As a fully vaccinated citizen of Texas, I went to a honky tonk last Tuesday to see perennial Best Country Band Fingerpistol. I’ve known the bass player for a long time, and I wanted to show him my new bike. It would be the first time to see live music in a live music venue in a year and first time to visit Ginny’s Little Longhorn since the passing of Ginny.

I’ve been reasonably lucky that I don’t have a job that requires face to face contact with the public. When I have gone into the office, I’ve been unmasked and distanced at my cubicle, but masked when prowling the sparsely travelled hallways. When a business asks me to wear a mask, I wear a mask. It’s not hard, and the right thing to do. As of last Tuesday, what with the CDC, and Governor Abbott, and Mayor Adler, the mask thing was more ephemeral than ever, although it may be breathing easier.

Rode my new mint electric stallion down Burnet, and carried my burnt orange mask in my pocket, figuring I’d roll with the local custom. And the custom was pretty much maskless dancing in a crowded bar. There were some wearing them, most notably my friend the bass player (does not sing), and the bartender’s rode on her chin. (But, to be sure, I was masked when gathering provisions at the HEB the next day, because everyone else was.)

I didn’t mind. I kept the mask in my pocket, ordered a draft Lone Star, and enjoyed the show. I chatted with my friend the bass player at a break, about my bike, about his flying, and it seemed like maybe things are getting back to normal again.

Somethings will never be the same. Ginny is remembered, but forever gone.

Some things will never change. The recent transplant asking for an IPA that’s not too hoppy on my right, a native asking for two Miller Lites on my left. From my perspective, Ginny’s hasn’t been the same since they took the pickled eggs off the bar, but that’s just me.

I’ll be back next Tuesday.