I'm at a really small dirt bar called The Maple Room right now drinking with my older brother and listening to some drunk guy sing "Friends In Low Places".
Welcome to California, right?
See, I call this place "the dirt bar" because it's the bar equivalent of the crappy mall in Malrats, what one character lovingly calls the dirt mall. Well, this right here is the dirt bar.
The people are nice. They're nice enough, I guess.
I am exhausted.
See, bars close at 1am in Arizona. In California they close at 2am. A-a-a-a-a-and there's a one hour difference between Arizona and California now. So, technically, to me this bar closes at three am. And I am still exhausted from the 20-something hours that it took to get here. But my brother said I HAD to come to this place. The people are nice and they have karaoke most nights. Still, it's almost midnight for me right now.
So here we are.
What's with me and writing near midnight?
Let me tell you why this experience is freaking me out: I absolutely cannot believe how much this places looks like the little dirt bar that we used to go to back in Glendale when we all lived there and life was grand. That crappy hole on the ground on like 35th and Union Hills right next to the bowling alley. THAT crappy place looked just like THIS place! Seriously, the only difference is that here the bar is against the left side instead of the right side. Other than that its the same sad faces singing the same sad songs.
What is with my brother and dirtbars?
Fuck this place.
I want to sing a metal version of Britney Spears. Knock these fucks on their asses.