Thursday, August 24, 2006

Chillin' At The Blue Dolphin

Wonder Woman shot me one of her ominous brow furrows, signifying her disapproval at my feeble attempt of obfuscation as I announced that I was in need of a respite from the daily mix of sun, sand, surf, and our precious and precocious progeny.

She intoned, “I saw the menu over at The Blue Dolphin Bar.”

“Menu?”

She cocked her head to one side and said, “Right.”

Quite obviously she was referring to the text (I think it was Estrangelo Edessa 12 pt. Bold) prominently displayed on the cover of the dolphin-shaped menu that boasted “Wireless Network Available Free To Our Patrons.” We had popped in for a couple of Frozen Papaya Meltdowns on Tuesday night and I’m quite sure she caught my furtive glance at “laptop rental” sign in the window as we passed “Captain Pugwash’s Bait, Tackle and Video Shack” on the way.

I did my best to make quick 23-skidoo, and doubled-down to the see the Captain. After a brief and banal discussion about of all things, Pluto, I had the laptop tucked safely under my arm and headed for the "Dolphin."

I sauntered up to the bar, ordered a stinger, and found my way to a secluded table near the window. As luck would have it they were playing disc 2 of the sublime “The Essential Kenny G.”

Perfect. His sweet soprano melodies sounded almost mystical, perfectly complementing the lunch crowd murmur and clankity-clank-clanks coming from the kitchen.

I logged on, and without a morsel of remorse or a tinge of trepidation I surfed on over here. As I read, I began to shake my head in a quiet resignation.

Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby.


Bobby.

I should have known you still aren’t over that night. The conflict that has dwelled in the dark-depths of the chasm that was forged on that fateful evening, and to this day has not been bridged, (Happy Kevin?) in spite of my heartfelt attempts.

It was all your fault.

Bobby was headlining at Gregory’s French Trombone back in ’97 and invited me to the gig. It was an acoustic show – just him, the Fender Rhodes and a box guitar. He was doing a nice mix of mostly Abba, Uriah Heep and his own "songs." At the beginning of the show the audience was spotty but as the night progressed the club started hopping. Around 10:30, a group of 20-odd sorority girls from the local community college filed in and parked themselves around 3 tables near the stage. They were already well-oiled and looking for some action. Bobby winked at me and immediately went into his arrangement of “Rainy Days and Mondays.”

He misread the ladies. One of them stood up and said, “Hey Stretch, don’t you know any Duncan Sheik? How about some Matchbox 20!”

Bobby smiled and said, “My older, albeit less-endowed brother is in the audience. Ned? C’mon up here and show these fine young ladies some of that Jingo charm.”

I had a nagging feeling that I should just shake my head and order another drink, but I do a really keen version of “Barely Breathing,” and I was starting to really feel it . How could I miss? Besides, he threw down the gauntlet.

I downed my third stinger and swaggered up to the stage. Bobby got behind the Rhodes and I picked up the acoustic guitar and we ripped through the song. The soice rockstic went berserk! One of them rushed the stage and not so surprisingly exposed her ample and all natural bazoongas and asked me to squeeze them. Then three more of them stood up on their chairs and started chanting:

“NED! NED! LET'S ALL GO TO BED!”

I took it all in stride. I’m used to it. Bobby, however, was insanely envious. He never could get over the fact that I got the Kevorka and he didn’t. He stormed off the stage in a hissy-huff and left me alone with the ladies. What could I do? I launched into Matchbox 20’s “Push” and followed it up with Herb Alpert’s “This Guy’s In Love.”

They had to call the police.

So now here I am, staring at the remnants of what once was my respectable blog, because I bought into Bobby’s empty assurances.

One more thing.

I despise that no-good two-bit hoity-toity impudent wanker Pat Metheny. Look at the specious and inflammatory comments he made about The Smooth Jazz King Kenny G!

I’d like to see him hold an e-flat for forty-five minutes.

See you next week...

7 comments:

Kevin Wolf said...

How does one mend a chasm?

Well, at least we can agree about the great Kenny G.

roxtar said...

Bobby was headlining at Gregory’s French Trombone back in ’97 and invited me to the gig.

Rusty's? You played at the Rusty Trombone? Color me impressed. And remember kids, today is only yesterday's tomorrow. Whoa!

Bobby Lightfoot said...

God fucking damn it.

I'm *apoplectic*

I've been spelling "whoa" wrong this whole time.

The Viscount LaCarte said...

I've been spelling "whoa" wrong this whole time.

That may be, but you spelled "Woah" right this whole time.

As luck would have it they were playing disc 2 of the sublime “The Essential Kenny G.”

C'mon Neddie! Everyone knows Disc 1 smokes disc 2!


In the meantime, just today I finally learned to spell fugkgcm

Will Divide said...

As galling as Bobby may be at times, when the need is weed he strikes me as the go-to guy.

And by weed, I mean gcmeua.

XTCfan said...

Sorority girls? Titties? Propositional chants?

C'mon, Ned. Everyone knows Gregory’s French Trombone is a gay bar.

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