Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967
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Posts posted by Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967
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Don't think we can enter here in the land of background checks for ammo and no home delivery.
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7 hours ago, Alpo said:
Were any of your brothers of Irish extraction?
If so they could have been hollering racism along with police brutality. (A "paddy wagon", as everyone should be aware, was originally used to take all the drunk Irish - the paddies - to the calaboso.)
Ya know... surprisingly, out of that particular bunch, I don't think there was more than a dash - if any - of Irish blood. Overall in the frat population, for sure - lots! Half-Breed Pete is a "McDermott" in real life, and heck... the Reverend J D Bucksnort looked like an oversized leprechaun hisowndangself!
Here he is later in life ~ back in the day his hair and whiskers were redder than brick! But he happened to sit out these particular escapades....
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The Friendliest Bar In Town
A WEEK HAS SEVEN DAYS. Everyone knows this. Even the hard-working, hard-studying, totally serious lads of Kappa Phi Delta. Heck… maybe especially the hard-working, hard-studying, totally serious lads of Kappa Phi Delta. And the five day period that comprised the middle part of the week, that part that separated the glorious weekends, was an especially long stretch of devotion to our labors.
And so it came to pass, either by committee proclamation, idea-osmosis, or just plain old desperation, that a determination was made that it would be in our best interests – physical, mental, and emotional – to divide this stretch of time into manageable sections. And fortunately, with thanks to Julius Caesar and his invention of the modern calendar in 46 B. C., the five-day stretch separating weekends was quite handily broken up by that most marvelous middle day, Wednesday! (Thank you, Odin!)
So, after supper and any homework that couldn’t be put off, but usually no later than 2100 (that’s nine o’clock PM), several of us would saddle up and head out to visit a known establishment, like “The Front Room” pizza parlor or “The John Barleycorn,” just around the corner. Or, if the mood struck, perhaps search out a new watering hole. And we found a few! “The Griffin,” where we were always welcomed (after the women realized we weren’t going to steal their girlfriends) and where we rescued and returned a wounded (but well anesthetized!) sergeant to Letterman Hospital, “The Cock’s Inn,” with the giant neon rooster over the door and where said sergeant dominoed several bar stools, depositing their residents onto the floor. And others.
On one particular Wednesday in ‘71, Hank, Bill “Wynuts” Wyant, Louis Quint, myself, and one or two others were packed into Hank’s ’62 T-bird. We were on the prowl. We expected to end up at one of the “established” establishments, and were headed up California Street when someone said, “Look!” Of course, we all looked where someone pointed. And there, was a simple but well-illuminated marquee, declaring the place to be “The 998 Club ~ The Friendliest Bar in Town!”
Well, Goll-ee! How could we go wrong with a place posting such a proclamation?
“Uh…Hank…?”
“Yeah Man! I see it! I’ll find us a parking place!”
He did, only a half block away, fortunately downhill from our target. Fortunately, because, although the hike up California Street was fairly steep, we would have gravity on our side when it came time to stagger back to our ride.
I’ll be dinged, but the marquee was truthful! We thoroughly enjoyed the next several hours. The staff was friendly, polite, and prompt with service; the other clients were likewise friendly. Good conversations about sports, a few games of dice (Liar’s Dice, Ship-Captain-Crew, and the like), darts, some light-hearted flirting, and general jocularity.
A note about the staff! Wynuts, Hank, and I were sitting at a small round table next to a plate-glass window, watching traffic – foot and auto – outside, enjoying our libations and all-in-all having a good time. But at one point, Hank made an exaggerated gesture and swept his drink glass off the edge of the table. Crash! And remarkably, in an instant a young serving lass had the glass, ice, and liquid cleaned up – and a fresh drink on the table. With a smile and no charge!
And all was well, until a few minutes later, most amazingly, Hank repeated the move with the same result! And again, remarkably, in an instant that young lady repeated the service, this time with an amused giggle.
No one knows why; full moon? Odd conjunction of other planets? Poltergeists? No telling. But, even more remarkably, Hank managed to send THREE MORE GLASSES crashing to the floor! Starting with drink number three, “Miss Brandy” decided to just leave the rubble on the floor. “Watch your step!” she’d say, still with a smile, as she’d plop a fresh glass in front of Hank. At least six drinks were served to the lad that night. But with most of ‘em puddled on the floor, he was sober as a judge when we returned to the frat house.
Consequently, “The 998 Club” continued to be a favored spot for a few Wednesdays. Until one… well… one somewhat of a quirky mid-week expedition.
On this particular Wednesday, for some reason I was not part of the “break-up-the-week” crew. Actually, I think I was working the swing shift at my mailroom job, and didn’t get home ‘til after midnight. For me it was a quick snack, and off to bed for some sound sleep. Until about 0330. What a racket! The revelers returned, definitely not in “silence mode.” Naturally, I had to bail out of bed to get the story. There HAD to be a story. And there was!
And after hearing the story, I must say that to this day I am appreciative of having worked that night. Much safer.
It seems that the fellas – “the usual gang of suspects,” with the addition of John “JJ” Jarvis – had set out in earnest to break up the week. And they were quite successful! The “John Barleycorn,” another dive by the waterfront, food at some time during the evening, and then someone realized that “Last Call!” was imminent at whatever pub or tavern they were at. Well, evidently, someone then offered up the observation that if they REALLY hurried, they could make it to The 998 Club in time for THEIR “Last Call.” A good idea, perhaps, but not well thought out and certainly not practical. Of course, those two factors were never an impediment to the men of Kappa Phi Delta! And with that, the fellas rushed out of whatever establishment they were in and dashed the few short blocks to the “998.”
Alas, the best laid plans and all that, they were too late. Lights were on, a few souls could be seen milling about inside, but the door was locked. Well, shucks. Now what? Naturally, the proper and logical thing to do would be to saddle up and head home – after all, Thursday would be back to jobs and school, and so some sleep would be beneficial.
Uh… nope. ‘Tain’t gonna happen. Not with these fellas! All wired up, or as my dear ol’ grandma would’ve said, “full o’ piss and vinegar.” Could NOT call it a wrap just yet – nosiree Bob!
Hank wasn’t driving this night; but he was sitting in the “shotgun” seat of whoever’s car they were in, alternating between snoozing and sipping off his ever-present flask of Old Crow stashed in his vest pocket. Bill “Wynuts” and Louis decided to hike up the street a block or two, just on the off chance that some other place might still be open.
But JJ had another idea! In the trunk of the car was a set of golf clubs. And, naturally, in the golf bag were quite a few tees and golf balls. And they just happened to be near the crest of California Street. Hmmm…
So, without further ado, JJ selected a nice driver, stuffed a few tees and a bunch of golf balls into a pocket, and set off. Finding a likely spot, he discovered that he could press a tee into the slight gap between the pavement and the cable car track. And what a perfect place to drive balls from! We never did hear if that dozen balls sent flying off into the night did any damage (fortunately, it was late enough that personal injuries were unlikely), but he later proclaimed that he’d achieved tremendous loft and incredible distance! “Dang! I’m sure I got over four hundred yards! Heck, it was so far I couldn’t even hear ‘em hit!”
At some point, Hank woke up and realized he was alone. Of course, he didn’t realize that Wynuts and Louis were on a walkabout and Jarvis was playing Arnie Palmer; he quite naturally assumed they were practicing twelve-ounce curls inside the 998 Club. So, not wanting to be left out, he decided to join ‘em. And was quite surprised to find the door locked. Shoving and rattling the knobs did nothing.
“Lemme in!” he finally shouted.
“We’re closed!” came a muffled reply from inside.
“Lemme in!” he demanded.
“We’re closed!” was repeated.
By now, ol’ Hank was getting kinda frustrated. He just KNEW that his pards were inside, enjoying “Last Call” while he was locked out.
“Dang-Blast It! LET ME IN afore I gits my shotgun and BLOWS my way in!” he blustered.
This time, there was no response. Accepting that he was not going to gain access – and having no shotgun – he wisely decided to return to the car, crawl in, sip a bit more whiskey and perhaps snooze until the fellas came out and joined him.
Meanwhile, Bill and Louis were likewise headed back to the car, where they met JJ. John stowed the golf club in the trunk, and led the others to a vantage point where he could boast of his deed. Of course, none of them could have known that the righteously alarmed proprietor of the 998 Club had in a panic called the SFPD. And the noble and gallant Men in Blue responded with alacrity!
Hank was awakened from his slumber by the somewhat noisy and garishly illuminated arrival of two carloads of San Francisco’s Finest, accompanied by an official conveyance colloquially known as a “Paddy Wagon.”
With some amazement, he watched as the enthusiastic officers descended on his three astonished and confused comrades. He slid down in his seat, barely peeking over the dashboard, and watched as the fellas were frisked, handcuffed, and unceremoniously shoved into the back of the boxy van-like truck. Instantly sobered up, he decided to move to the driver’s seat – the key was still in the ignition – and follow at a discreet distance, perhaps to render aid to the guys if possible.
Well, as luck would have it, it seems that JJ and Bill both happened to know one of the two officers manning the paddy wagon. In fact, they all thought the situation was somewhat hilarious – but they were still going to haul ‘em to the station. ‘Twas protocol, don’tcha know.
Once installed in the vehicle, the frat guys discovered they were not alone; there were three or four other drunks, who were themselves quite intrigued by the recent arrivals.
And, being Kappa Phi Delta men, our erstwhile heroes were not about to go quietly. ‘Specially since one of their “captors” happened to be a buddy.
So, after a quick discussion, they formed a plan – to wit, the three of ‘em started shouting, “Police brutality! Help! Help! Police Brutality!” and began rocking the wagon from side to side. And hollered the louder! Not to be outdone, the officers in front decided to reciprocate by swerving the wagon as violently as they could without toppling the tall vehicle or crashing into something – tree, curb, cars…
By the time the wagon approached the police station, the other drunks had all gotten into the spirit of the event and they had a regular chorus going.
“Police Brutality! Police Brutality! Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! Sooo-eeee! Sooo-eeee! Sooo-eeee!” repeated again and again, with the prisoners all swaying in unison.
When the vehicle arrived at the station, the other officers on duty were surprised to see their comrades exit the front, laughing uproariously, with a drunken choir cheerfully and exuberantly providing an unexpected but loud and melodic chant which, although offensive in words, was in reality terrific comedy. Especially with the one extremely gay drunk singing in a tinkling falsetto.
Well, all in all, it was a good-natured “arrest.” It was ultimately established that none of the fellas in capture had grumbled the threat at the door of the 998 Club; indeed, it was decided that everyone hauled in would be released if they could find transportation. And, of course, in short order Hank arrived – with no one the wiser of him being the catalyst of the evening’s topper.
Sadly, though, we all felt it prudent to scratch the 998 Club off our Wednesday list. And that was too bad, really… ‘cuz, on balance, it truly was “The Friendliest Bar in Town!”
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1 hour ago, Subdeacon Joe said:
Sweathogs...!
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Slightly un-PC. Perhaps.
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12 hours ago, Sedalia Dave said:
I bought a couple of lots of reloading equipment over the last year and in going through all of it I found the lure in a ziplock bag along with a duck call, a large Old Timer two bladed folder that has definitely seen better days and a bunch of other misc stuff.
Treasure~!!
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10 minutes ago, Sedalia Dave said:
Are you still duck hunting?
Alas, haven't been in years. Mebbe I came to my senses...?
"Back in the day," I was a duck-hunting fool. Belonged a the then-affordable club in Northern California. The Richmond Hunting Club was literally run out of Smitty's Barber Shop in Richmond, with leases around Colusa and other areas in the north valley. Shot LOTS of ducks, geese, pheasants, quail, mebbe a rabbit or three... good times.
Also used to shoot on a lot of refuges. I think that's what finally caused me to "come to my senses...!" Drive for hours to spend the night in one of two lines: the reservation line if I'd been lucky enough to be drawn for a reservation, or the "sweat line" if not. For the latter, I'd get there the afternoon before to get a decent spot in the 'first come, first served' line to get in without a reservation.
Anyway... very little and poor sleep in line, wake up at 0330, get checked in, drive like hell, hike a half-mile to a mile in the dark carrying a huge bag o' decoys, set up a blind, put out the decoys - and wait for dawn. Then, blow my duck calls and maybe get a few shots for an hour or so and it's all over.
When my son, Sassparilla Kid, was eight or nine, he announced that he wanted to be a duck hunter. My heart sank. So... I signed him up for Hunter Safety Class, and he became a duck hunter. For a while. I will admit that I enjoyed taking him out, and he got some ducks. And pheasants. And doves! When he was ten I got him a lifetime hunting license for Christmas.
But no ducks for a while... they're safe. However, that reminds me! We're only seven weeks 'til opening of dove season!
This bein' california, I better start saving up for my license and ammunition - required to use lead-free here now; thirty bucks or so a box... ammunition background check fee... dang. 
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Dangit, Dave... you need to go fishing! That'll give ya somethin' to do 'til duck season starts!
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A simple, but effective call...
I had one for many years; it wasn't expensive by any means, but worked well. Well enough that someone borrowed it from me and that was the last I ever saw of it. Best "chuckler" ever!
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Danged thing won't let me see the recipe... er... "receipt," Joe! - unless I download and install some odd application I've never heard of.
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3 minutes ago, watab kid said:
im having trouble comprehending that with over a hundred dead we still have over 170 missing , this is a terrible disaster
That picture of the buried pickup truck is an indication that many, if not most, of those missing may never be found.
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On 7/10/2025 at 9:41 PM, Rooster Ron Wayne said:
That was the main reason I never went to it .
I have just stuck with Unique for 99% of my loading for all these years .
And that has even been hard to come by so I'm told .
I still have about 8pnds of it for now .
Rooster, if you have eight pounds of Unique on hand you are wealthy indeed!
Long a favorite of mine ~ I hope to live long enough to see its return.
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11 minutes ago, Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967 said:
There was an old argument that women outlived men 'cuz they didn't have wives....
7 minutes ago, Injun Ryder, SASS #36201L said:Be interesting to study that now!
Uh... could lead to a danger of one's head exploding.
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Why "ZEBCO...?"
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There was an old argument that women outlived men 'cuz they didn't have wives....
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Dang... and I thought it was ME~!
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Somebody's uncle work for Glock...? 🙄
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18 hours ago, Forty Rod SASS 3935 said:
I'd like to see how those would fit into ANY military aircraft except big cargo haulers. They're about as useful as a barb wire jock strap.
The only way that outfit would ever get aboard an aircraft would be in luggage.
But the boots are kinda cool. And on a sunny or rainy day you could un-pin the hat and camp under it.
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Norfolk still won, 9 - 5.
Go TIDES~!
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Angel wings....?
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24 minutes ago, Whitey James said:
Had another episode while I was driving on the interstate Sunday. Just having a normal conversation with the wife and out of nowhere my heart started racing and I felt like I couldn't catch my breath. Had to get off at the next exit ramp and let her drive the rest of the way home. I swear there is no rhyme or reason to them. If you knew what triggered them you could avoid the triggers. My appointment is Wednesday the 16th. I'm sure I'll be put back on beta blockers. I swear I am convinced that this is jab related. Never had a problem with BP or any heart related issues until then.
There are indeed indications that the vaccine could have led to it with some folks. But with my high risk for respiratory issues I opted for the "jab;" I would likely have not survived Covid.
My AFIB "triggers" seem to be poor or missed sleep, and caffeine. And stress.
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20 minutes ago, Rip Snorter said:
That hole is also a rest for a wooden spoon!
I've heard that... mine don't fit!
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Good topic!
Thinkin' back to my teen days - don't recall if the tip came from some old timer or if I read it in Field & Stream (anyone remember "Tap's Tips?"
)... but on the topic of cleanup: "See that hole in the skillet's handle? Tie a line to that handle and toss that skillet into the lake. But be sure to tie the other end to something first! Anyhoo, when ya reel it in to cook breakfast, it'll be clean!"
Danged if it wasn't! Dunno what "grazed" on the scrapings; don't know if I want to know ~ but it sure made skillet cleanup easy!
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I remember the first time I ever seen her !
in SASS Wire Saloon
Posted
Durn ya, Rooster... I now have a drool-soggy keyboard!
To make it easier, here's the link: Drool-Worthy