Saturday, 24 November 2001 | Daddy Rabbits

I meant to go over to Jay's yesterday to play two songs for him, but we ended up listening to them on the road instead. He wanted to drive away from lights and traffic, and to get lost, to explore a road he'd always wanted to go down but never had, except he didn't know of a road that fit those requirements.

And so Greg and I climbed in Jay's car to help him out, to suggest a destination, a direction, or merely a (belated) left or right, like aimless and wasteful 16-year-olds in a borrowed car. We jaggedly went south, talking and listening and turning around and eventually we found ourselves at Daddy Rabbits, a biker bar just north of the thriving town of Angier.

It's a small place, with just enough room for two quarter-eating pool tables, a bar, and a row of stools. The atmosphere is enormous, despite the building's size. The ceiling is covered with Harley Davidson t-shirts, hefty white bras scrawled over with markers, and Confederate flags held up by thumbtacks; on the walls are newspaper clippings and pictures, handwritten signs and buzzing, electric beer signs, and in the sink, a sign that says, "Don't sit in the sink."

When we walked in, a friendly man with a limp approached us and introduced himself. Then he jokingly said to Jay, "You're standin' in a bad place, 'tween me and my beer." Or at least we think it was a joke. We moved to the bar to get a drink from the near voiceless bartender, who, when asked what happened to her voice, gave the explanation, "I got really drunk last night, and when I scream, I lose my voice."

We stayed long enough to play a few games of cut-throat and drove directly back home, no longer taking winding detours or exploring.