Now it all seems funny, kinda like a dream

My best friend and I were underage but had been going out in Myrtle Beach regularly since we were old enough to drive. We knew where to go and what to say easily by the time we were 20.

We had figured out that if we went to expensive restaurants and showed that we knew what to order, we would get served. It didn't hurt that she worked in an expensive restaurant and all the Myrtle Beach 20-something wait staff knew each other at least by face from hanging out at the same local bars.

So we were at a fancy-pants restaurant one night, and my friend told the waiter that we were celebrating my 21st birthday and ordered a bottle of wine.

It was a mafia-style steakhouse, dimly lit with high-back, red, leather booths, so even though they could hear us, we couldn't see the group in the adjacent booth. All we heard was a mixture of drunken West Coast and English accents yelling, "Yeah! 21! Happy Birthday, baby." And snickers.

And we bitched loud enough for them to hear about how much we hated tourists.

Our waiter brought a bottle of Moet White Star we hadn't ordered and said, "Happy birthday from LA Guns."

"Who?" I asked too loudly.

"The gentlemen in the next booth," he responded.

Having been raised by my Sainted Southern mother, I was compelled to stand up and look over the booth and say "Thank you."

Thankfully, they were closing out. As they walked past us, my friend and I raised our glasses and said, "Thanks again!"

When they were out of our sight, we started laughing and making Poison and cover band jokes.

A few weeks later, I was sitting at the bar of the restaurant where she worked. It was nearly midnight and I was waiting for everyone to close out so we could go out. The bartender set the television to "Headbanger's Ball."

And there they were.

So LA Guns, if you're still living and reading this, I want to thank you again for the champagne. I really like "The Ballad of Jayne."