This is not a bar like T.G.I. Friday’s or Hooters, where you can get designer beer and put it on a credit card. They don’t take checks or have a dartboard. Either one would make it too easy to commit a felony.

MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS (BAR)

“It’s midnight at the Oasis, and I’ve been here since nine . . .”

The Oasis Bar, perhaps you’ll recognize it. It looks like this: gravel parking lot, cinder block building, bars on the windows. A neon sign with at least three of the letters working at any given time and the inevitable palm trees. You walk up to the door and there’s a sign on it that says USE OTHER DOOR.

“Everyone’s still in their places. I know ’cause I’m still in mine . . .”

You walk around to the other door. There’s a sign on it that says WATCH YER STEP, and there ain’t no step! As you press through the door into the cozy surroundings, you notice that one of the regulars has stuck a cigarette butt in the moose head’s lips and the hair has worn off its wattle. There’s duct tape on the pool table, KWITCHURBELLYAKIN behind the bar, blue spots on the ceiling, and a guy asleep under the shuffleboard.

“The pickin’s ain’t great . . .”

Pinto and I wrote a song called “Midnight at the Oasis (Bar).” It’s about the kind of place I described. We figured it was highly unlikely that Barry Manilow or Madonna would cut it, so Pinto did. It’s hard for non-big-timers to get the radio play necessary to sell records, so we decided to promote his classic honky-tonk song another way. We would send a copy of the record to every Oasis Bar in the Western Hemisphere. They could put it on their jukebox.

“. . . but they never were . . .”

So I wrote a friendly letter to the Liquor Control Board in every state capital, asking for their computerized list of Oasis Bars and their addresses. The response was overwhelming! More than forty states wrote back and wished us good luck. Plus friends and folks have been sending us addresses of Oasis Bars in their hometowns.

“. . . out here where the buffalo roam . . .”

Eleven P.M., elbow-deep in barflies, beer dryin’ on yer lap, seven dollars wadded up in yer shirt pocket, and hope in yer heart. If you’ve been there, this song is dedicated to you.

“. . . and it’s midnight at the Oasis, and nobody’s goin’ home.”