(Part One of Two Parts. No matter how much I emended this, I couldn't quite squeeze it into one section. I imagine a lot of you have similar problems?)
Okay, I know I’m not really a journalist. And ... about the only time the word ‘ace’ is appended to my name is when someone (rather churlishly, I do believe) mentions a brand of bandage he’d like to adhere to my big, yappy mouth.
To pool …
Well, one aside:
My friend Fifi and I did not, despite numerous and boisterous encouragements, participate in any Wet T-Shirt Competitions during our entire week at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. (Where we were ensconced in the charmingly named Buffalo Chip Campground. The Chip, for short.)
Rally reportage to follow.
Pool ... Rapid City, South Dakota:
For those of you unfamiliar with this surprisingly (to me) gorgeous state, it’s west of Chicago, a little south of Canada and way before you arrive in San Francisco. You are most welcome!
Fifi and I began our little pool odyssey with an admittedly lame homage-attempt to SVB. A couple of Rapid (which is what the natives call Rapid City) locals directed us to the site where Shane’s family had once owned a pool hall. And where, supposedly, Shane spent some considerable time learning, practicing, playing, practicing, winning, practicing.
(I do suspect that, perhaps, those locals may have been putting Fifi and me on. Don’t you detest it ever so much when innocents abroad are hornswoggled?)
The SVB family room, if indeed that’s where it was, was in back of, and sort of below, a liquor store in a little strip mall. The street -- Jackson if I remember the name -- was really torn up because of some sort of construction project.
(Apparently the SVB family has owned more than one pool hall in Rapid. The Jackson Street venue is the only one Fifi and I sought out.)
We then journeyed to Johnny’s Billiards located in a nondescript section of town in a nondescript pod mall. A handful of Diamonds, not very kempt, and a similar number of bar boxes. Not exactly shoddy, but not very well maintained.
It was $16 for a couple of afternoon hours. And, we were the only customers. Not the only players, the only customers.
Lackluster.
Next, and last, Break Room Billiards.
BRB is near downtown Rapid and is, I think, affiliated with a casino.
A half dozen or so Diamonds and a few bar boxes.
The Diamond that Fifi and I engaged, without triumph, was in great shape -- clean, well-maintained -- and it rolled accurately. (Unfortunately, the level at which she and I play … well, let me admit it thusly … roll-offs are as apt to help us as to hurt us.)
Not very many house cues … I guess most players take their own?
Rates? When we were there, it was $6 per player from when they opened to early evening. Per player, not per hour. Total tab: $12, plus tip. (Hmm … for some reason this reminds me of NYC car service rates to the airports. Do make sure that the quoted price includes the three T’s -- taxes, tips and tolls!)
Break Room Billiards also has a connected and self-enclosed space with 15-20 bar boxes. A friendly girl practicing on the table next to us explained that that particular room was for league play. Which, apparently in Rapid, a town of 70,000 or so, is fairly robust. There are about 90 teams in the area, maybe 30 or so of them girls, and they play three nights a week.
(Quixotic query: could a pool league form a consortium for its non-insured members to garner group rates on health insurance? Just wondering … the health insurance premiums I pay for my co-workers can fluctuate for any number of reasons.)
Back at BRB ... I asked, circumspectly, (hey, Discretion is my Middle Name!), about SVB. No, not because he’s single. And kind of cute. And I’m currently … well, never mind about all of that!
Fifi and I were told that SVB has moved to another town called Sioux Falls (also in South Dakota). Somewhere in South Dakota. Listen, Google it if you’re all that curious. Who am I, Ms. Geography?).
But, yes, Shane does visit his family back in Rapid from time to time, especially around the holidays. And occasionally comes into BRB to shoot some pool. And, the consensus seems to be, that his persona dovetails with reality ... he is, all in all, a nice guy.
Well, there you have it.
Road pool is my life,
Sunny
P. S. For those of you who are ‘pool-only’ readers, now might be a good time to ... well, stop reading!
P. P. S. Decency. Defended!
As I share the following mini-travelogue on Sturgis and nearby environs, I won’t -- being appropriately sensitive to the innocence and chastity of ever so many of you forum lads -- stumble into any lurid details re: the bike rally.
Example? I shall refrain from sharing the all-too-vivid depictions of the girls’ hot dog-swallowing contest at the Full Throttle Saloon, located next to the Chip. Other than to admit a certain reluctant admiration at the talent displayed therein.
P. P. P. S. Let Me Invite You Into The Sturgis Bike Rally ...
As many of you are aware, I prefer to keep my posts brief and au point. And so I shall in this instance.
However, since edification is in my plasma, I would be remiss not to share with you several of my impressions of our South Dakota adventures.
Backstory.
My friend Fifi has a rather satisfactory boyfriend, Knuckles. I’m a pretty astute observer of boyfriends (hey, I used to have one, I should know from that!) and Knuckles is a keeper. I grade boys fairly, strictly, and as accurately as I can. Knuckles is around an 8. Sometimes he rises to about an 8.5.
Knuckles has been going to Sturgis for a few years. Fifi resolutely refused to accompany him until Anno Domini 2013. The deal changer: I would agree to accompany her to the rally.
Vehicles.
Three.
One: Knuckles rented a motor home for the three of us to stay in. It’s one of those self-drive things, not the kind that you harness to some other contraption.
Inside it was v. trig. Sort of like a personal hotel. Well, without maid service. And room service. But, still quite nice. Comfortable and fun. No water rationing, so Fifi and I could shower as often as needed. And desired.
Two. The toad. (Which is shorthand, as I understand it, in Sturgis-speak, for towed vehicle. This specific toad was some kind of monster truck large enough to accommodate Knuckles’s bike in the back. (Behind where people sit.)
Three. The bike.
Sturgis.
Apparently, this bike rally has been going on for quite some time. Who knew? Into a town of 6,000 or so … well, hundreds of thousands of bikers from all over the world descend.
It is, really, quite amazing.
Buffalo Chip.
Knuckles parked his motor home in this enormous camping place, which everyone calls the Chip. Imagine thousands of bikers, in who-knows-how-many-miles-of-wilderness, camping and decamping within a week.
And ... coexisting peacefully. Mostly.
Accommodations in the Chip ranged from tent cities (outdoor loos, ew) to small, sort of trailer things, to grandish mobile rigs. There were public showers (not recommended!), laundry facilities and beer and ice and other concessions.
(Interestingly, the Chip was on a search-and-seizure mission to blockade booze from being brought into the site. We surmised this was to boost vender sales. Good luck with the blockade! They also scanned the ID bracelets to deter counterfeiters. This one I can appreciate.)
Included in the Chip, in addition to all of the residential accommodations, are
1: an arena for concerts (where some groups you may have heard of -- in this millennium -- perform),
2: venders of all ilk,
3: Bikini Beach, where Fifi and I observed a couple of au natural boyos splash into a little pond from a rope swing and …
4: well, a panoramic carnival of activity. Fun!
(Those naked lads went from brazen to bashful when one of the barmaids zipped over and purloined their trunks.)
Contract.
Between Fifi and Knuckles.
What Knuckles loved most was riding his bike off into the day with his like-minded compatriots. Fifi, a splendid negotiator, merrily waved him on to his appointed rounds.
However.
Knuckles would then acquiesce to become our designated driver come nightfall. The sweet thing? … he not only agreed, but agreed with great good cheer. Making for a compact where both parties are more or less equitably pleased. Geniality squared.
Intimidation.
Our next door Chip neighbor on the right -- how shall I phrase this? -- appeared to be rather thuggish. About 10 feet tall, I would estimate he weighed in at around 3 zillion pounds. But size wasn’t the primary put-off.
The scowl.
Even in NYC, I imagine some locals might cede the pedestrian right-of-way to this particular Brute.
So ... first morning, I bounced up to this behemoth and asked, pointing at his bike, ‘how fast will that thing go?’
Brute turned his visage from a teen horror movie ‘don’t open that door!’ glower into Santa Under the Christmas tree with chocolate chip cookies. He talked. And expounded! And smiled!
From then on, in our little Chip neighborhood, Fifi and I were golden. The Knuckles patio, under some sort of fold-out awning apparatus, became Cocktail Party Central around sunset. Fifi and I were pretty darned good hostesses.
(All right, in trying to learn enough from the ground up to start my little hospitality consulting business, I did stints as a janitor, busser, waitress, cocktail waitress, line cook, barmaid, hostess, manager, etc. I may not quite have figured out how to marry that one certain boy I was interested in, but I’m pretty adept at throwing parties. Sorry for the brag!)
To be recommenced in Part Two … which now that I think about it, I’ll tuck into the Member’s Cafe.
Okay, I know I’m not really a journalist. And ... about the only time the word ‘ace’ is appended to my name is when someone (rather churlishly, I do believe) mentions a brand of bandage he’d like to adhere to my big, yappy mouth.
To pool …
Well, one aside:
My friend Fifi and I did not, despite numerous and boisterous encouragements, participate in any Wet T-Shirt Competitions during our entire week at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. (Where we were ensconced in the charmingly named Buffalo Chip Campground. The Chip, for short.)
Rally reportage to follow.
Pool ... Rapid City, South Dakota:
For those of you unfamiliar with this surprisingly (to me) gorgeous state, it’s west of Chicago, a little south of Canada and way before you arrive in San Francisco. You are most welcome!
Fifi and I began our little pool odyssey with an admittedly lame homage-attempt to SVB. A couple of Rapid (which is what the natives call Rapid City) locals directed us to the site where Shane’s family had once owned a pool hall. And where, supposedly, Shane spent some considerable time learning, practicing, playing, practicing, winning, practicing.
(I do suspect that, perhaps, those locals may have been putting Fifi and me on. Don’t you detest it ever so much when innocents abroad are hornswoggled?)
The SVB family room, if indeed that’s where it was, was in back of, and sort of below, a liquor store in a little strip mall. The street -- Jackson if I remember the name -- was really torn up because of some sort of construction project.
(Apparently the SVB family has owned more than one pool hall in Rapid. The Jackson Street venue is the only one Fifi and I sought out.)
We then journeyed to Johnny’s Billiards located in a nondescript section of town in a nondescript pod mall. A handful of Diamonds, not very kempt, and a similar number of bar boxes. Not exactly shoddy, but not very well maintained.
It was $16 for a couple of afternoon hours. And, we were the only customers. Not the only players, the only customers.
Lackluster.
Next, and last, Break Room Billiards.
BRB is near downtown Rapid and is, I think, affiliated with a casino.
A half dozen or so Diamonds and a few bar boxes.
The Diamond that Fifi and I engaged, without triumph, was in great shape -- clean, well-maintained -- and it rolled accurately. (Unfortunately, the level at which she and I play … well, let me admit it thusly … roll-offs are as apt to help us as to hurt us.)
Not very many house cues … I guess most players take their own?
Rates? When we were there, it was $6 per player from when they opened to early evening. Per player, not per hour. Total tab: $12, plus tip. (Hmm … for some reason this reminds me of NYC car service rates to the airports. Do make sure that the quoted price includes the three T’s -- taxes, tips and tolls!)
Break Room Billiards also has a connected and self-enclosed space with 15-20 bar boxes. A friendly girl practicing on the table next to us explained that that particular room was for league play. Which, apparently in Rapid, a town of 70,000 or so, is fairly robust. There are about 90 teams in the area, maybe 30 or so of them girls, and they play three nights a week.
(Quixotic query: could a pool league form a consortium for its non-insured members to garner group rates on health insurance? Just wondering … the health insurance premiums I pay for my co-workers can fluctuate for any number of reasons.)
Back at BRB ... I asked, circumspectly, (hey, Discretion is my Middle Name!), about SVB. No, not because he’s single. And kind of cute. And I’m currently … well, never mind about all of that!
Fifi and I were told that SVB has moved to another town called Sioux Falls (also in South Dakota). Somewhere in South Dakota. Listen, Google it if you’re all that curious. Who am I, Ms. Geography?).
But, yes, Shane does visit his family back in Rapid from time to time, especially around the holidays. And occasionally comes into BRB to shoot some pool. And, the consensus seems to be, that his persona dovetails with reality ... he is, all in all, a nice guy.
Well, there you have it.
Road pool is my life,
Sunny
P. S. For those of you who are ‘pool-only’ readers, now might be a good time to ... well, stop reading!
P. P. S. Decency. Defended!
As I share the following mini-travelogue on Sturgis and nearby environs, I won’t -- being appropriately sensitive to the innocence and chastity of ever so many of you forum lads -- stumble into any lurid details re: the bike rally.
Example? I shall refrain from sharing the all-too-vivid depictions of the girls’ hot dog-swallowing contest at the Full Throttle Saloon, located next to the Chip. Other than to admit a certain reluctant admiration at the talent displayed therein.
P. P. P. S. Let Me Invite You Into The Sturgis Bike Rally ...
As many of you are aware, I prefer to keep my posts brief and au point. And so I shall in this instance.
However, since edification is in my plasma, I would be remiss not to share with you several of my impressions of our South Dakota adventures.
Backstory.
My friend Fifi has a rather satisfactory boyfriend, Knuckles. I’m a pretty astute observer of boyfriends (hey, I used to have one, I should know from that!) and Knuckles is a keeper. I grade boys fairly, strictly, and as accurately as I can. Knuckles is around an 8. Sometimes he rises to about an 8.5.
Knuckles has been going to Sturgis for a few years. Fifi resolutely refused to accompany him until Anno Domini 2013. The deal changer: I would agree to accompany her to the rally.
Vehicles.
Three.
One: Knuckles rented a motor home for the three of us to stay in. It’s one of those self-drive things, not the kind that you harness to some other contraption.
Inside it was v. trig. Sort of like a personal hotel. Well, without maid service. And room service. But, still quite nice. Comfortable and fun. No water rationing, so Fifi and I could shower as often as needed. And desired.
Two. The toad. (Which is shorthand, as I understand it, in Sturgis-speak, for towed vehicle. This specific toad was some kind of monster truck large enough to accommodate Knuckles’s bike in the back. (Behind where people sit.)
Three. The bike.
Sturgis.
Apparently, this bike rally has been going on for quite some time. Who knew? Into a town of 6,000 or so … well, hundreds of thousands of bikers from all over the world descend.
It is, really, quite amazing.
Buffalo Chip.
Knuckles parked his motor home in this enormous camping place, which everyone calls the Chip. Imagine thousands of bikers, in who-knows-how-many-miles-of-wilderness, camping and decamping within a week.
And ... coexisting peacefully. Mostly.
Accommodations in the Chip ranged from tent cities (outdoor loos, ew) to small, sort of trailer things, to grandish mobile rigs. There were public showers (not recommended!), laundry facilities and beer and ice and other concessions.
(Interestingly, the Chip was on a search-and-seizure mission to blockade booze from being brought into the site. We surmised this was to boost vender sales. Good luck with the blockade! They also scanned the ID bracelets to deter counterfeiters. This one I can appreciate.)
Included in the Chip, in addition to all of the residential accommodations, are
1: an arena for concerts (where some groups you may have heard of -- in this millennium -- perform),
2: venders of all ilk,
3: Bikini Beach, where Fifi and I observed a couple of au natural boyos splash into a little pond from a rope swing and …
4: well, a panoramic carnival of activity. Fun!
(Those naked lads went from brazen to bashful when one of the barmaids zipped over and purloined their trunks.)
Contract.
Between Fifi and Knuckles.
What Knuckles loved most was riding his bike off into the day with his like-minded compatriots. Fifi, a splendid negotiator, merrily waved him on to his appointed rounds.
However.
Knuckles would then acquiesce to become our designated driver come nightfall. The sweet thing? … he not only agreed, but agreed with great good cheer. Making for a compact where both parties are more or less equitably pleased. Geniality squared.
Intimidation.
Our next door Chip neighbor on the right -- how shall I phrase this? -- appeared to be rather thuggish. About 10 feet tall, I would estimate he weighed in at around 3 zillion pounds. But size wasn’t the primary put-off.
The scowl.
Even in NYC, I imagine some locals might cede the pedestrian right-of-way to this particular Brute.
So ... first morning, I bounced up to this behemoth and asked, pointing at his bike, ‘how fast will that thing go?’
Brute turned his visage from a teen horror movie ‘don’t open that door!’ glower into Santa Under the Christmas tree with chocolate chip cookies. He talked. And expounded! And smiled!
From then on, in our little Chip neighborhood, Fifi and I were golden. The Knuckles patio, under some sort of fold-out awning apparatus, became Cocktail Party Central around sunset. Fifi and I were pretty darned good hostesses.
(All right, in trying to learn enough from the ground up to start my little hospitality consulting business, I did stints as a janitor, busser, waitress, cocktail waitress, line cook, barmaid, hostess, manager, etc. I may not quite have figured out how to marry that one certain boy I was interested in, but I’m pretty adept at throwing parties. Sorry for the brag!)
To be recommenced in Part Two … which now that I think about it, I’ll tuck into the Member’s Cafe.