Honky Tonk

My ramblings, some good ol’ fun in Nash with my cowboy! (A whole lot of nothing)

Hell Yeah!

The pinky promise we made early in our wooing still stands —no matter how crazy life gets, US time is non-negotiable. So when my hubby suggests we take a break from stuff and head to Nashville to whoop it up, the answer is a decisive, hell yeah!

Honky Tonk

√ Cowboy boots 

√ Cowboy hat 

√ Seats at the bar 

√ Open tab 

√ Cold beer 

√ Tequila shots

√ Ridiculous talent

Hmm…what could go wrong? 

Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit

Whenever I hear someone say, ‘Why can I remember the lyrics from my favorite soundtrack but can’t remember what I had for breakfast? I think, yeah, not so much for this peach. I destroy songs by jumbling and mishearing words; for example, ‘but for a dream’ becomes ‘butter dream.’ So, you can imagine the many songs I botched in Nash. But then, sitting at the Honky Tonk, a southern belle diagnosed my fallible tendency– ‘it’s called a mondegreen, and I do it too,’ she confessed; ‘I make up words to songs all the time.’

Phew, I am not the only one. So from now on, whenever I get the look for my trumped-up singing, I will shoot back, ‘Don’t mondegreen shame me; it’s a thing, you know.’

A tall drink of iced tea

Nashville is one of the few places in the universe where I allow men —and women to call me ‘darlin’, sugar, hun, and baby.’ I perceive the sayings as degrading, yet I find them endearing down yonder. Quintessential southern Nashville combines the perfect balance of slang and superb manners. Where else can one find monograms and kick-ass leather boots? C’mon, seriously, what’s not to love? And is it just me, or are cowboy hats incredibly sexy? 

Speaking of cowboys…the streets and stages are crawling with sexy cowboys.

‘Hey, pretty lady, what’s on your mind?’

‘Well, howdy back, cowboy, aren’t you a tall drink of…?’ 

‘What do you want to hear?’

‘What do you feel like singing?’

I give my best dimple smile and ignore that the twenty bucks in my hand are paying attention. 

Heavens to Betsy, I’ll tell you What

If you haven’t been to Nashville, you are missing out. The talent at the Honky Tonks is off the charts. Many of the bars have a smaller footprint, equating to an intimate setting that feels like a private concert and allows for lively interactions with the performers. 

We landed at Tootsies, and it did not disappoint; the energy was detectable. Grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet tater, being twirled around by Pat, my new friend from Nebraska, singing along to ‘Friends in Low Places,’ good times, I tell you—we need more of this to get along with people from different walks of life. 

How can this much talent funnel into a three-block radius? The gigs are not glamorous; bandmembers pack like sardines on small stages and hustle for tips. And yet, I get the sense that none of it matters; they aren’t performing for fame or money. When they close their eyes and belt out the songs, the energy shift is palpable, and it becomes apparent that the stage is precisely where they belong. Ah, I reckon passion is the impetus.

You are barking up the wrong tree

An Irish couple walks into a bar… hold your horses; this is not a joke; instead, a sequence of events:

• Ooh, I love me some Irish; where exactly are you from? 
• Welcome to Nashville, shots; we should do shots, Jameson, great?
• Lean over to my cowboy; this Irish boy is funny as all get out.
• He’s Irish, of course, he’s funny!
• More beers (a lot more), shots of tequila, more ruined lyrics
• Lean over to my cowboy; is it me, or are the Irish a little too friendly?
• They are Irish, of course, and they are friendly!
• Hmmm…
• The Irish started to violate personal space etiquette and crash acceptable distance zones. We go from an easy-going social distance to, I’m sure, that was his tongue in my ear, or at least how close he was to me; my Jedi forces kick in– swingers, I am sure of it. 
• They are barking up the wrong tree; I use my boots to give my hubby a good kick in the leg and raise my hand at the elbow to get the bartender’s attention. I make the universal sign for ‘check please,’ let’s blow this popsicle stand before all goes to hell in a handbasket and pull off an Irish goodbye on the Irish -HA!

He is (we are) as drunk as Cooter Brown

We stand outside Tootsies, under the awning, it’s raining cats and dogs, my boo takes my hand, and we start running; he turns to me, one more? Easily persuaded, I nod in agreement. We hurry to a bar, wiping my face from the rain, declaring no more tequila; I am switching to wine. Well, that makes about as much sense as tits on a bull!

That’s all she wrote; the rest is a blur.

Xo-Mic