Tour de Brazos

Before I get to my Friday night, here is Jen’s Weekly Live Music Calendar for the Brazos.

Do It All!!

Now, ON TO THE SHOW….

Friday night, Babafa and I ventured into the great unknown.  Here is our night as told through extensively explained pictures…

We caught Brady Brown (left) and Matt Mathis (right) playing some acoustic jams at Shady’s Porch Pub in Angleton.

I forgot my fucking camera, so I used my awesome telephoto lens and tripod for my iphone.

Here we are, minding our own business, and I spot a heavily engraved note in a post across from us that reads, “N8 FN KENNEMER <3’S YOU”.  We know N8 FN KENNEMER, so we were heartwarmed with the greeting.  (Not “heartwormed” mind you.)  N8 lives days away from us and we haven’t made the time to visit him when he comes through town, so seeing that he “<3’s” me pulled at my heartstrings.

After a few beers, we bounced over to Cooter Brown’s in Brazoria.  Once we parked, we heard an amazing guitarist rolling out Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” across the street at Buster’s, so we ditched Cooter’s for the time being and went to see what was going on.  It was a cute little two person group called 2 Smooth and they were awesome and awesomely talented!  The female of the group is Marlo and we chatted non-stop during her break.  I love good talkers.  So sweet!  I can’t wait to see them again!

Then I got all Yoko Ono and forced myself between them.

This ended up being my favorite stop of the night and it wasn’t even on our agenda (what little agenda we had).  For one, the bartender at Buster’s put those sexy zip up coozies on our beers.  That’s enough reason to come back, right there.

Also, this bar defines “small town”.  You can tell by the donation jar for Liz.  It reads:

“LIZ NEEDS DENTAL WORK.

IF SHE DOESN’T RAISE ENOUGH MONEY,

SHE’LL LOSE ALL HER BOTTOM TEETH.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP.”

We donated a solid dollar bill y’all.  We can’t let Liz lose no more teeth!!

We finally made it over to Cooter Brown’s to see what Mach I had in store for us.  Here’s Mark Mach of Mach I.

The place was dead, though.  Like 10 people in a place that holds like 200.  They have such a nice bar, it’s a shame it goes to waste on the absence of people.  It should be shoulder to shoulder in here, especially since they regularly hire live bands and don’t resort to karaoke three times a weekend like other places. 

Maybe it’s the sign on the door that says “DRESS CODE STRICTLY ENFORCED”, which it totally fucking isn’t.  I once witnessed a dude in there wearing a fucking camo shirt with the sleeves cut off, fucking flip flops, and a motherfucking visor.  What the fuck does the dress code restrict exactly?! 

Or it could be the pig that sits outside the door that turns people off.  He may open the door for you, but then he walks around to the register and runs your driver’s license to make sure he can’t arrest you right away.  Then he makes you sign a form for a completely fucking useless “Membership Card”.  Then he’ll charge you a cover if there is one.  Then he’ll stand inside the door and watch you put down your first shot of Hot Damn and every beer after that.  Who is the asshole that hired a fucking chaperone for adults?  Whoever it is, I hate them. 

You know what?  I hate this place, now that I think about it.  I’m sure it won’t stop me from going again to see bands, but F THEM IN THE FN A WITH A FN D FOR FN UP A KICKASS BAR!!!

After one shot and one beer, we skipped over to Bay City to see Jo Hell at the Neon Moon.  I may have mixed up the dates, but Jo Hell was nowhere to be found.  There were a lot of gays and lesbians, which we both love, so we still had a great time.

Plus, they serve this Johny Bootlegger Apple Shots, which is a headache in a bottle, but I was too shloppy to care by that point, so I drank it.

To cap off the night, we ran to Southbound 35 in Old Ocean to see if we could catch a good fight.  This place is like our very own Road House.  When it comes to bar fights, there are three types of people:

Type 1:  You’re looking to fight somebody.  Anybody will do.  Why are you looking at me funny?!

Type 2:  You’re the mediator.  You can talk sense into any drunk asshole out there, and when you don’t you may get an elbow to the eye from a loading punch and you may even have to stick around to tell the cops who was right who started it all, but it makes for a good story you can tell over and over and over later until our ears bleed.

Type 3:  You’re the spectator.  You’re not a fighter.  You don’t want to get in the middle.  But it’s awesome as fuck to sit back and watch all the action and take a drink every time a punch is thrown.

Which one do you think I am?

 I’m a Type 3, and I got what I asked for.  A big shirtless buttcrack-showing dude picked a fight with a bigger guy and pushed the bigger dude on the ground.  Then buttcrack made four air punches right in front of the bigger dude’s face and then they were both too out of breath to proceed any further.  It was the lamest fight I’ve ever seen.  Big dudes always build it up for half an hour and then let us all down.  It’s them little fuckers that come out of nowhere to get scrappy and someone always goes home with a bloody nose.  I caught this fight after the dramatic build up and in the climax of the stare down.

Then we went home and slept like babies.

So that’s our night in pictures.  Sorry to cut this so short.  Bahaha!  If you’re still with me this far, CHEERS TO YOU!!  YOU DESERVE A DRINK!! 

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