It's not always about the music out there in Lonesome, Onry and Mean's world.
For instance, two nights ago we drove to west Houston near the I-10/Beltway 8 intersection to hear local bluesman John McVey & the Stumble play at a cool little venue called the Brittmoore Ice House. This fine establishment is located on Brittmoore, an industrial street populated by warehouses, diesel rigs, and the usual Houston mishmash of industrial concerns: Electrical contractors, mechanics, plumbers.
As several patrons kindly pointed out, the ice house draws from the businesses along Brittmoore and from the surrounding working-class community. LOM would describe patrons as the ballcap crowd, and we aren't talking about UT or A&M frat boys who dig Pat Green and Cory Morrow.
After listening to McVey's amped-up boogie for half an hour, we noticed one ballcapper make his way to a woman who was sitting alone a few chairs over from us. Soon they were the only couple dancing, and it went from dancing to dirty dancing pretty quickly. But it was all going fine until Mr. Suave decided he'd rub his partner's butt real good as she passed in one of her diva-dervish loops.
Well, she wasn't putting up with that, and after a brief chewing of Mr. Suave's ass, she sat down. Not to give up easily, Suave tried to sweet talk her back to the floor but was sternly rebuffed. He retreated to the back of the bar where several lively pool games were occupying most of the men in the room. And after a few more songs, the band took a break.
When the band fired back up, Suave sallied forth to give it the old bygones-be-bygones college try again. He approached in a wide arc of stealth and surveillance until he wormed his way to her side and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head sternly.
And it was at this point where the magic reporters live for happened. Suave backed up one step, threw his arms out in a theatrical pleading pose, and enunciated, for the entire bar to hear, the greatest pickup line since Phil Alvin talked to that woman with one red rose on her black dress:
We Believe Local Journalism is Critical to the Life of a City
Engaging with our readers is essential to the mission of the Houston Press. Make a financial contribution or sign up for a newsletter, and help us keep telling Houston’s stories with no paywalls.
Support Our Journalism
"What do you want? You want a diamond? You want a motorcycle? You want a horse?"
He pronounced it hawrse. Yeah, we know; you can't make this stuff up.