The Drunken Sailors

Saturday's gig at a venue in Orange near the Honda Center greeted me with drunken sailors.  What, you expected sober sailors?!


As I drug my keyboard into the bar, wearing my clear plastic platform shoes, I noticed some younger fellows huddled around my Pops at the end of the bar.  Yes, as I mentioned, Pops comes to most of my shows.  Turns out, they are in the Navy on leave, and Pops was in the Navy, instant bond, so they were having a good 'ol time together before I got there.


I keep tabs on Pops as I load in and set up to make sure he stays out of trouble.


Just as I am about done and ready to freshen up before we start our set, one of them, I'll call the Bulldog, comes up, starts talking at me about wanting to hear me sing, how he stayed cause my Pops told him all about the band, this, that, and other drooling ramblings.  I am trying to be as gracious as I can but he is rather obnoxious, even though I can tell he doesn't intend to be as it is just his nature, and somehow in all of this, I spill the beans that it is Pop's birthday this week.


Opps, it's full speed ahead upon receiving that transmission.  He wants to tell Pops happy birthday into my microphone, makes a grab for my silver Sennheisser,  and when I won't let him slobber all over it, he turns into a sour puss saying that I am mean.  Oh, but he likes it, says he thinks he's in love.  Ugh.  I politely indicate that his ship is not welcome in my port.


Rule number one: The equipment are not toys.  It is expensive, does not belong to you, so you do not touch it.  My microphones are not cheap karaoke mics from some dive bar, or the Guitar Center $49 no-name special of the week that you can play with, spill your beer on, drop and spit into.  Keep your grubby hands off our stuff.


What? Harsh?  Maybe, but after as many incidents as I've had, you'd feel the same way.  I don't come up to you and grab your purse, wallet, beer or whatever from you, so don't grab my property away from me.  Fair?


Eventually he goes outside where he unknowingly spills his guts to my drummer's wife about the mean singer inside, but he thinks he's in love with her because she's a straight shooter.  {Insert eye roll here}.  BABs (Bitch Ass Bitch, as I affectionally refer to her) thinks this is hilarious.


Additional riff-raff ensues periodically with the Bulldog buying my Pops beers and rousing choruses of Happy Birthday! shouted throughout the bar all night.  All in all, I'd say was smooth sailing.  The crowd was fun loving and as a band we sounded good.  I was also relieved I did not have to shove my stiletto up the Bulldog's rear because experience told me to expect he was going to get much worse as the night wore on.  Happily, he and his friends turned out to be OK fellows, they'd just had too much to drink, and ultimately, the Bulldog's friends forced him out of the bar into a cab.


In summary, I concluded long ago that there is no such thing as a sober sailor (and I the daughter of a sailor tells you much about me).   This evening was an yet another affirmative.  Hey, you'd drink if you were in the service too, I assure you.  The only sailor I have run across in my years that does not care for much booze is my G-Pa, but that's because he is 85, as of this posting.  But don't think he hasn't told me a story or two from WWII.