I Love the Nightlife

Okay, so I lied. So there are a few things that can be done on Corpus on a weeknight.

You have to be willing to hang out in some fairly shady places, though. You have to be willing to drink very cheap beer (these places don’t have Rolling Rock – or if they do, it’s only intended for passing gourmands, and you get stared at for ordering it).

And you must be willing to reek, as you have never reeked before in your life, of cigarette smoke.

Last night, being as I am at the moment une femme seule, I went out with a coworker to a fashionable establishment called Vernon’s BBQ, on Buford & 3rd St. Alas! they have no website. So I’ve grabbed another, similarly-named one at random. The similarity ends at the name, I’m just tired of posting weblog entries with no links in them.

These places have regulars. Real regulars. And by “regular,” I’m talking your Depression-era-doctor-brochure, move-your-bowels-every-morning-at-10:30am-sharp regular. These are not people who feel that a bar is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. No. These people are regular. Their median age is about 68.7.

We had an intriguing discussion, these regulars and my coworker, last night, about the merits of different brands of cigarettes; of filtered vs. unfiltered; of menthol vs. regular. Every elderly gentleman (no ladies, oddly) at the bar had a grandmother who had lived to be 93 despite (or, dare we whisper, because of) her four-pack-a-day habit. You’d think unfiltered Camels had turned out to be the font of eternal wizened-baritone-great-aunt-style youth.

I just sat and listened. I’m usually pretty good about jumping right into a conversation, sparkling at it, taking it over, if it interests me enough. I’m funny, dammit! But I was just too far out of my depth with this one. I could have carried my own if the conversation had been about wine, about which grapes are best for each variety, about France vs. Italy vs. California, about the best time of year for harvest, about the woody undertones of Chardonnay. If we were talking about box wine, anyway.

Another fine Corpus Christi establishment, where the doors never close and everybody knows your name, would be the Mug Room (not even close, don’t bother clicking the link) on Weber at S.P.I.D. A banner hung outside proudly proclaims, “Now open at 9am!” Thank God. I was getting really thirsty.

I can’t go there now. I’m supposed to be engaged to the work friend I was there with a couple of months ago; and he got a little too far into his cups (of Miller Lite) and damn near got his ass kicked. He probably would have, if I’d had the heart to explain to the regulars (see above) that “my future ex-wife” is just a figure of speech. They felt sorry for me, so I’m pretty sure it was only for my sake that they didn’t beat him to a pulp. So I can’t go there anymore. Additionally, though I stated in only the last paragraph that the doors never close, they actually did lock them when we left (at about 4pm on a Sunday). So I don’t go there now.

The next place I need to check out is Casino Royale, down on Saturn. This guy we were talking to last night knows the owner. (Who am I kidding? All native Corpus Christians know each other.) It bears somewhat more resemblance to an abandoned auto shop than to a grandly glamorous casino catering to the whims of the inexplicably wealthy; then again, I haven’t been inside, now have I?

I’ll be sure to post a blog entry about it as soon as I do. Assuming, that is, that I haven’t got too much else going on. So much to do! so little time!