As Promised, A Biker Rally

Feel free to smack me on the ass and tell me I've been bad. I've been away so long and I don't even really have a good excuse. Except that work is hard. And relationships are hard. Raising kids is hard. Life is hard. As a result, I am whiny.

But this is not the time for being a whiny-ass bitching. It's a time for storytelling. Time to get my hand-printed ass(you shouldn't smack so hard)busy and channel the funny. For realz.

Anyhooters, not long ago the Man and I spent a long weekend at a biker rally, in a tiny little place called Bean Blossom. We and the besties loaded up the camper for the four of us and dived head first into the melee. The rally is held in a campground that is famous for hosting the Bill Monroe Bluegrass festival every year.
















The next three days and nights were spent watching revelry and bad decisions. It was glorious. If you ever need a place to feel better about yourself, it's here. check out these distinguished members of society:
















Someone should really tell her that this does not flatter her body type.



And there's this: (Sidenote, a backpack, thigh high hose and combat boots. Seeexxxyyyy!













I did how ever meet a knight in shining armour. Or a fool in a tin-foil hat. Either way he was drinking out of a horn.

















Now, lest you think it was all horror and scenes that make you want to bleach your eyeballs, here's some man candy, who incidentally had the voice of an angel. I tried to buy him, the ladies surrounding him weren't hearing of it.






















One memory from the weekend that stand out in my mind (through the drunken haze) is the field games. Think of it as the Biker Olympics, only for "special" or "challenged" bikers. Events included are the Slow Ride (yes, it's a contgest to see who can go the slowest without putting their feet down) The Weenie Catch, The Keg Roll, and The Great Escape. Since pictures of the Slow Ride are boring (I mean, really?) here's a self-explanatory picture of the Weenie Catch. Boobies Optional.


















That's a hot dog coated in mustard hanging from a frame. I'll let you figure out the rules from there.


But my favorite is The Great Escape. A whole stage is set. It's a production! There are props! And a story!

First a mattress is placed on the ground. Then the "entrant" lies down and is joined by two girls. The girls are there to "hold" the guy down and keep him from getting off the mattress. The premise to the story is this: when the time keeper says Go! the man is to jump off the matress, throwing the girls all wily-nily to the ground, as if he has just been busted by a jealous husband. Next to the mattress is a window (frame) for jumping through, then they must jump a hurdle (in this year's case, it was a keg) and mount their bike. They must then start their bike and ride through a series of cones to cross the finish line. Confusing? I have visuals. Of course I do.















































Didja notice that one gentleman decided to complete the task sans clothing? I have photographic evidence that he completed the task at hand, but did not win the gold. That honor went to the man-candy shown above. The cutie-patootie. The one I tried to buy. But naked man did ask everyone not to put any pictures on the net showing his face. Because he is a high school girls volleyball coach. But at least one of the women sitting astride his naked body was his wife. The other was her best friend. And they sat on every man that entered the contest. THAT'S the kind of weekend it was.

I'm leaving out alot , but this nonsense has dragged on long enough. I'll tell you next time about the killer camper (and I mean in a stabby kind of way, not an awesome kind of way) and the bike show and leaving one evening to accept my Mother of the Year award. I'm tired and that's all I got tonight. But I'll take my Geritol and write more tomorrow. Pinky swear.

Queen for a day. Or Three

As the manager of 3/4ths of the town's liquor stores, I'm used to the over all red-neckyness that occurs on a daily basis. I speak fluent Pabst Blue Ribbon but occasionally (read:rarely) something a little fabulous and sparkley comes into my life.

I live in an area where there's more farm trucks than convertibles, more good ol' boys than techies. Although it's 2010 and Cletus has a Blackberry, this is not a cultural mecca. Some days I long for culture and art and decent Thai carry-out, but overall it's a decent trade off for less crime, congestion and college students.
On a recent hiring spree at the stores, I had the usual applicants. There was Officer Doofus, retired local policeman on a pension. Next up was Billy Ray Jim Bob, whose momma told him to git his sorry ass offa the sofa and finally git a job, 'cause she was not having no 31 year old bum in her house. There was also Betty Barfly, who did not believe that the 9 previous public intoxication arrests would influence her ability to do good hair... I mean, work. And then there was the Queen.

Lawdy, the Queen. Words cannot express my unbridled shock as a real live drag-queen, born and raised here in Hooterville, sashayed in the door. Now for the purposes of clarity, I shall refer to him as, yeah, him. Since he did not come into the store in full drag, I believe this is proper. I stood, stammering my "May I help yous" while this pudgy, 40 year old gay man with impeccablebly groomed eyebrows gave me the once over and announced that he was here to answer my prayers.

My prayers? Are you kidding me? I know I mentioned to the man a few weeks back that I needed a new gay man in my life for shopping and gossip purposes, but I really didn't think that he would custom order me one.

I soon discovered that he was not shipped to me from Drag Divas R Us, but was a friend of a current employee and overheard that there may be a job opening. The Queen was thinking about taking a break from the show circuit and all the travel that it requires. Lucky me.

Now, I never want to be one to show any bias against anyone diffently colored, oriented, or classier than me, so after checking his references and liquor license, I offered him the job. (Here's where you scream "What the hell are you thinking? and Do you know where you are?)

Day one: Due to lack of personnel, I'm working Friday night. Perfect time to try out the new employee and see how he fairs against the masses. Quite honestly, I thought it went great. He knew many of the customers and came off as affable and helpful. This naturally didn't stop the snarky comments after the door closed behind said customers, but the evening flew by. (In hindsight, it may have been because I was running my ass off due to the fact that it was Friday night and the locals need cold beer. Could be. Possibly.)

Day two: I scheduled the new employee to work with one of my longer-standing employees. Let's call him Ghetto. Think multiple piercings and many bad tattoos. Also think under-motivated and involved in baby-mama drama. How could this not work?
Needless to say, it did not go well. There were phone calls in the middle of my Saturday night. Multiple phone calls. There were also dueling rounds of finger-pointing and name-calling. *Sigh*

Day three: On one of the rarest of occasions, I called in sick. This has only happened a couple of times in the past ten years, but a migraine hit me that made me want to call the Grim Reaper and invite him over, and give him ammo. And a highly accurate weapon. So, I placed some calls, got someone to open the store that I should have been in. I also sent the new employee in so that he could get some more training.

Several hours and many, many ignored phone calls later, I decided to answer the damned phone, if for no other reason than to make the fucking thing stop ringing.

(Sorry for that, but if you KNOW that your boss is home sick, and you KNOW that that sickness is a migraine, and you KNOW that said migraine is sensitive to light, heat, noise and smell, would YOU call 4,873 times for someting that was not death, dismemberment, pestilence or wolverine attack? I'm just saying.)

I basically told the caller, which was neither of the above mentioned goofballs that I would speak to the owners and deal with the aftermath tomorrow. Yes, I was the Scarlett O'Hara of bosses. Then I crawled back to my miserable bed and commenced the moaning again.

So, basically, today was spent mopping up the blood and putting band-aids on hurt feelings. But alas, the Drag Queen is no more.

They served wine at the Last Supper, right?

I work at the liquor store. Stores actually. I manage a small chain of liquor stores that are owned by members of my family. It is a good job and I enjoy it 95% of the time. But oh, that 5% can make you want to drain a shelf or two.

On the surface it seems like it would be a fun job. Bag a little beer, push a little wine, recommend a quality scotch. The reality doesn’t go down quite so smoothly. In this state it is illegal to sell alcohol between 3:00 am and 7:00am. So naturally we have a store that opens at 7:00. And every morning there will be customers standing outside at 7:00. In the morning. Before sun-up. Yikes.

Now a few of these souls will be night-shift workers looking to relax at their version of 5 o’clock happy hour. I get that. But others, trembling, shuffling, twitchy others will be looking for something to make the bad go away. My heart goes out to them and their struggle.

The next few hours will be filled with the unemployed, the retirees, the wives shopping for the weekend, the construction guys rained out for the day. They are familiar faces and some have become friends. I moved to this small town for this job after my divorce. I was the stranger that was in charge of their beer. It took awhile but I earned their trust and learned their favorite jokes.

It’s been over three years now, and a few times I have been confronted by outraged people for my career choice. I’ve been accused of poisoning the community, and instigating the downfall of others. One woman publicly accused me of being the reason her uncle died, despite the fact that I have never poured a drink down another person’s throat. (The exception would be that one time in college when we invented a drinking game that involved shot glasses and nudity, but that’s a whole different story. And I was drunk. And possibly nude. And no persons or animals were harmed in the playing of that game.)

I see my regulars at Wal-Mart, the gas station, sitting on the bleachers at the local middle school basketball game. Rarely am I greeted in these situations. Why? Because no one wants to admit that they are in the liquor store often enough that the employees know them or their lives. They won’t admit to their friends or their preacher that I know the names of their kids, that their boss is on vacation or that their wife just had her bunions removed. I get it. I hate it, but I get it.

To the few that greet me warmly and ask about my family, thank you. To the self righteous soccer moms that sneer through the windows of their SUVs as I pick my kids up from practice wearing a shirt with a beer logo on the front – fuck you, Barbie.