Salad Days Vol.86 "The Buck St. Shuffle"

It was the best of times, it was also the Best of times. Way back in the day, as we like to say. Back in the Glory Days, talkin' 'old school'. Not 'Little Red Schoolhouse' old , but still, old-school, never-the-less.

The Van-Doggen Brotherhood gather at T-Bone's Webster St. appartment. Congregate- around eight- don't be late- to get your drink on and get in some pre-game preparations:

Doggen powdered? Check
Skinny Black tie? Check
Hair feathered back? Check
Trousers cuffed? Check
Paco Rabanne liberally applied? Check

One last swig, and it's off to the pub for a little pre-party party. Put a couple of more 'Rusty Nails' into our coffins and chain-smoke like your crazy AuntEdna from Ipswich. Notice a few 'jolie jeune filles' down the bar a ways. Shag reaches into his tackle box and pulls out the old 'English Accent' routine. Excellent effort, but no dice. Time to blow this popsicle stand.

Gingerly, off we go around the corner and down the street to Benjamin's After Dark. A little Bar-band Rock and Roll and ice-cold Scotch; good for what ails you. Singing along with Buffalo Chip Tea, local legends, to Bruce Springstein... "A-Romeo and Juliet...Sampson and Delilah..." good times. But all good things must come to an end, and the siren call of the Bounty Tavern proves to strong.

Roll up into the Bounty, Rat-Pack wannabees. The bouncer knows us all by heart. The bar maid comes up and tugs on T-Bone's tie. I get into Wing man formation. It's go-time. Ton-Loc is right on time with the Funky Cold Medina and the females are lookin' fine. Circle, loiter, reconnoiter, make the rounds and chit-chat the line-up of usual suspects.

Open up our tackle boxes and adjourn to our favorite spots. Shag reposes in one of the back booths, butane lighter set for incinerate, smoking like Keith Richards and trolling heavily. Stovepipe assumes the position on the Dance floor doing the 'Lazy Snake'. T-bone takes out the 'Diamond Dave' down at the bar; a sure-fire winner..."looks like you'll get some leg tonight for sure... tell us how you DO". P.T., by this time robbed of his suave approach by his last Gin and Juice, just now starting to grip his Cerabellum, eyes the passing females with about as much sublety and panache as a hungry hyena eying an ijured young antelope, straggling back from the herd. His tackle box is empty; it's about time for the ol'Buck St. Shuffle.

Some nights the Van Doggens heed the siren call of the Bounty's many Temptresses. They are legend:

Midge, Morgan, Psycho-Dyko, Map, The Thomas Hill Disaster, The ring-o-Rosie of Death.

But not tonight. There will be other nights for the Funky Cold Medina, but tonight it's up the hill, back to T-bone's appartment, arm in arm, rewriting history, with a quick stop at the 7-11 for a Captain Aham sammich and a bag of chips. Up the heartbreak hill of Buck St. you stagger, smoking and joking, just as it should be. "Hey, there still might be a couple of coldies in T-Bones fridge, n'est pas"? Life is good. Back up to Webster St. to the friendly confines. One last 'cold and refreshing ' and you fall asleep on the recliner, to the strains of MTV, crumbs on you face, clutching you Captain Aham like a Binky. You sleep like a big drunk baby.

That's the way I remember it, anyway.