Mike Barfield to the Rescue
As you may have gathered, your humble bloggeteer is going through a tough time, and when a sister is a-hurtin', the last thing she needs is to sit alone at home with the felines. I accepted an invitation to hit some nightlife, and although I was feeling low, I drove home home with a smile on my face and not nearly enough to pay the taxi driver. But that's another story.
Sure, the lobsters and champers at Eddie V's helped to take me away from my troubled mind. There's nothing quite like a group of girls who know how to throw down at the hottest surf and turf joint in their jeans. Of course, it doesn't hurt to be pals with the manager, who hooks you up with bubbles and Super Tuscans and comps the holy mother out of your bill (thank you, sir!). Being classy lasses, we took the funds we saved and put them right on into the pocket of our server (if you get comps at a restaurant, I assume you're savvy enough to do this, right? Right?)
But I have to offer up thanks and praise to the gentlemen responsible for the really rockin' good time of my evening, and that's Mike Barfield and the boys, who blew my mind at the Continental Club.
I've seen Mike at my place of employment several times, but had never had the pleasure of knowing who he was. I figured he was a musician, what with the porkpie hat and all. But I had no idea, NO idea, how this man and his boys could lay down the white-hot, panty-dropping funk. And this is saying a lot, because I'm pushing forty, and I don't panty-drop for just anyone.
A few hours before, I was feeling old, feeling funkless, feeling like my best option was to rely on my wily intellect and forget about the efficacy of my ever-expanding ass. Then Mr. Barfield bade me dance. "C'mon, darling, this is your night!" he shouted, and before I could set down my vodka and tonic, I was led to the stage.
The heat, the lights, the supertight funk, and I forgot all about my woes and tribulations. Thank you, Mr. Barfield, for reminding a girl that when the going gets tough, the tough shake their ass.
Sure, the lobsters and champers at Eddie V's helped to take me away from my troubled mind. There's nothing quite like a group of girls who know how to throw down at the hottest surf and turf joint in their jeans. Of course, it doesn't hurt to be pals with the manager, who hooks you up with bubbles and Super Tuscans and comps the holy mother out of your bill (thank you, sir!). Being classy lasses, we took the funds we saved and put them right on into the pocket of our server (if you get comps at a restaurant, I assume you're savvy enough to do this, right? Right?)
But I have to offer up thanks and praise to the gentlemen responsible for the really rockin' good time of my evening, and that's Mike Barfield and the boys, who blew my mind at the Continental Club.
I've seen Mike at my place of employment several times, but had never had the pleasure of knowing who he was. I figured he was a musician, what with the porkpie hat and all. But I had no idea, NO idea, how this man and his boys could lay down the white-hot, panty-dropping funk. And this is saying a lot, because I'm pushing forty, and I don't panty-drop for just anyone.
A few hours before, I was feeling old, feeling funkless, feeling like my best option was to rely on my wily intellect and forget about the efficacy of my ever-expanding ass. Then Mr. Barfield bade me dance. "C'mon, darling, this is your night!" he shouted, and before I could set down my vodka and tonic, I was led to the stage.
The heat, the lights, the supertight funk, and I forgot all about my woes and tribulations. Thank you, Mr. Barfield, for reminding a girl that when the going gets tough, the tough shake their ass.
posted by taj at 3:44 PM
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