Where No One (But The Psychic Clown) Knows Your Name.Posted: October 10, 2014
Yesterday, I was enjoying a nice autumn ride in the Miata. I had the top down, my iPod plugged in to the stereo and was singing Just Say Yeah with Jackson Browne. If you guessed that Jackson was doing a better job of singing, you are right.
So Jackson and I were singing, I was driving along and taking in the scenery. Part of that scenery ended up being a sign, one of those portable ones that you slide the letters in to make a message. Yesterday, that sign’s job was to advertise an event at a local watering hole. Among the entertainment they’d booked for this event were a psychic and a clown.
Maybe I’ve Been Hasty. I Should Stop In.
I’ve never been in the place. There are bars where I belong and there are bars where I don’t. This bar falls into the second category, as do all bars that book psychics and clowns. When I imagine walking in that bar, the scene is always the same. As the door closes, the music stops and everyone stares at me. Nothing good ever happens after that.
But I can’t help being curious. Maybe, just maybe, I am what that place is missing. Perhaps it will become like my Cheers. I’ll open the door and everyone will look over and yell “Omawarisan!” The bartender will already be pouring my usual. As I take my spot at the bar, I’ll tell a quick joke about a clown and a psychic walking in to a bar.
Next week, the bar will sell t-shirts. The back of the shirts will say “So a clown and a psychic walk in to a bar…Omawarisan, 2014“.
I should give that place a try.
On The Other Hand, Maybe I Shouldn’t.
Of course, the “music stops” scenario could happen. I’d walk in and see a psychic sitting across from a big biker, a crystal ball centered on the table between them. As the music and the talking dropped off to silence, I’d hear the psychic say “…and after you and your buddies beat the daylights out of the guy with the goatee, you hand him over to the clown.” Standing in the doorway wondering if I can get back to the car fast enough, I’d look around to see a clown in the corner of the bar, finishing off a shot and a beer.
Maybe I shouldn’t give that place a try.
What if…oh, God. What if the words psychic and clown aren’t unfortunately juxtaposed by chance? What if they’ve hired a psychic clown?
“Mysterio, The Psychic Clown“, his business cards would read. “Kid’s Parties, Carnivals, Grand Openings, Beer Blasts At Sketchy Bars. Mysterio Knows You’re Creeped Out.”
Mysterio would be leaning over the table, his crystal ball and red nose aglow. The bar, silent, as the clown enters his trance and intones… “in two minutes, a guy in a red convertible is going to drive by and get stopped at the traffic light out front. Do you know why he’s not going to come in here? He thinks he’s too good to set foot in this place with the likes of you.”
Poor me. One minute, I’m sitting at a stop light singing along to Midnight Train To Georgia. The next, I’m being beaten by a drunken mob for reasons that I don’t understand. Do you know who would understand? One man, alone in the bar, watching it happen in his crystal ball. Mysterio, The Psychic Clown, laughing his insane laugh.
You’ll probably be able to answer this, even if you aren’t a psychic clown – guess someplace you won’t find me anywhere near tomorrow night.