So lot’s of people have a wing night. It’s a night when they take their friends and they go out to a nearby bar and they eat wings. Maybe they drink. Maybe they don’t but the wings are essential. Someplaces only have mild, medium, hot, and suicide, to a greater or lesser extent. Some places have exotic flavors like Hawiian Old Bay, Chili Lime, or a thousand others.
My wing night is on THursdays and it’s official title is Yeungs & Wings. You can get a five dollar pitcher of Yeungling (You know you’re from SE PA when you know what to expect if you order a Lager) and a five dollar bucket of wings. And the wings are hit or miss and the beer is usuallie stale, but that isn’t reallie the point of wing night.
You could make an arguement that the point is to eventuallie build up enough courage to sing with Jack at karaoke, or to get Kimmie rediculouslie drunk, but reallie I think the point of wing night is just to sit across from people you love in a place you love and eat chicken wings.
And maybe it seems boring to go the same place everie week and do the same thing, but it’s nice to sit down in the place you think of as “your” bar. To smile when Jack lays the karaoke book in front of you and says “Just in case” and maybe you’ll work up the courage to keep singing when he puts the mike in front of your face. And when you carry your empty wing bucket home (just a block away) you know that even after people move (and they will) and you go to a different bar (and you will) you’ll still love that dive bar on the corner even with it’s bad beer and occasionallie slow service.
Wing night is about the wings, but not just about the wings.
Nothing is ever about just one thing.