He Met a Girl Out There With the Tattoo Too....

[Editor's note: The author recognizes the title being used for this particular post is a slight variation on the words to a popular Johnny Depp/Faye Dunaway movie...what? Music video? Tom Petty, huh? Okay, anyway, the point is while the author typically likes to find a lyric that on its face can be used as the title, thematically I mean, it is sometimes necessary to take artistic license and change things around a bit. Therefore, the lack of quotation marks. ]

Okay, dear and faithful readers, I'm sure each and every one of you has been anxiously awaiting word on my trip to the quaint little hamlet of Springfield, Missouri. Well, wait no longer friends, for here is the rest of the story. Which is to say, the story, as I've yet to begin.

First, it is important to note that I had previously not been to Springfield. It became necessary to plan a route. Should you ever find the need I suggest the following path:

Hwy 63 south to Jefferson City then Hwy 54 west to Camdenton then Hwy 5 south to Lebanon (not the Qadafi one) and finally I-44 west to Springfield.

[Editor's note: Above route is not advised for anyone whose point of origin lies outside Columbia, Missouri. Also, the author knows Qadafi is Libyan, but the route goes through Lebanon and the author has no Lebanese points of reference.]

The drive went pretty well. I listened to some good cd's, of which I have many, and I saw some interesting things. Didn't see the Bagnell Dam, which sort of disappointed me, but I did see a bar at the Lake of the Ozarks called, and I'm pretty sure of this even though it was a passing glance, The Potted Steer. I have no idea what's it's all about, but if that is, in fact, the name I must go there. Anyway, that will be another story of another trip for another day. For Springfield approached.

First impression of Springfield? It is fuckin' big! Apparently Bass Pro and crazy evangelism bring the folk in droves.

So, I stayed at a Holiday Inn, natch. Was surprised to find the company actually has a mascot. His name is Johnny Holiday and he has a swashbuckling look about him. Not in an Errol Flynn way, but more like a Jonathan Pryce way from "Pirates of the Caribbean." Needless to say I was impressed and will be urging my employer to commission a statue of Mr. Holiday for the Columbia property.

The room was very nice, it had a sofa in it. But enough about interior decor, for that was not my purpose in the 3-hour and 20-minute jaunt. I was there to visit a friend.

When last we spoke dear friends, I brought to your collective attention the re-connection I established with my friend Brook. Seems that not only had the passing of time caused a breakdown in communications, but also Brook's move to the southwestern portion of the Show-Me State. As Brook is currently without car and license and I, on the other hand am missing only one of those (guess which one Amit), I decided to make the trip to see her rather than asking her to walk the two hundred plus miles to Columbia.

Also, while I had never been to Springfield, Brook had to date taken few opportunities to explore Springfield. Thusly, this trip was planned to ensure new adventures for all.

The first night was spent predominantly at a bar called Outland, or maybe The Outland. Its atmosphere was robust and its clientele salty.

[Editor's note: The author knows not what he means exactly by that, but is coming off a recent viewing of "Full Metal Jacket" and choosing to steal a line off Matthew Modine.]

After establishing a tab with the gentleman at the bar wearing Rocky Balboa's hat [Editor's note: The bartender was not actually Sylvester Stallone. It was his night off.], Brook and I settled in for a set from the band in the window who sounded as if they would love to wake up one day and be called the Dave Matthews Band.

Taking notice of my surroundings, two things jumped out at me. First, the collage on the wall next to our booth. It featured Polaroid photographs of people holding Polaroid photographs of people holding Polaroid photographs. Follow that? It's like the Beavis and Butthead butt tattoo thing. For a second I thought I was in an M.C. Escher drawing, only with photos and not all those fuckin' staircases.

The other thing I noticed was the ceiling. It was decorated with the paintings of various nations' flags. Stapled to the ceiling was an abundance of dollar bills, signed by patrons past. I noticed few if any dollars on the flag of Japan, but a great many on the flag I could not identify. Curious...

[Editor's note: Either the people of Springfield are more worldly than the author, or the flag of Japan was too far for drunkards to reach whilst standing on the bar.]

After a series of beers followed by jager bombs [Editor's note: The author's keyboard lacks umlauts.] followed by whatever the fuck shots Brook bought (they were opaque?) we decided to head back home.

[Editor's note: The Holiday Inn. The author lives two hundred plus miles from Outland, or the Outland and such a drive would have been inadvisable given the hour and number of intoxicants consumed.]

The next morning began in the early afternoon with a trip to Brook's home to say hello to her father. [Editor's note: Brook is temporarily living with her parents.] We then headed out for breakfast at lunchtime.

Said meal was had at Aunt Martha's Pancake House. Aunt Martha, who is actually named Ruth, was in fact there, sitting next to her signed photo of Willie Nelson. I had the French pancakes which consists of three lp-sized pancakes each rolled around the contents of an entire jar of strawberry jelly. Not only was I unable to finish the meal, I now have diabetes and since they were in fact the French pancakes I have been summarily dismissed from the Coalition of the Willing.

We next visited the local used CD store, from which I rescued a copy of Sonic Youth's Goo, which some moron with no taste sold to the store, undoubtedly to buy the new Trapt or some other such shit band. Brook bought a cd from some girl calling herself Annie. Wasn't sure about it from the cover, but it sounded pretty good. She had this Kylie Minogue thing going for her. I recommend it.

[Editor's note: The recommendation of Sonic Youth's Goo goes without saying.]

This is getting to be a long post...you still with me. No....okay I'm going on anyway.

We next explored Historic Walnut Street in search of a cool-looking bar which Brook had never been in but had seen from the street. I'm guessing Walnut Street. Historic Walnut street is an older looking neighborhood in which most of the homes have been converted into businesses. B & B's mostly, but there were a couple of restaurants and some offices. Brook says once a year, in the summer, the street is blocked off for a large art festival. The whole thing had a cozy atmosphere. And yes...there was a bar.

We found it. It was called Ebbets Field! How fuckin' great is that! It was an especially nice day out, so we had our drinks on the terrace. We listened to sorority girls talk about parents' weekend and dealing with the "parentals." The girls go to a school called Missouri State University, which I have never heard of but I think is somewhere near Southwest Missouri State University.

[Editor's note: The bar Ebbets Field is a converted home, so the terrace is formerly a front porch. Further, the other Ebbets Field no longer exists, so if someone asks you to meet them at Ebbets Field, try Walnut Street. Finally, I will never call it Missouri State.]

Dinner was had with Brook's mother, who asked to be called Charlotte but I just called ma'am. It was spaghetti, which I normally don't care for, but enjoyed. Nice little salad and some garlic breadsticks and we had a meal worthy of the picture on the box.

Incidentally, just as an aside, things between Brook and I seem to be going quite well. She and I share a history that is....well, it's something anyway. But hey, I'm older, she's older, things seem to be...different. Not ready to put labels on anything, but suffice to say I am pleased with how things are going right now and if you care, my faithful readers, I may share further details as they come to pass. Or I may not....stay tuned.

As night fell, the time came for real adventure. I wanted to do something that could only be done in Springfield. That actually is an idea I keep with me whenever I go somewhere else. I mean, I work in a hotel. Now I know Columbia, Missouri is not a hotbed for tourism, but it kills me when people come to town and want directions to the closest chain restaurant. Live people! Live! Well, lucky for me, Brook had an idea.

Brook claimed that, several years prior, she had seen the ghost of a bride under a bridge somewhere in Springfield. Before I could call shenanigans, ma'am, also know as Charlotte, said she had also heard of such a thing and knew where it was. Well...off we go! It's a ghost! After confirming the location with this thing called the internet, which I don't totally understand but I think was invented by Al Gore, we made our way to a local park.

[Editor's note: The author and Brook tried, but found no ghost. The story does not end there.]

Later on that night we found a piano bar that was much like other piano bars in that it was not very cool, full of some really drunk people, and involved the playing of every Elton John song not devoted to Diana or Disney. Now I love some Elton John. For my money the man was a genius from 1970 to 1975, but for the love of god can piano bars not play anything else?

[Editor's note: The author considers the parameters of Elton John's genius period to begin with the 1970 release Elton John and to conclude with 1975's Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Notable exceptions include 1973's "Crocodile Rock" which sucks and 1983's "I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues" which is pretty good.]

Next we visited the Bar Next Door, which is not only a name but can also be a relative locale. It reminded me of Widman's. Don't know Widman's? You missed out. We played songs from the jukebox, which had a pretty good, albeit unusual, selection, including Cracker's 1996 release The Golden Age which may be their weakest album but includes the quite fun gem "How Can I Live Without You."

As the night wore on a bit and Brook and I began to recount our adventures, a plan began to emerge. You see, the night prior, Brook and I began talking of getting tattoos.

[Editor's note: The author talks of tattoos every time he gets drunk. Brook does not, thus the point in even mentioning this prior conversation.]

We had laughed off the idea, but almost uncomfortably. It's like we really wanted tattoos, but needed convincing. Then Brook had an epiphany. A word, not just any word, but one that would represent the time we'd spent over the weekend. A word that each of us would have inked on our bodies for all eternity.

So we did it. We now each have the same word in the same size and script tattooed on our persons. The word? Not now, get to know me, I'll tell ya.

The tattooing was done in the studio of Miller Cotton, who is apparently famous for both his tattoos and steak sauce.

[Editor's note: Cotton Miller is not famous for the Salem Witchcraft trials. That would be Cotton Mather.]

Saturday night concluded with a return trip to the Inn, some beers and a viewing of "The Wedding Crashers" which neither Brook nor I had seen, but in fact quite enjoyed.

[Editor's note: For those of you waiting for any details of intimacy between the author and Brook...shame on you perv!]

Sunday was spent with ma'am, also known as Charlotte, who had prepared eggs mixed with various vegetables and cheese. They were good.

I drove Brook to her place of employ, we said/shared our goodbyes and I began the leisurely drive back home.

All in all, it was a very good weekend. I had much fun, Brook, I hope, had much fun. She appeared to. She told me she did. I have no reason not to believe her, other than my being really neurotic of course. Ma'am, aka Charlotte, really seemed to like, which I've been told is unusual for her in relation to Brook's guy friends.

[Editor's note: That is NOT a label. The author is a guy, who is a friend.]

So yeah, I think I'll probably be back in Springfield again. Sooner rather than later I hope. Next time I hope to see the ghost or something even scarier. Springfield is the home of John Ashcroft!!!!

[Editor's note: Ashcroft really sucks.]

Til next time readers...I bid you farewell, with a fond HELLO!