Last Call: Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Sideline Club 10016 Crowley Rd, Crowley. 817-293-7475.
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
Clan-tankerous

Last Call puts off seeing the future-in-laws for all the obvious reasons, but this weekend your columnist grudgingly sat down to imbibe with some of the clan. Good thing we were in a dive out in Crowley and not at one of Last Call’s favorite watering holes, else your columnist would have felt a little déclassé once the gloves came off (as they almost always do). Entertaining moments included being on the business end of a scalding ethnic epithet by Uncle Randy one moment, then threatened with physical trauma for referring to father-in-law-to-be Tom as “dude” the next.
The place was Sideline, a colorful neighborhood joint with all the fixin’s of a bona fide hideaway: tubs full of ice-cold brew, a community canister of beef jerky fresh off the 18-wheeler, and a row of yellow pleather captain’s chairs. Yuppies beware: Credit cards and running of tabs not accepted.
Though partial to more urbane living, Last Call ain’t afraid to occasionally kick it trailer-park style, a type of partying in which the revelers, all friends and acquaintances, exchange random accusations and slaps to the face as often as compliments and hugs. Our night just happened to be capped by a moment of unforeseen liquidy affection: Just when Last Call was about to secretly spit in both of the rednecks’ drinks, Uncle Randy pulled out his Dale Earnhardt checkbook and bought the fam a round of whiskey shots. Though I’m not certain, I think I may have blurted “yee-ha!”

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