Time travel is possible and Elvis lives in Martinez

kato9tales and I went back to Ferry Street to reexamine the Martinez club scene last night.

We started with the epicenter: Ferry Street Station. Again there were Harleys out front, this time with biker accompaniment. Inside, however, the crowd had radically changed from what I had seen last week. First, there actually was a crowd. A different band was playing. I tried to make out their name on the sign behind them. The Droogs? "No." I thought. "Can't be. They're sort of famous." It would explain the crowd, though. The bouncer was back. He had started growing a beard and he looked tired. Perhaps he had danced too much last week.
The Droogs? The California vibe was strong. I hadn't realized it for what it was before now. The tans, the shorts, the Hawaiian shirts, they were all typical California beach culture, spread from LA and Santa Monica, perhaps.

Although the temperature had cooled after the sun had gone down, the bar still retained the heat and mugginess of the day and the band was playing rock and roll classics. I was instantly transported back to my teenage years in Florida. I had worn flip-flops everywhere, much like the rough looking, long haired biker at the pool table was now. The people in the bar were wearing what everyone in Florida had been wearing in 1978. The same tans, the same shorts, the same Hawaiian shirts, the same long hair.

It wasn't The Droogs on stage anymore, it was Lynrd Skynrd, it was Alabama, it was Fog Hat, it was ZZ Top.
I was one beer down and the atmosphere had caused a contact high. Things were getting weird. A woman sat in front of me wearing a bright tie-die like dress. Psychedelic. Another woman, wearing a short denim mini-skirt, a white tank-top that barely contained her out of control breast augmentation, and tan suede boots that almost made it to her knees, and that must have been making her feet sweat something awful in the stifling bar, leaned affectionately into her flabby boyfriend, who was wearing a bright yellow shirt and long, grey, straggly hair, before she took him by the hand and walked, with him, onto the dance floor. She seemed to be a huge admirer of Cher.

And then I saw it. The ultimate artifact from some strange time in the past. A dude! An actual dude! He had a flowery Hawaiian shirt. He had surfer shorts. He had no socks. And he had a fedora. Someone had clearly dropped a mickey in my beer.

The people on the dance floor, the people sitting around the pool tables; none of them seemed to have realized that it was now 2006.

Or almost none of them.
Playing pool next to the rough looking biker in flip-flops was a renegade Sith Lord, his astoundingly nasty looking dreadlocks covered by a dark grey hood. Between shots he traded little butterfly kisses with his hippy girlfriend, who was wearing a flimsy linen dress, and who should have been wearing flowers in her hair. She was the one who kept bringing the dreadlocks to light. Letting the hydra take the air.

Sith Lord

Rather than have another beer and continue traveling through the time warp, kato9tales and I walked down the street to Ray's Lounge. I hadn't been in this place yet.

Having just come from the Northeast, and by the look of Ray's Lounge from the outside, I expected a dark, dirty, smoky interior filled with old alcoholics, despair, and shattered lives. I was half right.

The place was dark and dirty. It had one of those big Budweiser lamps in which a model of Clydesdales and beer wagon circle around and around and around. But the same 70's people were here as well. That 70's Show was even playing on the television mounted on the wall.

Ray's Lounge had something I had seen in no other bar in the world. It was furnished with used office furniture from some surplus store. Wheeled grey cloth office chairs surrounded small black metal conference tables, all placed around a fake stone fireplace from some fake ski resort.

The potential was astonishing. Races could be organized down the center of Ferry Street. Instead of throwing the bums out at closing one could simply roll them out. After a few drinks, though, the rolling office chairs on the slick linoleum of the bar floor could be treacherous.

There was a sound in Ray's Lounge. A sound like none I had heard before. I looked around. There it was! Ray's Lounge had live entertainment, too! A man with a bad goatee was singing and playing guitar. Well, he was playing guitar. Well, he was in the corner making an awful caterwauling. Whatever it was he was trying to do, he was totally into it. Unfortunately, he wasn't keeping a regular tempo, and it sounded like he was in the wrong key. At one point he turned on a tape recording of guitar playing and accompanied it by plinking out scales. This was too much. We turned tail and fled.

I walked kato9tales most of the way back to her apartment and then went back to my own on the empty streets of nighttime Martinez, California.
  • Current Mood: Sunday
It was LAYLA. The world's worst version of Layla. A Layla SO BAD that you actually downed the rest of your Liberty Ale, the official beer of Ray's.

I am ashamed to admit that I was hung over from my one and a quarter beers. Or going through caffeine withdrawl.
Obviously I downloaded the pictures I took from your camera. I also downloaded yours. I didn't delete them from the camera, however. I'm prepared to return your camera at your convenience.
You STOLE kato9tales'sses camera! Thanks for the time warp visit, my little sluggy. I would have loved to have been there.
I exhibited only the most gentlemanly and civil behavior. The camera was volunteered at the first hint that I was regretting the lack of my own.

But I would'a stold it if I'd a done seend it in her purse!
No, I totally volunteered it. He's much better at composition that I was and I didn't think anyone would *believe* how horrible the fashions were.

Sadly, the batteries died before he could get the 70s retro dress with Oring front closure, the weird Burning Man denizens who got lost on their way to the desert, or the scenes of despair of the local families on their Big Night Out to the happening bar.
Oh gosh, I'd forgotten all about that!! This is why I try to take notes for such things.

You should post your own version! Those details are gold, baby, gold!
I need to, but I've had a bitch of a morning. I'll try to put something together tonight.

Including the part where I spent Sunday hungover, having drunk 1 and 1/4 beers.

How humiliating!
Here's humiliating: I couldn't find a bathroom on the way back to my apartment and I had to pee in the bushes, ducking the cops like some perv with his fly open!
Hmm. I should have offered to let you come up to use the facilities. Had I not been *drunk* that would have occured to me.

Thanks for walking me home though :)
Yer welx.

We're both, apparently, lightweights and may have to switch to hard likker on the off chance we have a better tolerance for it.

Loaves and fishes!
Like the fabulous gin and tonics shared by the Sophisticated Set in their office chairs at Ray's?

Peace out!
The only ass in my face was a rather large cranky woman wearing somewhat billowing clothing holding a big cue stick.

I'm just a lot too straight to go for that.

All the greasy biker boyz were at the next pool table over, had I been so inclined. I'm not sure that all the beer in Martinez would have been enough though.