Colonel Black's

It feels kinda dingy! I do like the seating in the corner and the drinks have been okay, but it would never be my first choice. It's a place I go if I have to.

I've also seen way to many fights break out while being there (granted I have only gone 2 or 3 times) There hasn't even been very many people but the ones that were there have been toasted and starting brawls right and left over stupid things.

Every scar tells a storey.

The one on my left hand tells a storey about the night I lit myself on fire at Colonel Black's.

We started the night off fairly civilized with dinner at Louie's Down Under for Beth W.'s 21st birthday.  Some amazing food and a saki cocktail or two and we were ready to start the night of debauchery properly.  Now the Colonel didn't come first, he didn't even come second or third.  Colonel Black's was the fifth stop on our bar crawl, some time after the shots of Ouzo and shouts of Opa! at the Haufbrau.

To say the least we were three sheets to the wind drunk, which as everyone knows, happens to be the absolute best time for super genious ideas like Flaming Dr. Pepper shots.  The birthday girl and I sidled up to the bar and ordered our shots while the boys nursed beers (apparently it's a Montana standard that when you need to sober up you switch to beer...).

To make a decent Flaming Dr. Pepper shot one must start with a shot of Amaretto and just "kiss" the top of the shot with a splash of 151 or Everclear so that you can get a short flame when it's lit on fire.  You drop it in a glass of beer that's about 2/3 of the way full and down the hatch it goes.

I should have known better while watching the bartender make our shots.  A half Amaretto half Everclear ratio was a rookie mistake, and something I was too libated to care about at that point.  The second she lit the shots on fire, tall blue flames danced their way up and burned bright.  We looked at each other daring the other to go first, pretty sure that there was a good chance things could end badly.  

The flames didn't seem to be burning down as quickly as I would have hoped so I grabbed my shot, jostling the contents and lighting the bar on fire which was quickly put out by the bartender watching us.  The flames continued to burn bright blue so we decided it was now or never, and dropped them into our beers.

I didn't realize that I was on fire until I was atleast halfway through my drink, at which point my drunk brain deemed it time to pull a lengendary "Can't Stop, Won't Stop" and I continued drinking whilst my boyfriend at the time patted the flames off of me, which had licked down my hand and the side of my shirt.  I might despise the guy now, but I have to admit that was one of his more romantic moves to date.

Thankfully, my inebriated disposition at the time blocked the pain and trauma of what had just gone down and I didn't fully register what had happened until I looked down at my wet bar rag-wrapped hand at the next stop.  At that point I stopped drinking and spent the rest of the night congratulating myself on my bad decision.

I still have the scar on my left hand.  Everytime I look down at it I remember exactly how bad-ass and dumb-ass went hand in hand that night.