Ugh. Heather’s sneezy and SO very unhappy. We’ve spent the last couple of days relaxing and taking it easy; a weekend offset by 24 hours. Unfortunately, I think Heather’s body took that as a sign that the world was slowing down and it could relax its guard. She’s got unholy amounts of mucous worthy of Excorcist 4: the Snottening. I’m washing my hands, taking vitamins, dodging sneezes and feeling Hellishly guilty that we’re still out and playing. I’ve offered to go solo, but she’s hanging firm. I’m worried about tomorrow’s gig though.
Last night, as the Cold from Hell hung over her head, menacing and dripping, we drove into St. Louis to play the Venice Cafe’s open mic, to advertise for Wednesday night’s show. Squinting through the pouring rain and worrying for missed turns, we meander our way through the shining streets and pull up in front of the most amazing bar I’ve ever seen… (wait a minute… let me think about… nope… can’t think of a more visually eclectic and an amazing spot… Victoria Station is beautiful and elegant… there have been many places with amazing bars or amazing tables… but I can’t think of one that’s overall just so visually overwhelming, exciting… you’ll get lots of pictures). Neon and stone and mosaics cover every available surface in an aggragate decor that has taken almost two decades to accumulate.
We roll into an almost completely empty bar and (harbringer of doom to come?) are informed that the open mic was cancelled because the host had gotten sick. Heather and I have just doubled the population of the bar, and if this had been just about any other place I’d been pretty angry at myself for not calling ahead (Hell, I’d talked to someone about it as of 4 in the afternoon!) – but the Venice is well worth the visit, and I’m so grateful to Joshua of the Loyal Family for having hooked us up with the gig. This place is amazing.
Heather and I get to talking to the bartender, a black-haired woman who goes by the moniker (I can’t quite get myself to say “named”) Danger – an ex-geneticist who worked on the Human Genome Project who’s just completed mortuary school and is now working days in a morgue making bodies presentable.
An old man leans over at around this point and leers and says “Baby, I want you to embalm ME.” I don’t know how women SURVIVE being bartenders.
In any case, she tells tales of the people she’s worked on and worked with, some of the thinking behind expensive coffins and she shares whiskey recipes she’s imported from Ireland. I wonder if bartenders are GLAD to tell THEIR stories every once in a while…
