Went to an Abate party Saturday night. Abate is a national motorcyclist advocate group. The acoustics are horrid, making it difficult to talk while the band is playing. There are door prizes to bid on. The same group shows up every year. Lots of alcohol is consumed while catching up on a year of history. There are more diehard oldies than newbies.
I laugh as a newbie who manages a gas station tells us her hobby is checking out the male crotch. She does a running commentary of what is coming and going in the nearby vicinity.
During intermission, there was midget bowling. A very long plastic runway is generously coated with baby oil, Two guys pay ten dollars each to play. The midget is on his belly. He tells them to grab him by the shoulders and calves, then send him flying towards the bowling pins.
Dave and I go in on fifteen dollars worth of fifty/fifty tickets. This is a great money maker for the cause. I win the drawing and come away with about three-hundred fifty dollars. As I am pocketing this wad of cash, Dave furrows his brows and asks where his half is.
I whisper sweet nothings in his ear about my planned trip to Menards Sunday morning where I will buy doors to replace the ones the renter took or destroyed. I promise to bring him a bag of his favorite candy from this horrid but necessary evil of a store. It is the local Wal-Mart of home improvement needs.
I don't take Dave along because it raises his blood pressure and he scares the employees with the fumes coming out of his ears. He is irked by the need to forage through wood to find something not warped or crooked. He thinks the man's mall should not sell large appliances and mattresses. However, he is okay with them selling pre-cooked ribs and candy.
My friends are asking what the hell is sitting at the end of the bar. I believe it is a man dressed as a woman. Never good at a biker event in backwoods Wisconsin. I need another beer, so belly up to the bar. I say hi. She says hi and laments that they won't serve her because she used the ladies room.
I tell her I will order for her. The owner is watching from the corner of the kitchen, I am then refused service.
I am pissed off and ask the bartendress what the problem is. "We don't serve that kind," she snots at me. I confront the owner, who backs away like the fat little POS he is. I follow him into the kitchen, telling him what for. He threatens to call the cops. I tell him to go ahead. He is on the phone, claiming that he is afraid of a customer that has him cornered in the kitchen and is pushing and shoving him and his employee, which is actually what they are doing to me.
I go back to my table of friends. I don't need any more beer. Pretty soon an officer is motioning me from the Entrance. I motion him in. Dave and I go outside. I explain the situation. Dave says we were just getting ready to leave. The cop writes my name and birth date on a small notepad. I think he will run a check and throw it away. I go back in and say goodbye. Then we head home.
I have friends who are members of the GBLT community and I think this whole thing about bathroom use is not unlike the days when blacks had separate bathrooms. I do not feel bad about getting eighty-sixed (kicked out of a bar) for this. After midnight I put it on Facebook and go to bed.
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