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158point3: Issue VI, 8/13/04

Four Aces

Sometimes life deals you four aces.

Sometimes it’s a beautiful woman who surprisingly welcomes your post-last
call advances. Other times it’s hitting a drive right on the screws when you’ve
got an 8-skin carryover that could pay next month’s rent.

For me, two weeks ago, it was a bowling alley karaoke bar in northern Indiana.

When I was growing up, it was a family ritual to travel to my grandparents’
lake cabin in Angola, Indiana. Angola is a small town with a movie theater that
my great-grandfather built, an Army-Navy surplus store, a liquor store, a
lesbian biker bar and the token bowling alley. The whole town is built around
an old Midwestern square and a 70-foot Civil War statue with the inscription --
Angola: Give us your obese, unemployed and toothless.

For the first 15 years our family visited Angola, we lived by one sacred rule: Do
not leave the cabin to engage in any social activity, except to go to the Fun
Spot amusement center down the street. Although, I’m not sure the Fun Spot
counted as a social activity, because the only “activities” it had were go-karts
and a game where you tried to bend over and smell your own ass.

But as we tend to do when we enter college and the world that follows, our
family – namely the kids – fell out of the habit of going to the lake each
summer for reasons that I’m sure seemed important at the time.

This year, newly engaged and having a grandfather who hadn’t met his future
granddaughter-in-law, I planned a weekend trip to the cabin. I figured a) my
fiancé could meet my Grandfather, who once purchased for my Grandmother
the ring she now wears on her finger; and b) to a lesser extent, but within the
same theme, have a simple and cheap get-away weekend just to ourselves.
We left on a Thursday after work. I woke up Friday at 8:00am on the cabin’s
pullout couch with my aunt leaning over me while pointing at my fiancé and
asking, “Is that her?”

After we initially booked our plane tickets for the trip, my parents decided they
would meet us at the lake. They’re retired and we all live in North Carolina
now, so why not leave the heat even for just a long weekend? If you’ve never
been to NC in August, it distinctly resembles someone following you around
and breathing on the back of your neck all day. Joining us were both sets of
aunts and uncles, one on each side of the family.

Without stringing the background info too far along: we fished and kayaked on
the lake for two days and indulged in a diet that would send a Lipitor sales
rep into a state of quivering delight. We also talked very, very loudly. It turns out
that my father and I are the only remaining men in the family that can hear
anything.

On Saturday afternoon, though, the unthinkable was suggested. “We should
go to karaoke tonight,” my 21-year-old cousin Emily said boldly. “I think they
have one down at the bowling alley in town.”

Even more shocking was the response it garnered from each of us. The
women were, of course, excited. The men were a little more guarded, but
since none of us had reeled-in anything larger than a Twinkie in two days, the
idea of having somewhere to go actually appealed to us. Plus, showering at
that point was becoming a medical issue rather than a hygiene based
decision.

We each showered and decided to have some drinks before we left,
whereupon the men and women disbanded into separate groups and I
enjoyed this exchange with my dad and his brother.

Uncle: If this karaoke thing sucks, we’re coming back and going fishing right?
Me: Michelle and I are going kayaking for a little while when we get back, but I’
m game after that.
Uncle: You can’t have sex in a kayak, can you?
Dad: You can if you’re by yourself!

I polished off my drink just as my ears began bleeding.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Angola Bowling Lanes around 10:00pm,
passing a large neon sign with temporary letters informing us that tonight
was “Caryoke Nite w/ Pud Nubbin.” While everyone poured out of two cars
and started to make their way inside, I stood in front of the sign looking like
Steve Martin in L.A. Story, and tried to figure out which Eddie Murphy SNL
“Buckwheat” song they were trying to conjure up. After 10 seconds I felt
something crawling up my leg and decided it was best to move on.

I entered the bar and was met with looks that I can only describe as “Blue
Oyster”-ish, but with the gay biker men replaced by a cast of characters that
wouldn’t even make it past the first audition for Fox’s “Average Joe.” As I
walked through the entrance and past a glass merchandise case, a T-shirt
caught my eye. On the front was a hand drawn picture of a baby playing with
himself and the caption, “And The Fascination Never Ends.” I immediately
wished I’d spent more time looking at faces on the National Sex Offender
Registry Web site.

The bar was laid out with the “stage” up front and two TV’s and a karaoke
machine that you could probably find in any Dollar General. There was also a
collection of large round tables and a bar off to the side. The lighting? Think
nurses office in elementary school. The women saddled up to a table in the
front of the room by the stage, while my dad, my uncle, and I took up
residence at a side table.

Thankfully, the regulars were out in full force.

At the front corner of the stage were four men that could be brothers, could be
fathers and sons, or could be a mix of each. I realize the incest bit is overdone
and throwing it out there actually suggests a lack of effort to adequately
describe the situation. The only problem is this: I was looking at the ass-
birthed children of Ned Beatty, and there is no other way to describe it.

The eldest member of the group, around 35, propped himself up with a chair
and a cane. To his right sat someone that I’m not actually sure was breathing.
Across the table from him sat a man who looked like Ron Jeremy after 36
hours of filming, five grams of coke, and a “work-related” accident that
involved a vibrator knocking out 15 random teeth. The final guy, the youngest
of the group, had on a pair of cutoff camouflage shorts, Converse all-stars
and a T-shirt with a picture of a bulldog that read, “Who Let The Dogs Out?”
While I’m not positive, I can say with near certainty that he had ever actually
heard the song, but in fact wanted to know where his dogs had gone. In three
hours, he didn’t close his mouth or speak, so I assume he can do neither.

Behind us were two lesbians – one butch, one less butch – a fifty year old
woman with dyed hair and one of those deep, raspy voices that comes from a
lifetime of smoking and prostitution. The lesbians only sang Melissa
Etheridge, and they brought their own karaoke CDs (always the first sign of a
GREAT karaoke night). During one particularly suggestive Etheridge song, the
butch stared deeply into the lesser butch’s eyes while she sang, but sadly,
there was no lesbian kissing, only a little heavy petting.

The dyed-hair prostitute smoked and sang Tammy Wynette. And Rick Astley.

Finally there was a guy named Rob with thick glasses, long stringy cell block
hair and a distinct un-bathed look. After Rob found out we were from
Charlotte, he informed us that he, and I quote, “Left the carnival in Charlotte.”
Rob, from a crouching position, serenaded us with the Doors and Alice
Cooper all night long, and as my mother so kindly informed us, we were not
to tell Rob which lake we lived on. I was almost sure that I could make out the
faint markings of a swastika between his eyes, so my dad started calling him
Charlie.

As we sat down and poured through the song lists, we met our waitress, who
informed us that our jobs were to drink as fast, and as much as possible. I
don’t think any of us anticipated that to be much of a challenge.

And then my mother got a lap dance. He seemed like a nice enough guy –
showered and fresh clothes – but for some reason got some bad info that a
married 55 year-old woman would like a man of the same age to drop his
ass in her crotch. I looked at my dad to see if we were taking care of this, and
he calmly leaned back, took a draw off of his cigar and motioned back toward
my mother, as if to say, “Just watch.” I looked back and heard my mother yell,
“Get off me, I’m married.” And then she pointed at my also married aunt,
whose husband I was seated next to, and exclaimed, “Dance for her. She’s
divorced!”

Our host for the evening was the aforementioned Pud Nubbin, who regularly
informed us that he was filling in for The Real McCoy. He had this weird thing
where he put his arm around every person that approached the stage to sing.
Well, he followed me into the bathroom in between songs, and naturally, Pud
made no attempt to wash his Nubbins on his way out the door.

We never actually found out where The Real McCoy was that night, but his
wife was kind enough to attend. She smoked cigarettes longer than my foot
and had skin that looked like the bottom of my flip-flop. She also dressed like
she was 16-years-old. Loose skin is all I’m saying, and I’m leaving it at that.
And camel toe.

NO I DIDN’T!! I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself.

The night rolled on. We sang, we danced. We ordered rounds of drinks that
were so cheap, a recovering alcoholic sucking down Cokes would have spent
more money than we collectively did.

And at the end of the night, we went home for one last round, and recounted
our stories like you only do when you’re in high school and college, when it
seems like every night out deserves a two-hour recap before you pass out on
the floor.

Around 3am we turned off the porch lights and headed to bed.

But not before showering and brushing our teeth.

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