Robert Kirkman, “The Walking Dead, Volume 1: Days Gone Bye”
This is totally unfair to the three or so people who actually read both this site and the stuff I write for the newspaper, but screw it. It’s been over a month since I updated, it doesn’t seem like my schedule is going to get any better and the stuff I’ve been writing for the paper is starting to sound like it belongs here anyway, so let me reprint something than ran April 8.
- We’re going to break the fourth wall of journalism and go into the first person perspective here for our weekly bar review for a simple reason. I didn’t go anywhere. And why? Because the doctor said you shouldn’t mix Vicoden with alcohol, even though alcohol is what makes Vicoden fun. And what’s with the Vicoden? It all starts, as most good stories do, with a bar.
Doing these reviews over the past three years, you meet a lot of people. Since most of these places have music and alcohol, and alcohol makes me sexier, wittier, funnier, more modest and the best dancer in the world, I get asked to dance a lot.
There are plenty of answers I use for this occasion: I’m working, I’m working on this beer, I’m being pursued by demons and don’t want to attract attention to myself, things of that nature. But the standby answer, the one that usually will get the subject dropped, is the simplest.
“You know that pole that the strippers use?” I say. “I’ll be the pole.”
I do, however, have a signature move to keep others thinking I’m mysterious instead of something closer to the truth, which is that nearly two decades of punk shows have made my dancing abilities along the same lines as the chubby Star Wars kid from YouTube. But I can dip a woman like a champion, complete with the spin in and twirl out.
Of course, once this is found out, the request comes up a lot. And two weeks ago, it was brought up again. The woman who did the requesting has since relocated to the Mainland so I feel you and I can talk about this without fear of embarrassing her, but you know, we should keep it between ourselves. Whenever I saw her, the demands started. “Where’s my dip?” she’d screech, louder than the band, making it sound like it was her right, and not the privilege that it was in actuality. Several times I would acquiesce, just so I could stop her from nagging.
That’s how it was two weeks ago while at the Irish Rose Saloon in Waikiki. After being nagged for nearly an hour, I finally got up, trotted over to the stage, arm outstretched to reel her in. Those who have seen enough Dancing with the Stars should know the person being dipped should curl in and lean gently into the arm of the dipper.
I have never seen Dancing with the Stars.
She didn’t either apparently, because instead of leaning in gently with her back to me, she sprinted forward like a linebacker for the ’70s era Pittsburg Steelers, and I should note that this girl was far from being … how should I put this … a delicate flower. I caught her and lowered as she threw back her head. Somewhere around the halfway point, I knew we weren’t going to make it.
Anybody who says chivalry is dead can go do my dishes as far as I’m concerned. I dove forward and curled underneath, making sure she didn’t crack open the back of her skull to a cover song by the Clash. She landed on top of me, my shoulder still cradling her body as we hit the floor. I’m used to people applauding when I dip people, but this actually got more applause, if for a different reason. When we got up, several people sauntered over. “Nice save,” they said.
But my ribs hurt like fire, both in the back from hitting the floor and from her … how should I say it … massive cow-sized boobs hitting the front. End result: I’m on Vicoden. Night Shift will return next week.
—Dean Carrico
