By: Angela Gillaspie © 2002
(Note that this was written back in 2002!)

It has been quite a few years since my husband and I have been on the bar scene. We are in our late thirties and most of our wild hairs have atrophied and fallen out -- having four kids can do that to you. But every now and then, we travel to my hometown near Dalton, Georgia and trick my unsuspecting parents into babysitting the kids while we venture out. Sometimes we visit a couple of the local bars in the hopes that we might see some old friends. Over the past seventeen years that I have been legal to purchase alcohol, I have noticed that some things about the bar scene have changed.

The form of entertainment has changed, for one. Today lots of bars have karaoke. For those who have been on your porches for the past ten or so years, karaoke involves a disc jockey that plays just the background music to songs. The words to the song are displayed on a large screen so that any bar patron could grab a microphone and sing "Yer Havin' (hic) My Baaaabeeee . . ."

What's the attraction? Legal human torture.

The first time I witnessed karaoke, I sat spellbound and embarrassed on my vinyl chair. With a deep blush rising, I asked my sister, herself a veteran karaoke singer, "Uh, does that girl singing know how bad she sounds?"

"Oh, that's nuthin', just wait 'til my buddy Jim gets up there and sings 'Stand By Yer Man'," she replied. I waved to the waitress for another draft because I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

Actually, the night went by pretty fast because after a couple of drafts, I felt as if I should be working for Rolling Stone magazine. I nodded to my husband after a lady with frosted pink lipstick and big red hair sang 'Born to Be Wild', "Yeah, she was a little flat on the chorus, but I'll give her a six for staying on key." He would sigh and look at his watch.

One thing about the bar experience that hasn't changed much in the past couple of decades is the bar rats. Keep in mind that the bars that I frequented were tucked away in a very rural area in North Georgia. The ladies still wear their skin-tight blue jeans, but instead of seeing shiny shirts or the halter tops of years ago, you see cut-off Red Man brand tobacco tee shirts and tight sweaters. The men's honky-tonkin' wardrobe hasn't enjoyed significant updates either. They wear NASCAR tee shirts and faded jeans with a Skoal can imprint on the left back pocket.

Sitting in the bar that night with my husband, I noticed another thing that has remained the same is the expressions on people's faces when they are dancing. What is that? Pain? Joy? What are they thinking?

"Wow, my underwear is really crawling tonight!" Or, "Oh baby, don't love my sexy Elvis snarl?" Or, it might be, "If you step on my foot one more time I'm gonna slap yew!" When I dance, I usually think, "I wish this song would hurry and get over 'cuz I gotta pee!"

The strangest dancing face (or dance, for that matter) I remember seeing was when I was about eighteen and visited some friends in Crossville, Tennessee. We went to a little bar that was frequented by the biker type of bar rat. As we sat there sipping our various beverages, I noticed this guy on the dance floor who appeared to be in severe distress. His face was completely contorted as he looked down, stomped his right foot at intervals having no discernable connection to the music's beat, and ignored all three hundred and fifty pounds of his dance partner. I seriously thought he was attempting to kill a bug and needed help, so I got up and walked toward the man.

One of my Crossville friends grabbed my arm and hustled me back to my seat whispering, "Up here, we don't go near guys like that. Take another look at the woman he's dancin' with. She can whup yer skinny butt in two seconds flat!" I tried to explain that I was just trying to assist in a critter killin' but my friend managed to convince me that I'd be the only critter killed. I wonder if that bar does karaoke nowadays, or has perhaps hired an exterminator.

Going out to bars is a rare thing for me these days. With four kids, it's hard to find a babysitter that wouldn't cost as much as a second mortgage, plus I worry that my dear husband may decide to start dipping Skoal. Or what if I start getting uncontrollable urges to wear cut-off Red Man brand tobacco tee shirts and make a dancin' face while I'm coaching youth soccer? The horror. I'm much more at home in my own backyard than in a bar.

So gather 'round all you redneck mothers! Other soccer, Girl Scout and Peewee Football moms and dads come join me for a glass of sweet tea or a cold one out on my deck. I could show off the dog's new "beer fetching" trick. My husband could flip the T-bones and rant with the menfolk about how high the water bill was this past month. The kids will cover each other up in the sandbox and we redneck mothers will make a dancin' face as we sing our parodies of the Backward Boys or N'Stink.

Stay tuned for more SouthernAngel's redneck tales!