Rocky-Tonk

A Saturday night spent at home is generally an evening wasted. So, I pulled on some jeans, my "Commies Aren't Cool" t-shirt, stepped into my Wal-Mart specials, hopped into my Buick and headed for the levee. Just before the stop light, I saw Sisco's Bar & Grill. A kind of roadhouse on the edge of town with a gravel parking lot sandwiched between a body shop and some storage units. Since a large biker rally is going on not too far away, I was a little apprehensive about checking out this place, especially since a sign outside promised live music. Bikers, if Pee Wee' Big Adventure has taught us anything, are enormous patrons of the arts. Enormous, slightly to moderately armed, hard drinking, rap sheet-having patrons of the arts. About halfway to one of two sleepy towns, though, I figured, biker bar or no, I needed some entertainment. So, I pulled a U-ey and headed back through the levee to Sisco's. Not spotting any bikes in the lot, I figured the beatdown:goodtimes ratio was in my favor.

I saw a mass of middle-aged tipsiness stagger out collectively. Some law of physics or mathematics might describe it, but the whole was definitely more than the individual in terms of stability. Parked and spruced, I felt the pound of a bass drum as I approached the door.

"'$5 Cover?' Damn! Well, it's just money... And, besides, it's close to midnight, will I really have to pay?"

But I paid cover anyway, and received a black mark to the hand. On the door, a "No Smoking" sign was hung with care, but the place was filled with a Raleigh-an haze, not the least coming from the other side of the bar. There were about 30 people inside, counting the band and bartenders. The place was a pretty good size, half with the bar, stage, and some tables and chairs; the other half was a "game room" with pool tables, dart boards, and a hoard of 10 Natives (the women too removed to see casually). In the bar and stage part, there were a few Natives at the bar (some suggestively clad and painted-up [though that wasn't doing much for them] nearby boyfriends), and a pride of cougars (most with less to be proud of than others) lounging at a table.

Minx plays mostly hard rock to metal covers. Lead singer with a scalp lock mohawk, the rest with varying facial hair arrangements. They were pretty decent, especially for middle of nowhere folk. They thundered through some standards with egregious tinny reverb as their thanks. Still, the music was loud, there were people, and there was booze.

I tried to order a glass of whiskey but was told they only sell mixed drinks and beer (at least that's what a caught through lip reading and periodic aural lucidity). So, I got a Jack and Coke and surveyed the place a little more.

The ashtrays strewn across bar and tables wouldn't have done much to fool a stray sanitarian, but there's something about smoke that makes a bar a bar. The glut of Natives in the back sat pretty self-absorbed in their own world, huddled around beer and pizza. The band was, more likely than not, raucous background noise to them. The girls at the bar ranged from redneck purtty to average to kinda cute to "dark lighting does wonders for you." They almost all had men in tow, though, so I didn't even worry about it anymore. The cougars were into dancing, and lured a few of the boyfriended to dance, though, which was fairly enjoyable (more comedic than sexy, trust me, though I'm still not sure where those 3/4 pants and stillettos fall on that spectrum).

A little ways into the night, Minx launched into "All Summer Long" and made me miss home. Sure, drinking, bars, and live music all make me yearn to be Hamtramck-side again, but Kid Rock's tale of love in the Water Winter Wonderland hit another nerve usually left untouched in the midst of nature here.

Sure, there are rivers, streams, trees, high hills, animals, and all that natural stuff, but it's not mine. It's kind of like driving a rental car or staying in a hotel. Sure, it's nice to be in something different. The view's nice, there's a newness about everything, the Natives are generally hospitable. In the end, though, there's an odd comfort to being back in your own bed, even if you don't clean the majority of the blankets everyday. And that smell may not be "New Car" but it lets you know "This is mine." This is the same kind of comfort that I felt driving past abandoned factories and through empty neighborhoods. Sure, the place needs some fixing up, but I knew it from childhood and it was mine and I am its in a strange geomaternal sense.

When I'm here, I want to be there. But, I know when I'm there, all I can think of will be getting back into the Forest.