I'm an expert in nameology

I inevitably end up at (The)5 Spot most every weekend. Is it because I get a halfway decent price on drinks? Is it because I never have to pay cover? Is it because at least one of the Shortlands is up there most every night? Is it because there’s a chance that The Mattoid is playing? The answer, of course, is “yes”. To all of it.

I think what makes a bar feel more like home than perhaps it should is not only what is there but what isn’t there. Now, if you’ve ever been to Red Door East you may already know where I’m going with this. Sure, I can fit in there when I want to. I can also end sentences with prepositions when I want to. I can even do it twice in a row. It tends to be a very ‘hit or miss’ crowd. (The) 5 Spot, however, is a ‘hit’ each and every night. That is, when people are there. That’s an advertising problem that they have so I’m going to let them worry about it for the time being. I am available for hire. *wink*

I don’t hang out with dudes are into cage fighting. That’s their thing and being small and without the use of some sort of weapon or without being able to cheat in said fight, I’m imagining that I wouldn’t be very good against some sort of skilled opponent: especially when the dude has tribal tattoos. That’s like Samson and his hair, right there, except for it’s permanently affixed.

Before Erika, Sean and I went to see Inglorious Basterds on Saturday night, we decided that after a round of fish and chips that we would hit up (The) 5 Spot for a quick drink. And wouldn’t you know who was there… The entire Nashville Cage Fighters’ Group-y Association of Dudes Who Look Like They Eat Rocks for Breakfast or the NCFGAoDWLLTERfB, for short. And by “entire” I mean “three”. I swear, though, that one of these guys looks like and takes up the size of 9 regular guys. Multiplication tells me that that’s like 27 regular guys. It only took me six years to finish college by the way.

I was quietly enjoying my bottle of cold, delicious Miller High Life [sponsorship, please] while bikini-clad models pranced about me [big sponsorship, please] and wearing my favorite sports team’s ball cap [gimme some money already, Miller Brewing Company!], when a member or nine of the NCFGAoDWLLTERfB got up and ordered some sort of “bomb” drink for one of his ladyfriends who had just arrived. Now, I didn’t get a good look at said ladyfriend but I did hear a loud, high-pitched series of “WOOOOOO!s” behind me from a woman who smelled like she was probably all sticky and glittery. Too much Love Spell perfume from Victoria’s Secret [no sponsorship needed, thank you very much] is never a good thing.

I managed to keep from laughing out of fear of getting beat up one nine of these dudes. “WOOOOOO!’s” usually make me giggle. But what made me almost spit out some of my golden deliciousness [PAY A DUDE!!!] was that same high pitched voice introducing herself to the rest of the NCFGAoDWLLTERfB. “Hi!” she squeaked. “My name’s Misty!” She said it with such fervor and vigor. Such joy. Such rapturous wonder that one could not help but be mystified as to why she was so excited about her own name. I’ve never been that excited about my own name. I don’t know if I’ve ever been that excited about anything in my life… and I’ve seen some cool shit. A mountain lion, for instance. That was pretty cool. I don’t know if I have ever gotten ‘Misty’ excited, though. I mean… I don’t know if I have ever gotten excited like Misty. That’s the one.

Maybe she had a thing for being named after weather conditions. That would certainly put her in a unique group, though. There aren’t a whole lot of folks named Katrina or Ike that just get stoked on weather every time they hear their name. I mean when I think of those two names, I think of displaced masses and high gas prices. Or, too a lesser extent, the great Soviet ice skating pair of the late 70’s. Maybe it’s because her name isn’t a violent weather condition; just kind of annoying. In that respect, her name was an entirely apropos moniker.

But what do I know… my last name is Bohn. I don’t really have a leg to stand on. Except for the calceneus bone… and then I guess I do. Well, two of ‘em, really.

Doubly good.