March to the Same Drum

The mood around the table was tense. Both sides of the argument had their strong points while their respective rebuttals did an effective job in refuting whatever the other fought so diligently for. The atmosphere left the bystanders at a stalemate.

“I'm telling you, man, because he only has one arm AND is the drummer for one of them most successful bands of all time, the dude from Def Leopard should be considered THE pinnacle of the drumming world. Name me one other major band whose drummer is handicapped?”

“Okay, first of all? What you just said, was retarded. Second of all? James Mitchell had Psoriasis.”

“Who the fuck is James Mitchell”

“Uh... hello? Only the drummer for Flesh For Lulu.”

“I said MAJOR band. And Psoriasis isn't a fucking handicap, moron.”

“It is when you have hair that long, wear that much make-up and live on a bus nine months out of the year.”

The rest of the group murmured unanimously in agreement with every valid point and counterargument put forth, a veritable verbal sparring match for music lovers and the uneducated masses alike. Every Wednesday night consisted more or less of the same thing – copious amounts of alcohol and casual disagreements escalating to full-fledged heated debates in which everyone else sits by idly, laughing at first at the insanity of whatever is being disputed and then awkwardly as the non-nonchalance intensifies.

“I'll give you that one. But if you're gonna sit there and tell me James Fucking Mitchell and Flesh For Lulu are even in the same stratosphere as that one-armed dude and Def Leopard, well then maybe Donny should cut you off,” Billy gestures over to Donny the bartender, who, despite the joint being empty, has no interest in involving himself in their weekly brouhaha.

“Rick.”

“What?”

“Rick Allen. The dude's name is Rick Allen. Jesus, if you're going to argue his merits, the least you could do is know his fucking name,” David chimes in, rolling his eyes at the absurdity.

“I don't have to know his name. All I need to know is that even with one drumstick that man could rock the shit out of 'Armageddon It'.

“You're an idiot.”

“Oh so 'Armageddon It' doesn't rock now?”

“We're done, this conversation is ten minutes I'm never getting back,” David picks up his half-empty pint of Harps and turns away from his combatant.

The Wednesday night formula has been as much a tradition as the crew members themselves. And despite the topic of discussion usually being neither informative nor relevant, it rarely mattered. What mattered was that inside the four walls of the Spread Eagle Tavern, the pessimism and hopelessness of the outside world did not exist and the normally mundane lives of its patrons did. With its flickering halogen light above the bar and outdated television set mounted to the wall complete with names and cuss words smudged into the dust on the screen, the small watering hole was closer to a sight for sore eyes than an architectural masterpiece, but that wasn't what brought the people back.

“Peart. Neil Peart epitomized the perfect drummer.”

“The dude from Rush? I'm okay with that.”

Both David and Billy raised their glasses as the rest of the table followed suit. Even Donny nodded his head in approval.