Rebels/Misfits/Rockstars

Let Your Dim Wits Shine: How Me and Hootie got Thrown Out of a Bar.

The Story

I went to Columbia South Carolina a while back to visit my older brother and to go with him to the University of South Carolina football game. It was fun, I guess, but I could smell vomit every ten minutes or so, which was in itself quite a remarkable story that I should tell you but I won't because this Hootie story makes it pale in comparison. But, I still might anyway, but not before I tell you how Hootie and Me got Thrown Out of a Bar.

Anyway, the game was mildly interesting, and the game went into half-time according to schedule, and the USC Marching Cocks or whatever they are proudly stumbled onto the field and did various things such as blowing into, hitting, or banging on oddly shaped pieces of equipment to make beeyootiful muzik. I was moved.

Anyway, they finally stopped playing and triumphantly walked off the field to much applause and ceasing of reverse-peristalsis. Well, just when all 50,000 of us fans thought that the night's offering of beeyootiful muzik was over, a very enthusiass-spastic announcer told us that we were quite wrong, because as a special treat, South Carolina's own Hootie and the Blowfish were going to play a special song especially for us special people. I felt so... well, I felt above the usual grade of bleacher-sitting football game watcher. Well, indeed, it did sound like they were playing a song by Hootie and a group of Blowfish, but no one could see them. Many people quite emphatically pointed to a wide range of press boxes and field corners, unaware that many thousands of people were directly contradicting them at that instant by pointing to other press boxes and field corners. I, of course, chose the high road, and pointed up into the sky and quite loudly said I could see Hootie and the Blowfish up in the clouds with Jesus.

The boys in the band stopped playing eventually, and the game resumed and they played for long enough time to allow the clock to run down to zero twice, and we all began the walk of the drones back to the car.

My brother and I, being of the type to partake, decided to hit the downtown Columbia scene. To those that have never been there, not to imply that you've missed anything, Columbia's nightlife for age-deficit sufferers consists of a rather small area called "Five-Points." I think every town, in the South at least, has a place called "Five-Points," which I bet has led to misunderstandings of epic proportions, hundred-mile proportions anyway. After going to many non-descript saloons of indistinction, we stumbled into a place inappropriately called "ElbowRoom."

This place was okay. The music was loud, the crowd was young, and the bottles packed a mighty chill. My brother saw some people he knew and started his bullshit delivery just in time to keep anyone from hearing him not bullshitting. I tagged along, throwing in inappropriate and ill-timed comments as best I could. In walked Hootie, and I recognized him immediately because I've seen the videos and we all knew that he's in town. He was doing his thing, drinking beer from a plastic cup which I knew must have been courtesy of the bar management, as if he really needed free beer and I didn't, but otherwise he just fit in like an ordinary guy who didn't really stand out or draw attention to himself. My only impulse was to ask if "Cracked Rear View" sounds funny to him, too, if he thinks about it. I didn't follow up on that impulse.

Closing time was 2:00 AM, and mating rituals, social behaviors, and beverage purchases were timed accordingly. It was about 1:30, and I had just gotten my last adult beverage when a guy wearing the management-provided attitude came up to me and the group and demanded that we leave. I politely asked him what the posted closing time for the establishment was, and he, evidently sensing a trap, evaded my logical maneuver with a swift "I don't give a shit" and told us again to leave. I smiled and pointed out that his bartenders should not encourage fast paced binge-style drinking by selling beverages so close to the time that patrons are requested to get the hell out. I directed his attention to what I clearly identified for the record as "Exhibit A," my completely pristine Miller Lite, of which none had been used for my refreshment. I then advised the man to kindly ask people who weren't just sold drinks to leave, and we would leave in due time. I then put Exhibit A to use as God intended, and started back into the story I was telling (something about tricking a busload of Mormons and four Lincoln Continentals worth of Jehova's Witnesses into one hotel conference room and letting them have it out). Ahnuld, as I think I called the quite buffed customer disservice representative, was not dissuaded by my rhetoric, and resorted to the quite effective Attempted Malice Murder trump card he was holding by virtue of him being three times my size. So, I decided I'd rather cut my losses than be cut and bruised, and I started moving towards the door.

AHA! But it was just a feint... I was merely biding my time in order to finish my drink. As I made my way towards the door, my mind raced through hundreds of possible strategies at my disposal. Which to use, which to use. It was a very tense situation and everyone in the room must have been quite aware of the battle of wits that was going on. If everyone had totally quit talking, laughing, and stomping around, it would have been silent except for the sound of sweat being secreted upon my brow. I had to choose an effective subterfuge. The odds were against me: this was a strange town; I didn't know what styles of tomfoolery were common here; and I wasn't familiar with local interpretation of Public Nuisance Laws. I, by instinct, blended in with the crowd that wasn't quite standing still, not quite moving either, and suddenly I realized that I was right next to Hootie. I had to restrain myself from offering him my autograph. But, I thought, my ploy had been provided by destiny, and finally I would have use for this Hootie that was associated with the Blowfish. I didn't say a word, but just indicated through the projection of my body space that I was with Hootie, at the very least, and might even be a Blowfish. In fact, I tried my damnedest to look like a Blowfish, posture myself as a Blowfish, even be as wholesome and down-to-earth-fame- and -fortune-hasn't- changed -me-a-bit as a Blowfish. And that's harder than it sounds. So, I stood there, drank, and laughed at inappropriate times with Hootie and a Partial School's worth of Blowfish.

And then the Bouncer guy came and kicked us all out, because it turns out that this guy wasn't Hootie at all.




Immense Wisdom from the Idiot