[ Blogged in realtime, Wednesday, 20-Jun-2007, kinda like that stupid TV show 24, but without that asshat kid of Donald Sutherland’s… ]

Here we are folks.  It’s a wonderfully balmy Wednesday night at CatScratch Jane’s.  I’m sitting with a bird’s eye view of all the going’s on.  Karaoke is getting ready to kick off and it looks as if all the regular crowd (good and bad) has started peppering in.

The Twin Blow Out is starting here tomorrow, but the biker boys on their motor-scooters are plentiful.  The patio’s a-buzzing, the inside is buzzing.  We’re looking forward to an eventful night.  Bring on the singers.

A real blow-out, right?  Uh. No.  It’s another train-wreck.  That’s what I get for being all amp’d up for a party!  Thus far we have heard a not-so-right-on rendition of “Live and Let Die” (help me!).  Now we are on to the worst drunken interpretation of “You Look So Good In Love” that I’ve ever heard… whining included.

The place is packed.  Folks are piled up everywhere, inside and out with the best bike rack carriers for cars and trucks on all their vehicles.  I’m dying for a beer.  But dammit, it’s busy.  I’m going to wither up and fall in the floor from lack of alcohol.  But as I sit here, waiting for Cutie Pie (our beer wench) to surface, I think to myself “Damn, girl!  You’re hair looks gooood!”

Finally!  A hot guy is getting up to sing.  I missed his name, but he’s wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap.  He’s singing Toby!  You go, boy!  Mercy me, yes.  He sure should have been a cowboy.

I’m still waiting on my beer.  It’s nearly 10pm.  Through the open windows I hear the clank of the triangle being busted by a gaggle of pool shooting biker boys.  Now and then a loud, orgasmic burst of noise comes when one of the bikes fire up.

Ya know, Christmas is coming up.  Harley.  Under the tree.  Big red bow.  Thanks in advance to whomever decides to make this purchase for me.  I’m obliged.

Finally, at 9:55pm, Mark drags his ass in.  “Log the time, Scotty!”  He has mercy and goes to hunt Cutie Pie for my beer.  Bless you, hon.  I was withering.

By 10 I’m thinking, “I thought this was going to be the kick off to a bad ass biker weekend party… it’s more like B-97.5 night in the local geriatric ward.”  Never has an hour seemed more like ten.  Never have I wanted someone to shoot me in the ears worse than I do right this very minute.  “Log the time, Scotty!”

10:01.  Scotty is so excited to be here that he’s taken to watching the drag queens on the t.v. above the bar.  *snicker*  You dirty boy, you.  But wait:  Here comes Nike!  He’s belting out some bad ass Lionel Ritchie love song,  The boy possesses the ability to wake up a bored and otherwise depressed drinking crowd.

Oh my, what’s this?  The heavens have opened up and some good singers with some happy ditties are now on a roll.  Joe hops up and belts out a soulful blues number (he really rocks the hell out of the blues).  Now if we can talk him into losing his “Bat Outta Hell” CD… *wink wink*  You know I love ya, Joe.

I belted out some goodies too, if I do say so myself.  I dueted with Cowboy Billy-Joe-Tom-Bob and sang “Dontcha.”  He kicks ass on the rap part.  Freestyle baby!

I then attempted to do the night justice, with Nike’s help, by belting out “At Last” … the Etta James classic.  Choice.  Very choice.

My news reporter skills are being diminished by the amount of cold beer and Jack Daniels I have consumed.  At this time, all I can really say is that everytime I get up from my corner booth, I end up grabbing this poor girls ass.  So, I end up making light of it, in my regular Diva style.  I own up to it.  I look her in the eye and tell her, “I’m sorry for grabbing your ass everytime I get walk by!”

“Log the time, Scotty!”  It’s 11:14, and I’m drunk. Food ordered. Yah!  I comment to Scotty that we are evil.  He says “No, we’re just honest.”  Good one.

Finally.  Something note-worthy.  A drunken skank finally falls out of her chair into the floor.  NEXT!  Scotty dies laughing, and notes the time is 11:23.

Food on tap.  CatScratch has the best food around.  Especially if too much alcohol has been consumed.  Cue the onion rings.

And the french fries.

Scotty is in the loo, so I’m logging the time as 11:34.

So, if tonight was any forecast of the drunken festivities that are to go on for the next several days at CatScratch… all I can say is WOW!  Good luck with that!

I maintain here and now, I’m Diva enough to stay on the porch, because I certainly can’t keep up with the big dogs.  *rolls eyes*

Woof!  Out.