,So I went on a Sunday night to hear some blues. A great local player named Michael Hornbuckle (fair warning: his myspace profile automatically plays music) anchors a blues jam there every week. His band played for a while, then other random players took turns. Michael's a guitar player & singer, but he played drums for the guitar guys who followed him.
He kicked it off with a short, hot set that made me sure I'm going back when it's just him & his band. Then this old guy got up, backed up by some 16 year old kid and a tall yuppie on bass. The old guy was a skilled player by too pretty with too little feeling for the music. Well worth the price of a couple beers, though. It was an experience listening to the kid lead on some Stevie Ray Vaughn, singing from the heart about being her little lover boy & stuff. He was also a sharp player, worth listening to, especially considering his age. I left soon after because I'd arrived way early and it was a school night, and I'd derived as much distraction as I was going to get -- sorely needed as it was when I arrived.
Meanwhile, I was morbidly fascinated by this woman who hobbled into the place. The bar is a very divey biker-type joint, pleasantly rough around the edges, with friendly people, many clearly known to one another as regulars. She was well-known by the others around the pool table -- they all competed to hold onto one of the two tables, while the other sat empty and players stood around waiting for their turn at it. Weird.
But anyhow this mid-50s dark-haired woman hobbled in on one crutch, her short little husband in tow and her cue in its case over her shoulder. I didn't thing a lot of it until she took off her coat & started peg-legging around without the crutch. Also without bandages or cast or anything at all around the metal frame that was holding her lower leg together. It was one of those ring & shaft contraptions designed to maintain tension on the bone as it heals. I couldn't shake my morbid fascination with the way her skin dimpled around the screws extending from the contraption through her flesh and (presumably) into the bone.
No reason she should care about how this specatcale was weirding me the fuck out. No one else seemed to care much, other than to give her some extra space to move all that around the table. She was *intent* on the game. She played well, to the extent I noticed, judging by the number of shots she strung together. (I couldn't see the table from my comfy chair -- not stool, thank you very much -- at the bar.) But she didn't hold the table long either, leading to the conclusion that these people are serious sharks, and I should make sure not to be betting any money on pool there.
It was a pleasant outing after a thoroughly suck-ass day, brightened only by a phone call from someone I get to talk to all too seldom, and I needed that music. I'ma go back another time, for sure. Too bad it's not closer to my house, as I can see hanging out there rather than my old favorite Herb's.