That's Doctor Redneck to You!

Oh honey. The South is alive and well. It’s living in a bar off M-72! Turns out there are Rednecks on this side of the Mason-Dixon, too! Their boots aren’t as pointy but their trucks are just as tall!

When I asked what beer was on draft, my choices were Bud, Bud Lite, Blatz and PBR.  I went with the house Merlot. The waitress laughed in my face but returned with a stem filled to the brim with wine.  A clue, perhaps…

I clunked crystal with my pals, Sharon Chardonnay and Ivana Shiraz. All I can say is there is a shriveled bag inside a box somewhere under that bar. Lesson learned. We switched to Blatz – which was much smoother. Ouch.

Still, cerebral lubrication was required. So, down the hatch!

Open Mic Nights are always a delicate balance of talent, charisma and balls. I’ve found you get more bang for your Bud Lite from the balls and charisma. Betting on the talent is pretty darn tricky.

I usually put my money on the guy with the longest ponytail, nursing the cheapest beer with the most boogered up instrument. On this particular Thursday, I had several choices in that category. It was clear I was going to have to add a few more parameters.

The thing about Rednecks – be they sunburned in the South or snow-blasted Up North – is that you never know if the ZZ Top lookin’ dude with the mandolin just crawled out of his cave in the mountain side or is a brain surgeon.

I was leaning toward brain surgeon because the MC introduced every picker as “Doctor SoandSo”.  A closer look at the Fingernail Situation told me none of these guys was gonna doctor any part of my SoandSo. Again with the “Ouch”.

So I started judging by their Get Ups. Their costumes. Stage Attire. I mean, you know you’re getting up in front of a bunch of people who will be focused solely on you, right? Mmmmmm…not so much. They were all very authentic. Focused on their craft. We’ll leave it at that.

Country boys, in general, love ‘em some plaid. I’ve seen some dern dang hot little cowboys with thermal undershirts under their plaid flannel, tight Wranglers with symbolically big belt buckles and buttery leather boots.

I did not see that guy last Thursday. I didn’t even see that guy’s second cousin.

Here’s what I did see. A five-piece combo of dads and granddads pickin’ and grinnin’ fit to kill. An angel faced bass player a full twelve inches shorter than his instrument. A full-gray longhaired, longer bearded dude with a hot pink guitar who had me jumping up to hug his neck. Three very classy women gingerly sipping wine. (oh wait, that was us) and one full-on Glee Wanna Be in a sailor shirt.

This bar could be in Wapanucka, Oklahoma, Kalamazoo, Michigan or Podunk, New York. All comers’ welcome! It’s a refreshing slice of Americana that makes us all feel just a little bit more normal. Need that – love that!

Can I hear a "Hell Yeah!"??