If you've been keeping up with the commenting over the past 48 hours, you've probably noticed that someone from my past is posting less than kind remarks and generally creating a ruckus. I don't want to waste a lot of blog space on this, but I can't ignore the obvious elephant in the room, so let's discuss.
First of all, it's Chris. (Hi Chris.) I used to be very close with Chris. Unfortunately, I'm obviously not anymore. You know how I said I loved drama? Case in point. All of my friends have said that I need to write a blog about it, rip him a new one, tell my story. And I should point out, that while he's remarked that he can't understand why anyone would care about my self-centered ramblings, he used to love those ramblings more than anyone else. Scroll down and read his comments from a few months ago. Chris posted all the time. He adored this blog, and clearly still reads and thus, must still care.
The thing is, if Chris wants to be the nut who posts crazies on here, I can't stop him. And I've got all kinds of sassy shit to say and many funny ways to make him look like a tool. But, the fact of the matter is, there's a little shortcut known as the high road, and I plan to take it.
So, this is the last you'll hear of it, at least outsie of the comments section. Instead of stirring the pot and playing this game, which I'd love to do, I'm going to tell you a funny story about me and Chris. That's why you read anyway, and quite frankly, some one my funniest stories involve him. We had a lot of fun together, and I was actually lying in bed cracking up last night, trying to pick the best story to tell. It's either the Harry Potter story or the No Name story. You're getting the No Name.
Months ago, Chris and I stopped by the No Name Bar in Sausalito, on what appeared to be Open Mike Night. The No Name is a tiny little bar, with a few old tables and chairs, a back patio, and a small stage in the middle. We grabbed our drinks and sat down, both appalled and delighted by the bizarre cast of characters before us. Filled with old time locals, the No Name offers Open Mike every Tuesday. On stage, however, there seemed to be a hippie folk band, and they were clearly doing an extended set. Chris and I sat back, and began to develop our love of this insane yet fabulous venue.
Suddenly, a weathered, drunken, 30-ish old dude crawled up on stage, at sat at the unused piano behind the band. Patrons exchanged nervous glances, as this guy starts to play the piano, apparently joining in. The thing is, either he was playing a different song, or just pounding on the keyes, but it sounded horrible. Chris and I start to kick each other under the table. While highly entertained, we were a tad frightened as well. This guy was planning on staying up there for awhile.
The band kinda stopped, and asked him to leave, which he did. Crazy walked over the bar, where the staff and locals seemed to know him, rolling their eyes, and trying to get him to sit quietly. He really walked the line between being the drunk asshole or simply mentally ill. He was put at a table a little too close to Chris and I, and with horror, we pretended not to stare as he began to sing along, clapping his hands, stomping his feet, causing a bigger scene than the piano incident. This pretty much continued all night, and I think it's safe to say, it made our evening. We left, drunk, sore from laughing, and with a new found respect for the No Name.
Not a week later, with plans to return to Open Mike the next night, we went to dinner at Max's. Sitting in a booth, Chris eating his standard wedge of iceberg, I spotted him.
"Oh my god, Chris. I think...Yeah. I think that's him."
"What are you talking about?"
I replied through gritted teeth, "That's the guy from the No Name. Over there. the busboy."
Chris finally saw him. Sure enough, it was our piano player, bussing tables and appearing slightly more presentable in his little Max's outfit.
"Holy Shit. It IS him. This is awesome!"
Crazy passed by our table, and I grabbed my chance.
"Excuse me. I think we may have met you last week at the No Name."
"Oh." Crazy seemed confused, then pretended to recognize us. "Oh yeah! How are you? What's happenin'?"
"We'll be there tomorrow night." I said. "Will you?"
"Yeah, yeah. I think so."
Chris piped up. "You should totally go. We'll hang out. That place is awesome."
"Yeah, sure. I'm Tim." (It was something like Tim. I can't exactly call Chris and ask him if he remembers, so let's stick with Tim.)
We introduced ourselves, promised to see him the next night, and off he went with his dirty dishes.
Needless to say, 24 hours later, we were at the No name, with Kelsey and Dinelle in tow. We'd attempted to tell them the Tim story, but they were less than interested and didn't really get the beauty of the situation. We didn't spot Tim inside, so we grabbed a small table and got some drinks. After a while, Chris and Kelsey went outside to smoke. At that moment, who walks in, but Tim. He gets himself a beer, and I instantly call him over to our table. Dinelle whispers a "What the fuck are you doing?" as Tim makes himself comfortable.
The three of us, sat nervously around the table, but there was no way I was letting Tim leave. I needed Chris to return from the patio to find Tim sitting with us, the visual so perfect, I wouldn't allow it to be wasted on Dinelle, who clearly didn't care. After a few minutes that seemed like a few hours, Chris and Kelsey sauntered in from the back patio and discovered the scene at our table.
Say whatever you want about Chris, but god bless him, he runs up, shakes Tim's hand, slaps him on the back, and buys the guy a beer.
Tim stayed off the stage that night, until Kelsey hopped up to the piano and actually played real music. Then, with maniacal cruelty, I encouraged Tim on stage to join Kelsey in a duet, which he did. It was hilarious and wonderful, and some of the most fun I've had.
Magic happens at the No Name folks. Magic.
And in the great words of Forrest Gump, That's all I have to say about that.