On Thursday, after class, I went downtown in search of… stuff. I found that B Street, from Foothill to Main, was blocked off for some kind of festival. I also found that I had just missed it, as people were dispersing and vendors were taking down their booths.

First I went to Buffalo Bill’s Brewpub. It was packed, more people than I’d ever seen there before. It had the usual Hayward crowd–mostly yuppies and thugs. I walked inside.

I weaved through the crowd and made my way to the bar. And I waited. Forever. Pretty girls flanked me and got served immediately. I found myself wishing I was back in Chico where my favorite bartenders in my favorite bars knew me well, and knew that serving me quickly was worth the tip I would leave behind. After waiting far too long I decided to leave.

On my way out I ran into The Kraken. This guy basically took over the pizza joint I used to work at when I left for the Navy. He knows people. The Kraken got me a beer in 3 seconds flat. I was impressed. I left the barkeep a nice tip and leaned into the bar, and sipped the overpriced ale.

The Kraken and I chatted. Another cat I know, Aaron, joined us. We played a quick version of catchup and then they went back to their conversations with their entourages. I drained the pint and left for The Bistro.

Here’s where things start to get a little interesting. As I’m approaching The Bistro, just down the street from Buffalo’s, I hear some rockin’ tunes. A wailing guitar solo. The crowd goes wild. “Is that Hendrix?” I wonder. My step quickens.

Inside The Bistro is the usual scene. Ex-hippies and dropouts, disaffected youth, punks, and all of society’s unwanteds filled the room–my kind of crowd. I feel much more comfortable in this setting. Buffalo’s yuppies make sick, and the thugs make me nervous.

On stage is a very plain looking 3-man band: drummer, bassist, and guitar/lead singer. Plain, every-day looking guys. Not too good looking, no rock-star vibe. The crowd looks very plain too. I feel at ease. I buy a pint of Bear Republic Ale and again, lean into the bar.

I’m starting to relax. The purple and pink flavored lights behind the stage look a little fuzzy. I can smell the cigarette smoke wafting in from the patio. The band begins. I could smell that characteristic leather-and-perfume smell that always reminds me of an old girlfriend.

Purple Haze. Yep, it’s a Hendrix tribute band. This guy’s got his playing down tight. His very long, drawn out solos reaffirmed my feeling that the other 2 members of the band were there for one thing–to back him up. The lead strained and wailed and sang in near perfect Hendrix style, clearly in the spotlight, while the bassist and drummer sat in the background.

“The Ralph Woodson Trio” (the sign behind the band read). They whipped the crowd into a near frenzy with their familiar tunes played effortlessly. I ordered another beer.

After the third Hendrix tune the lead paused to thank his mother, pointing her out in the audience, and his sister for coming. The crowd went wild and his mother swelled with pride. The next song began and I recognized it immediately. Not another Hendrix tune, but Santana.

Black Magic Woman. I’m brought back to my high school years. Kevin Berkowitz’ house, Santana on the stereo, all my friends dancing and drinking and drunk. When the band finished with Black Magic they immediately segued into Oye Como Va. Goosebumps ran across my skin.

A pretty thing wearing a t-shirt that read “Italian Girl” smiled at me on her way to the dance floor. Yes, I talked to her. We danced. Married. I thanked her for the dance, wished her a good evening, and politely backed off.

My beer glass is empty. I wanted to stay, but I had to leave. I knew that if I stayed I wouldn’t be able to drive home. Once again I found myself wishing I was back in Chico, where I could walk to all my favorite bars, drink as much as I wanted, and not have to worry about DUI’s.

Is Hayward growing on me? Maybe.