was enjoyed by all, it seemed. More than a few people with actual vocal talent performed. Probably the highlight was "La Bamba," which a Mexican guy about our age — who was shaped like Humpty Dumpty and rockin' tuck-no-belt — flat out nailed.
Looking around, though, Grady and I decided the place was ripe for a good bar fight. Not only did it have ample space, a good smokey ambience, pool tables for dramatic effect, and the ready accessibility of at least three weapons, including the wild card beer pods, but on the right night, the clientele might be just sketchy enough to reach a testosterone-induced, racially charged throwdown. Too bad, though: it was nothing but calm. I would've relished the chance to title this post "Temple tantrum."
The title, as is, is for you, Hengst. I still say Fuck Sabbath. Sorry this post is so late. I actually started it last Friday, but I spent most of this weekend out by the pool helping Amanda house-sit. Given the choice betweening skinny dipping in the middle of the day and (shudder) dial-up, well, I went with the unpleasant mental image.
posted by Matt at 11:35 PM
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