Last updated on 2/1/2023
We’ve had the big overview, now for the in-depth experience. Last in the series, I swear.
I’d been warned about Bob’s Garage before, how it was a funky little place that decorated heavily for every minor holiday. But as usual, even the best description is no substitute for being there.
I winged right by it the first time. It’s on a main drag, but I knew I’d missed it because the outside was covered in strands of white Christmas lights even though it was deep into February. Turning around, I got the whole picture.
Apparently, it was a real garage for many years. The construction was that of an Amish barn, solid foot-square posts and a single layer of thick plank siding, all blackened darker than Cajun catfish by years of exhaust and leaking petroleum by-products. The owners have wisely chosen to go with the flow, decorating with automotive remnants. Wooden-spoked steering wheels and antique headlights grace the walls. Various wrenches and license plates and Quaker State Oil signs hang from the ceiling. I’m sure I saw a Model A radiator cover — those are worth big $$$!
But even these authentic rusted relics are not enough to disguise the greasy origins of the place, so they have hit on the strategy of wildly over-decorating, like most people do for Christmas or Halloween. When I was there, the theme was still Winter, so every surface, vertical or otherwise, was covered with icicles and snowflakes and tinsel and strands of white twinkle-lights. I get the feeling if you had a few too many and conked out on your stool, you just might wake up and find yourself covered with crepe paper. I’m told that for Christmas and St Patrick’s Day (another thing they seem to take very seriously around here, every place I went was covered with shamrocks and green stuff), I “just have to be there!” to believe it.
It was one of those crowded noisy places that everyone likes to hit on Saturday night. The barman was working up a yeoman sweat, and we barely managed to elbow our way to the last corner table. What was this? Some kind of a notebook had been left there for us, it seemed. Was it the history of Bob’s Garage? An abridged Civil War anthology? (They are big on the Civil War there, it being one of the historical borderline states) No, it turned out we were there on karaoke night, and it was a large selection of songs with which to humiliate ourselves publicly.
Now ordinarily, the mention of karaoke makes me groan. Sitting through an evening of sozzled partiers droning resolutely off-key to songs I used to like is not my idea of high entertainment. I guess it’s more fun to get up there and do it than it is to sit there and endure it. But once more, I was in for a surprise in this little oddball place. For it turned out that all the people who got up and took the mike could ACTUALLY SING!
I’m not the biggest fan of country music in the world, but a little redhead in a white jumpsuit got up and belted out a twangy song with a yodel that brought tears to my eyes and made me fling my beer bottle across the room. The next guy did ‘Baba O’Reilly’ by the Who, then there was a Blood Sweat and Tears number, and THEN… a totally ordinary blue-collar lookin’ guy got up and wowed the place with the old Motown hit, “God Bless You (You Make Me Feel Brand New)”. I think it was by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, sue me if I’m wrong, but the guy nailed every high note.
We all started looking at each other cross-eyed. There had to be something wrong here, it was just too weird that all these people could sing so well. A guy in a leisure suit even did a nice job with the old Sinatra chestnut “Summer Wind.” Maybe it was a new type of super-karaoke machine that somehow made everyone sound great. Maybe it was one too many Penn Pilseners. Or had we stumbled into some seductive trap from which we would never escape?
I asked the Motown guy, “Are you some kind of pro? You did a really nice job with that song.”
“Nope!” sez he cheerfully, “just a guy who digs the oldies.”
Just a guy, go figure. Then it started getting a little too late. Fonzie showed up, leather jacket and all. A blonde fell off a barstool. And finally, a mere mortal took the stage and sang like most of us do, which is to say — a little flat here, a little sharp there, but on the average just right. The spell was broken and we knew our magical musical evening had come to an end.
I wonder if I want to go back there. Did you ever have a really great time the first time you went somewhere and then it just never measured up after that? I don’t know what could ever happen there that could top this surprising evening. I think I’ll leave it just the way it is, a story that makes me laugh with every telling.
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