Stickman Paints the Town

Apparently Burning Stickman is joining a power trio, and launching his music career on the tiled floor of a Clarksville bar. It was an interesting weekend to say the least.

I look back and see that I imbibed alcohol on all three days of the weekend, which is an unusual feat for me since I only drink rarely. But, John was back in town for the weekend and I finally had someone to hit the bars with. And we started off on the right foot.

Friday
After picking up John at the airport we headed back toward Clarksville to find a bar that we could sit back, relax, and have a couple of beers in. Finding a bar meant getting lost, apparently, and after fifteen minutes in the “downtown” district of the metropolis called Clarksville we finally spotted a neon sign that told us we had struck gold. The place was packed…upstairs. We remained downstairs because paying ten bucks to get into a hip-hop club was not on my list of things to do. We met Nicole, a nice bartender who eventually felt me up. Okay…so she just caressed me. Okay…fine! She touched my arm and asked if she was cold. Shit! Can’t even let a man have his fantasies!

But at least I was out and attempting to meet some people. I’m sure it would have gone swimmingly if there had been more than four people in the bar besides John and me. Gotta keep the hope alive somehow. We did make the acquaintance of Fred. (It might have been Fred. I’m not sure if that was his name. He was to drunk to tell us, and we were not desperate enough to ask. But he sounded like a Fred) Here’s the conversation with Fred.

Fred: “Ya see that checkerboard over there?”
Me: “The 8X6 square of tile floor by the door?”
Fred: “That’s where dreams come true.”
John and I look at each other.
John: “So the winning Powerball numbers are written on it somewhere?”
Fred: “All we need is trio.”
Me: ”Like celery, carrots, and onions?”
Fred: “No man. Like…you got a deep voice right?” (points at John)
John: “I can.”
Fred: “And you’re a soprano, right?” (points at me)
Me: “Alto, actually.” (This was getting weird. Had Fred been staking us out?)
Fred: “And I’m mid-range. (points at himself and nearly takes out an eye) See what I mean?”
John: “No.”
Me: “No.”
Fred: “Listen, listen, listen. (John and I listen) Ya hear that? That’s opportunity.”
John: “Opportunity sounds a lot like that guy puking in the corner.”
Fred: “You’re not hearing me. We can play instruments. Like tambourine.”
Me: “Or the triangle?”
John: “I can play the trapezoid. That’s the bass triangle.”
Fred: “You guys aren’t listening to me. (Stops to gather thoughts. There is a rubber-burning smell) It’s just a piece of plastic. Get rich off the plastic. That’s all I’m saying.”
John: “Actually the trapezoid is metal…like the triangle.”
Fred: You know how much money we could make in here with a trio?”
John (surveying the other three patrons of the bar): “Fifteen bucks, maybe.”
Fred: “What?”
John: “But that’s if we pay to hear ourselves.”
Fred (looking dejected): “Could one of you buy me a drink?”

The conversation lasted a little longer, due to the fact that neither John nor I would buy Fred a drink, and involved the fact that Fred played pool from Hell. He also had eyes from Hell and could see clearly.(whatever the fuck that means) He wanted John to back him in a game. (Who he was going to play is still a mystery)

Fred: “I’ve played so many games of pool, it’s pathetic.”
John: “I’ve played just enough games of pool to know that I’m pathetic.”

After Fred left we had a couple more beers and headed out the door. Nicole saw us out the door and gave us directions to the nearest main road. I gave her my card. She probably tossed it with the trash. (People on fire never have luck with the ladies) We made it back to Paris alive and I was asleep when my head hit the pillow. Actually I was asleep about three miles from my house, but I didn't tell John that.

Saturday
I had a funeral to attend in the afternoon, and then John and I went to look at motorcycles. Twenty minutes later and my hands were sweating and my heart was pounding. (stupid minor heart attacks) Just sitting on one made a lot of my mental quandaries disappear. Looking at motorcycles is very therapeutic, and riding one is like a snake shedding skin. No matter what you feel like, no matter how much shit is piled up around you, a ride on a cycle seems to strip it all away and leave you clean at the end. If I didn’t owe Uncle Sam tax money and wasn’t looking at shelling out money for a divorce in the future then I would have picked one up this weekend. (money sucks when you owe it to someone else)

After we got our therapeutic thrill for the day we ate lunch and sat at the house smoking cigars and discussing what’s been happening over the last few months. When night fell, we decided to hit R.J.’s and shoot some pool. John thoroughly kicked my ass, and I reminded him that he had fibbed to poor Fred about being pathetic. After pool we sat at one of the tables and discussed politics, mythology, and (after twelve or so beers) women. Catching up (and venting frustrations) is always more enjoyable when you have some alcohol in you.

Sunday
This was the uneventful day. I took John to the airport, and waved goodbye. When I got back to Paris I hit the courts for a little tennis. We played until it began to rain (for only ten minutes but enough to ruin the game), and then I stood at the park with Gerald and Danny drinking wine and talking about boats. Pretty relaxing.

All in all I had a good weekend. I painted the town and relaxed both, mixing each in the right measures to ensure a fun and easy-going visit with John. The only thing that keeps bothering me is Fred. I wonder if he ever recruited another two guys to start that band. If I see Fred’s Triangle Trio racing up the charts one day I’m gonna kick my own ass, that’s for sure.