Belly Up....to Bar
There’s this place I used to frequent just across the street from Yale in New Haven, Connecticut – its name is Bar. That’s right just Bar. Future Presidents, Congressman and women, Senators, and power brokers congregated there on any given night to kill brain cells. I spent many nights there many nights doing the same.
In the spirit of the Bunions and inspired by Jaye, I will heretofore attempt to create a fictionalized version of that bar populated by the blog characters that I know and love. Hopefully I will not insult anyone to badly.
So there’s this place I go for a drink, conversation, and to ogle the mental musings of some pretty exception folks and the also ogle the asses of beautiful women. Quirky, yes. Opinionated. I’d say so. It’s not the place for the weak of heart. It’s a dirt floor, sock ‘em in the eye, bar where intellectuals, writers, politicians, poets, artists, want-a-be’s, never was’s, never will be’s, the famous, and infamous, all drink from the same trough. The Blog Bar, no place like it on the planet.
It was a firehouse at one time with all the firehouse accoutrements still affixed. On warm summer evenings the roll-up overhead doors are opened to the street and well worn picnic tables are moved out to the sidewalk. The walls and furniture inside is a cross between art deco and late twentieth century house of ill repute. When the wind blows in the right direction, the strong odor of stale beer, urine, and vomit waft through the place and commingle with clove cigarettes and the hint of pot being smoked in the bathrooms. I dig this place though the crowd is rough and fights breakout often.
The regulars are at the oval bar as I take my usual seat facing the opened overheads. I ask for my usual two fingers of Glenlivet on crushed ice as I hear Ivan down at the end of the bar saying something loudly about a Greek God with a large penis. Erik Ivan James nurses an orange juice and looks at Ivan with skepticism.
“Yes, just like the poetry of Dylan and Green Day, there is a Greek God that punished pillagers of fields by sodomizing them.” Ivan says as he sucks down his last gulp of Glenfiddich.
“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“He was a God with an enormous penis, he’s just using the tools at hand. Barkeep, another round.”
Sandra enters the conversation but rambles on with a dissertation that goes through the history of Greek Mythology, the average length of an North American man’s penis, comparative anatomy of the New England Newt, and why woman don’t pee standing up and I forgot what Ivan originally was talking about. I guzzled my drink and ordered another.
M.G. long missing from the scene enters the conversation and begins to argue syntax, “ly”, and “was” usage with Sandra. Sandra remains on the penis topic and then implies something about masturbation and bestiality. This peaks Ivan's interest, so he buys Sandra a drink and sits down next to her. To piss M.G. off she starts excessively using adjectives and switch ing POV and tense throughout her lengthy diatribe.
Ms. Snark walks in and is immediately surrounded by writers who hit on her. No, not the trying to get laid “hitting on”, more of a publication mating dance. She is barraged with a thousand unanswerable questions of to seduce an agent, get signed, and get published. She shrugs them off with, “write a damn good book, good query letter, and follow-up. Now get out of my face.”
J.A. sitting at the very end of the bar, having had way too many Scotches, spits a stream of alcohol into the back bar as he cracks up and begins to pontificate about the necessity and benefits of self-promotion and marketing. He ends his tirade with “Fuck SASEs”.
Bernita sits quietly at the bar appart from the others drawing coat hanger cartoons on the bar napkins. I holler across the bar to her , "how's the book coming? Are you putting a lot of sex in it?"
She scowls at me and then smiles, "You men, sex, sex, sex. Is that all you ever think about?"
"Yeah, that and food."
"Well, sex was very prevalent in Medieval times and a time traveling modern woman will have a twenty first century sex drive so I think you"ll like it." She said as she went back to her drawing.
"I'm sure I will."
Microe, Pammy, and 10-8-ious, are all playing pool and talking about having a blog-in that never seems to happen. They are all smoking cigars, drinking cognac, and are in various stages of undress. Wild Bill is sitting in a chair behind it all with a big smile on his face. There conversation turns to hot tubbing.
Jaye walks in with low-rise jeans and a bright midriff shirt. I eye the crack of her ass as she sits down in the open barstool next to me.
“What the hell are you looking at?” She says with a smile.
“A soccer mom wearing low rise jeans? I was looking for your tattoo.”
“Oh, I think you're looking in the wrong place.”
“I couldn’t remember where you said it was.”
“Not there.”
“Sorry, men’s eyes are like a magnet to a female butt crack. You expose it and our eyes go right there. We can’t control it. It’s Pavlovian. Are you going to show it to me?”
“Yeah, right. I don't think my husband would approve. When are you going to start blogging and writing again?”
“I don’t know. Life keeps getting in the way. I’m trying to make a living. I have a new love interest. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Don’t we all.” She says as she shakes her head. “Don’t we all. Hey bartender, what’s a gal gotta do to get a drink around here…”
In the spirit of the Bunions and inspired by Jaye, I will heretofore attempt to create a fictionalized version of that bar populated by the blog characters that I know and love. Hopefully I will not insult anyone to badly.
So there’s this place I go for a drink, conversation, and to ogle the mental musings of some pretty exception folks and the also ogle the asses of beautiful women. Quirky, yes. Opinionated. I’d say so. It’s not the place for the weak of heart. It’s a dirt floor, sock ‘em in the eye, bar where intellectuals, writers, politicians, poets, artists, want-a-be’s, never was’s, never will be’s, the famous, and infamous, all drink from the same trough. The Blog Bar, no place like it on the planet.
It was a firehouse at one time with all the firehouse accoutrements still affixed. On warm summer evenings the roll-up overhead doors are opened to the street and well worn picnic tables are moved out to the sidewalk. The walls and furniture inside is a cross between art deco and late twentieth century house of ill repute. When the wind blows in the right direction, the strong odor of stale beer, urine, and vomit waft through the place and commingle with clove cigarettes and the hint of pot being smoked in the bathrooms. I dig this place though the crowd is rough and fights breakout often.
The regulars are at the oval bar as I take my usual seat facing the opened overheads. I ask for my usual two fingers of Glenlivet on crushed ice as I hear Ivan down at the end of the bar saying something loudly about a Greek God with a large penis. Erik Ivan James nurses an orange juice and looks at Ivan with skepticism.
“Yes, just like the poetry of Dylan and Green Day, there is a Greek God that punished pillagers of fields by sodomizing them.” Ivan says as he sucks down his last gulp of Glenfiddich.
“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“He was a God with an enormous penis, he’s just using the tools at hand. Barkeep, another round.”
Sandra enters the conversation but rambles on with a dissertation that goes through the history of Greek Mythology, the average length of an North American man’s penis, comparative anatomy of the New England Newt, and why woman don’t pee standing up and I forgot what Ivan originally was talking about. I guzzled my drink and ordered another.
M.G. long missing from the scene enters the conversation and begins to argue syntax, “ly”, and “was” usage with Sandra. Sandra remains on the penis topic and then implies something about masturbation and bestiality. This peaks Ivan's interest, so he buys Sandra a drink and sits down next to her. To piss M.G. off she starts excessively using adjectives and switch ing POV and tense throughout her lengthy diatribe.
Ms. Snark walks in and is immediately surrounded by writers who hit on her. No, not the trying to get laid “hitting on”, more of a publication mating dance. She is barraged with a thousand unanswerable questions of to seduce an agent, get signed, and get published. She shrugs them off with, “write a damn good book, good query letter, and follow-up. Now get out of my face.”
J.A. sitting at the very end of the bar, having had way too many Scotches, spits a stream of alcohol into the back bar as he cracks up and begins to pontificate about the necessity and benefits of self-promotion and marketing. He ends his tirade with “Fuck SASEs”.
Bernita sits quietly at the bar appart from the others drawing coat hanger cartoons on the bar napkins. I holler across the bar to her , "how's the book coming? Are you putting a lot of sex in it?"
She scowls at me and then smiles, "You men, sex, sex, sex. Is that all you ever think about?"
"Yeah, that and food."
"Well, sex was very prevalent in Medieval times and a time traveling modern woman will have a twenty first century sex drive so I think you"ll like it." She said as she went back to her drawing.
"I'm sure I will."
Microe, Pammy, and 10-8-ious, are all playing pool and talking about having a blog-in that never seems to happen. They are all smoking cigars, drinking cognac, and are in various stages of undress. Wild Bill is sitting in a chair behind it all with a big smile on his face. There conversation turns to hot tubbing.
Jaye walks in with low-rise jeans and a bright midriff shirt. I eye the crack of her ass as she sits down in the open barstool next to me.
“What the hell are you looking at?” She says with a smile.
“A soccer mom wearing low rise jeans? I was looking for your tattoo.”
“Oh, I think you're looking in the wrong place.”
“I couldn’t remember where you said it was.”
“Not there.”
“Sorry, men’s eyes are like a magnet to a female butt crack. You expose it and our eyes go right there. We can’t control it. It’s Pavlovian. Are you going to show it to me?”
“Yeah, right. I don't think my husband would approve. When are you going to start blogging and writing again?”
“I don’t know. Life keeps getting in the way. I’m trying to make a living. I have a new love interest. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Don’t we all.” She says as she shakes her head. “Don’t we all. Hey bartender, what’s a gal gotta do to get a drink around here…”
