Don’t worry, this is not about banning alcohol or the dangers of too much drink (I am quite familiar with that one), but I had an embarrassing experience Saturday night that reminded me of other bar-related embarrassments in my past.

I am ashamed to admit that I had never visited Earl’s Hideaway in Sebastian, the oldest continually operating business in that quaint little town. I have passed by it a number of times, usually during the day, and really had no occasion to stop in. The lineup of motorcycles outside also did nothing to encourage me.

But this past Saturday, my friend Tim and I decided to go hear a band that was playing at Earl’s. Tim had been there a number of times (he drives a pickup truck and a motorcycle). He told me I might seem a little out of place so don’t start any fights or try to pick up any women, neither of which I have done in at least 50 years. Basically, I should just keep a low profile regardless of what the people around me were doing.

Now, of course, he was joking with me, or so I thought.

If you remember, Saturday night was quite cold and when we arrived, the place was pretty much empty. The band had cancelled due to the cold, not because they were cold, but because few people had shown up the night before due to the cold.

We walked through the bar and didn’t see anyone we recognized (really, Milt?) so sat outside in the cold where the band would have played. I went in to order a couple of beers and noticed many of the patrons were looking at me. My ego is not big enough to presume they recognized me from my head shot, so it was either because I was older than anyone there or I just didn’t look like anyone there. They probably thought I was someone’s grandpa, coming to yank my grandson from a bar stool and drag him home.

I tried to ignore everyone staring at me and went up to the bar. A guy stood there who seemed more interested in talking to his friends than taking my order. I finally got his attention and said “I’d like two beers,” as cool as I could. He and his friend looked at each other and then he turned to me with a smirk and said, “So would I. the bar is over there.”

It seemed like everyone in the bar was laughing, but that might have been the nightmare I had after returned home and went to bed. I found my way to the real bar and tried to get the bartender’s attention. This woman sat on a bar stool next to me and kept looking at me. Finally, she patted my hand and said, “You’ve never been in here before, have you.”

I wanted to say how did you guess, but I knew the answer, so I just said, “I’ve lived here all my life and am ashamed to say I’ve never visited Earl’s. “

She said, “That’s okay. You don’t look like the type who would come in here anyway. I can tell though you’ve been to many places and probably done many things.”

I ordered two beers from the bartender and said to her, “You mean I look old?”

Then she was the embarrassed one and almost in tears as she told me that’s not what she meant, apologized over and over. I tried to say I knew she didn’t mean it, glancing around the bar for someone to beat me up. Finally, a younger man did come up, stockily built, unsmiling. I told her I needed to go before the beers got warm in my hands, which by now were sweating profusely.

I made a fast getaway and sat down with Tim outside. I told him what happened and he laughed. “I warned you,” he said, taking a swig of beer.

Just then, here comes the same woman and starts apologizing all over again, trying to explain to Tim how she didn’t mean what she said. Then her younger stockily built, grim male friend walked up. Tim just glanced at me for getting him into this. He reached out and shook hands with the man and introduced himself. The woman turned to me and said, “That’s my son-in-law. My daughter is here somewhere.”

Tim and I drank our beers, then left out the back way, he says, so I wouldn’t get us into any more trouble.

That woman was right, I had been to many places. For instance, I took my wife, Sandy, with me to Egypt once along with a group from Vero Beach. We were at a bar and she ordered scotch on the rocks. She asked me if it was safe. I said yes.

I was wrong. We spent the next three days in our hotel room, visited my two doctors with glass hypodermic needles, trying to get her fever down as I washed out sheets in the bathtub and hung them over the balcony of our five star room. Meanwhile, the rest of our group went on the breathtaking Nile cruise.

Then there was the time in Zimbabwe when I asked to try the local beer, not the bottled Tusker brand, but the beer all the locals in that bar drank. It was called chibuku. If you can imagine drinking a sour, liquid sorghum with gelatinous lumps in it, then you know chibuku. Having been in these situations before, I’ve learned that if you hold your breath while trying strange things, you do not taste them. So I drained the glass and tried to smile in appreciation as my body shuddered. I decided to leave, but the other men at the bar were so impressed, they ordered another large chibuku for me. This time I tasted it. I will never taste it again, or anything else for that matter.

I was in Ireland once for about three weeks. My company had sponsored incentive trips for dealers, two groups back to back. With the first group I visited all the sights, but with the second group, I just went to the closest pub while they enjoyed the tour. One pub was down the hill from Blarney Castle. I had kissed the Blarney Stone the first time around. If you have never tried it, you lay on your back and crawl under the stone to kiss it. As I sat drinking my Smithwicks Ale, the bartender asked why I wasn’t with my group. I told him I would much rather spend time with the real Irish people in a pub. The bartender says, “Well, you didn’t miss anything. Teenage boys around here like to go to the Blarney Stone at night and pee on it. Kind of like a rite of passage, you know.”

So, the bottom line is, I prefer to do my drinking at home or at a friend’s home. Bottoms up!