Gypsy jazz and the Shorthorn.

Though we did end up going, I gotta say, gypsy jazz is a bit of a misnomer. It was neither gypsy nor jazz, but more like old-person lounge. Which is not to say I didn’t like it. I did. It just wasn’t the raucous, scarf-wielding, accordion-pumping mêlée I had been lead to expect. I saw no gold teeth. No pantaloons. No petty thievery. In fact, it was all very civil. Very highbrow. Something we immediately remedied by proceeding directly to the Shorthorn.

Wednesdays at the Shorthorn mean one thing: karaoke. Except they prefer the more exotic spelling of k-a-r-o-a-k-e. Kate and I have been talking about going to the Shorthorn for years. Seasoned in the ways of big city bars, we thought it almost criminal that we had never been to any of our local, hometown establishments. My Dad, however, was not so keen on the idea. In fact, he was convinced we’d get shot. I’m not quite sure how he arrived at this conclusion, but he was pretty adamant about it. Which, of course, just served to pique our curiosity even more.

But for all its reputation of drunken violence, the Shorthorn was also quite civil. Though there were substantially fewer teeth distributed amongst its patrons than those of gypsy jazz, the patrons themselves were really rather charming. A very large Native American man politely introduced himself to us and let us know that, should we need a beverage, he would be more than happy to oblige. He then hobbled off on his prosthetic leg to the dance floor where he showed off his moves to the tune of Eye of the Tiger.

All were very supportive of my rendition of Chantilly Lace.

When we got home, I think Dad was almost a little bit disappointed that neither of us had been shot, stabbed, or otherwise maimed—he does enjoy proving a point. And I think that we, too, were a little disappointed that nothing more than a poorly played game of pool and a few watery beers went down. A good bar fight could have been quite interesting. There’s always next visit, I guess. However, I think since the Shorthorn turned out to be completely dead—and not in the promised rigormortis way—we’re going to check out the ghetto bar in the next town over instead. It (the bar, not the town) is called the Caribou. Or “the Boo” to those in the know. And I desperately want to be in the know.