Roundup at the Corral

People watching is a sport I've always enjoyed. It's why I don't mind taking the train, subway, or the bus to go places. The huge variations in the human species never cease to fascinate me and I always seem to meet interesting people, especially on GO buses. While we all, for the most part, have the same fingers and toes, the way we behave, percieve and live can seem SO vastly different. I'm not making value judgments, I just find it fascinating to watch.

Now I've mentioned that we live in a white bread city before, and when I describe it that way I truly mean it. While it's apparently one of the fastest growing areas in all of Canada, it's never shaken the "unsophisticated, bottom feeder filled boring city" image. We ended up here because we both got jobs here, and it certainly has its advantages - close to the city, my parents, and housing is way more affordable.

Last night we decided to venture out with a group of Dave's work colleagues to hit one of the local, and evidently legendary bars in town. This, in keeping with the above description, was not a bar where "shaken or stirred" were ever uttered. It was your stereotypical roadside country music bar where the music was hurtin' and the patrons looked to be hurtin' as well. We had never been there but heard the people-watching opportunities were fantastic. We were not disappointed.

We paid the cover (there was a live band playing who were pretty good, even if the music they played wasn't my scene) and we collectively tried to keep our lower jaws from dropping.

A colleague of Dave's and I had a punch-buggy like game we worked out before arriving: whoever spotted the mullet first could punch the other in the arm. Had the spectacle of the whole evening not been so distracting it's quite likely we'd be the first people ever hospitalized for playing such a game. As it were, there were simply far too many people for us to gawk at beyond the plentiful mullet-set crowd.

There was, however one mullet so worthy of mention I cannot pass her by. This one was dyed straw blonde. In the front it was a Farrah Fawcett flip, only it was cut short, more like granny hair flipped back at the sides and helmeted with a liberal spraying of hairspray The "party" section in the back was fairly unremarkable, straight, with an obvious curling-iron flip under at the bottom. It was just long enough to reach the back of her skintight leopard print tank top which was trimmed with black lace. It was clear that this woman, likely in her late forties (if I'm being generous), had spent a great deal of time creating just such a look.

And it had paid off. She had managed, that night, to rope a short man with black hair, who was balding and sporting a black and white bowling shirt. I would guess he was a few years her junior. I think he was wearing a few gold chains but I'm not sure; that detail may just be my imagination running away with me. Their moves on each other on the dance floor fascinated me in a car-accident like fashion. I could not help but look. If ever it were possible to get pregnant (aside from age issues, of course) by dancing, this lady would surely be knocked up.

Our best-dressed candidate for the night who was a cougar, likely in her late thirties cutting up the dance floor sporting a short, high waisted denim skirt, black opaque tights, footwear I can't remember, and a black body suit on her upper half, covered over by a flannel grey and black plaid shirt, tied jauntily just below her breasts. To top it off I think she wore a light coloured cowboy hat which may have belonged to her gentleman-caller. Together they seemed to pace from the dance floor to their table constantly. One song would be over and they would head back, only to turn around to dance through the next one.

Another couple, likely in their early fifties (or later) chonologically, but in their teen years judging by their Public Displays of Affection swung around the dance floor the whole night, the beads from the ties around on their cowboy hats swinging as they made their moves on each other. They seemed truly in love and completely unaware there was anyone in the bar but them.

The cougar sighting opportunities were excellent as well. There were gaggles of men closer to my age who came together as a pack and (audibly) picked out their next cougar target. One couple I wasn't sure was a cougar situation until I met her in the bathroom where it was clear to me she was much older than I had realized. She wore clothes I think of myself as being too old to wear and more for the prostitot and teen set than someone in their late twentites.

A good time was had by all, even if our good time was, in part found in our fascinations about other people.