Peeking through a Hole in the Wall

No, it's not a long-lost Beatles tune, just a description of the little bar we went to last night for Albany, GA karaoke. It was called P.O.B. All I know about the name is that the OB stands for Oyster Bar, though to be fair, I saw nothing in that establishment that would lead me to believe they had the capabilities to serve anything resembling food, be it raw or otherwise. More mysterious, though, was what the P stood for. We spent a goodly portion of the drive over there trying to come up with suggestions. Prozac, possible, punctilious (not actually offered last night, but one I just came up with this morning and, in my mind, the winner) all were attempted, and promptly forgotten when we caught sight of the the actual establishment. A roadhouse in the truest sense of the word--what looked like a house along the side of the road. It was not a large place, though it was able to hold two pool tables and a decent sized stage for karaoke. Flo, Bob, Ted, and I all went, and when we walked in, the population of the bar quadrupled. Yes, it was that empty on a Saturday night at 9:30. This told me two things--we were definitely not going to have to wait in line to sing, and there was a very good chance we might not make it out alive, being "outsiders". I truly do believe we were the first people they had seen in there that they didn't know. Which, when you get right down to it, is where you want to go when you're in a strange city. What's the fun of going somewhere they're used to strangers? Bob beat a hasty retreat, since, as per usual, he was hungry and found the idea of eating at POB less than appetizing. But he did promise to come back...eventually. So Ted, Flo, and myself settled in for an evening of solo performing.

There was a group of already drunken locals hanging out in the section by the stage, and they were quite friendly when we walked over. I had forgotten just how twangy the Georgia accent is, and these people had it in spades. The ladies could have been sisters, although I put that down to the fact they were wearing similar outfits (too-tight jeans which were not helped by the too-tight shirts that accompanied them) and similar hair coloring (too-red). But they were very nice, especially the one who was there with her not-boyfriend boyfriend, who hadn't brought her glasses so she needed Flo to write out the name and number of the Conway Twitty/Loretta Lynn duet she was going to do with the aforementioned beau that was not a beau, and who later in the evening informed us all of that fact rather pointedly whilst looking deeply (or as deeply as one so drunk she was wording her slurs CAN look) into Ted's eyes. I believe what she said was, "I'm just trying to get rid of my boyfriend, well, he ain't really my boyfriend, just...."(mumbling off into something incoherent yet charming) I offer this to you as evidence of the unique quality of the place, but do admit it is an imperfect translation at best. We were having a good ol' time (which is the only type you are allowed to have in a place like that) when in walked a group of people who made he rest of us feel far less out of place. A gaggle (and yes, that is the correct term) of ladies with one or two guys in tow came in, and they were obviously dressed for partying. At a club far more upscale than the one we were in. It looked like a group of suburban soccer moms had made a horrific wrong turn and ended up here hoping to use the phone. Upon closer inspection, they seemed to have arrived to throw (of all things) a baby shower. Or just take the (extremely) pregnant gal out for a night of fun and debauchery.  Either way there was a lot of shrieking coming from that section of the bar--you know the kind, the oh-my-god-aren't-we-just-having-the-wildest-time-and-aren't-we-obviously-still-the-craziest-bitches-in-town-nobody-can-even-come-close-to-the-antics-we're-getting-up-to-because-we've-all-had-three-beers-each-what-will-our-husbands-SAY? shrieks. You could tell there was a lot of good, clean, old-fashioned Southern repression going on since about halfway through their stay there, the let's-pretend-to-be-lesbians-button got pushed and there was much gal on gal grinding going on on the dance floor, with the few overly pumped, baseball-capped guys looking on. One of their number, one Wendy by name, came over to converse with us and to encourage me to sing more Elvis since I was "Really good, and I mean thayat." She then asked where we were all from, and when told three different states, asked how the hell we all ended up there. We explained what we did, and she thought that was really cool, though she wasn't exactly clear at first that we performed for kids, thinking our show on Monday was at 10:30 p.m. Then she asked if her 6 year old could see it. Then she told us we'd like the theatre we're performing in since she's seen a lot of shows there, or as she put it, "I've been to lots of shows over to the theeyater." She had such a combination of thick eyeliner and heavy mascara that when she did sing (some screechy song about a girl kissing a girl and liking it--oh yeah, them Baptists is KINKY) I quietly suggested that perhaps she could go on tour as a singing raccoon. Yep, it was THAT kinda night.

We stayed until the karaoke closed, at about quarter to two in the morning. By that time, Bob had managed to return, and shockingly, decided to sing. Bob never sings--has never sung, and had adamantly claimed that e never would shortly after this tour started and it became clear that karaoke was the group's drug of choice. But, for reasons known only to him and his quiet little conscience, he made up his mind to bust his karaoke cherry that night, with us as witnesses. He performed a Charlie Pride song, "All I have to Offer You is Me," and despite his misgivings, did quite well. The best part was, he was the last song of the evening. I think he planned it that way so if it went poorly, we could all beat a hasty retreat. But we were all quite flattered, and impressed, and we have since informed him that he is now required to perform whenever we go out henceforth. He may never leave the hotel again...

Anyway, that's pretty much what happened yesterday. Today will be even less momentous, since all I have on the agenda is laundry. But that's okay, since last night, we did party like rockstars, even if those rockstars had only drunken over-dyed and racoon-eyed groupies to keep them company....