Manuel's Tavern in peril

I have a favorite story that peripherally involves Manuel's.

My first newspaper job right out of college was with the infamous Marietta Daily Journal. Back then I was still hanging out with my college buddies -- in fact, I was rooming with one of them in an apartment near Dobbins Air Force Base, which is why we were awakened at 7 a.m. one Sunday every month by the soothing sound of Air Force fighter jets taking off every five minutes for three or four hours.

But I digress.

While I was working at the MDJ, a young reporter joined the staff. She was also just out of college, and she was very cute (and I love cute!). So I made it a point to talk to her, and eventually got up the nerve to ask her out. I suggested something like a movie, but she said she was going to a "music program" at her church the next day, and asked if I wanted to go with her.

Of course, I said yes. I figured it would be some sort of recital or concert -- I had played in a number of concerts in churches with my high school and college bands.

Uhhh... no. This "music program" was a hellfire sort of minister pointing out satanic language and symbols in rock music and on album covers, telling us listening to that sort of music will destroy our souls and condemn us to hell, or some such. I sat there stunned the entire time, wondering what in the wide, wide world of sports was a-goin' on here.

When it was over, the young lady apologized, saying she thought it was going to be a lecture on music, and had no idea "it was going to be like THAT." I accepted that explanation, and we went to get some ice cream, we talked and laughed. I took her home, which happened to be the just-out-of-college cliche of an apartment set up in the basement of her parents' house. It was quite private, and her parents weren't home anyway, so when she invited to come in and stay a bit, I started thinking things were going pretty good.

We talked for a couple minutes. Then she stopped and said there was something she wanted to tell me. "OK, what is it?"

"Da Man, I want you to know that God loves you, and has a plan for your life."

I don't remember anything else she said. All I was thinking was, "If God really loved me, you wouldn't be saying this right now."

I got out of there as fast as I could ("Oh, look at the time!") and raced home, where my roommate was sitting around watching TV.

I asked him, "What are you doing right now?"

"Nothing."

"Then we're going to Manuel's and getting rip-roaring drunk."

He called a bunch of our old college crew who still lived in town and told them to meet us at Manuel's. We spent the rest of that night drinking beer and yelling at each other, stuff like, "God loves you!" "Brother, have you been saved?" "Hallelujah!"

Good times, indeed.

 

Was this her?

 

So no Last Call at Manuel's?