Last Call

A dog, alone outside, waiting patiently for his master to either come to him or perchance to sneak into the establishment while no one is looking.I can certainly relate, and have decided to no longer be tied up in it all, but I shall expound on that quite a bit more at the end of this post.

Once upon a time, dogs could go inside just the same as for a short while we could still smoke in spite of the new ban; all that changed as more scrutiny is directed at the tavern due to reckless behavior, the kind that gets the cops to pay visits and generally ruins what once was a very good time.


Not only is it today's special, apparently the tavern has been offering stupid soup at a discount for some weeks now. My head sufficiently being clear from a brief respite in San Francisco, the bender that was the holidays worn off, I can pretty clearly see that not only myself but many others have been acting in the temporarily insane fashion and in a lot of these cases I scry that it is due to the change in staff, some very bad customer management, all leading to an atrocious change in atmosphere that I can barely tolerate.


For instance, here's a lovely recipe for stupid soup...

Ingredients:

- Several large drunks
- Some crack
- A general lack of cutting off and/or eighty-sixing
- Extremely poor handling of the situation by the staff, bordering on enabling
- An arm wrestling contest to somehow measure the relative length of penises

Mix well, stir it up, and bake.

Yield: A fight.

Imagine that. In the last month I've seen more fights at this joint than I have in the prior 13 years. And I blame it on one young, idiotic bartender who still has it in his head that this is somehow cool. Nerts. I go there to drink beer and relax, which is hardly possible when there's always the threat of rowdiness and rude behavior.


On the other hand, it might also be the only tavern where you might find a historical quote scrawled on the sign-up board for the pool tables. I can only imagine that a couple of history professors went in, got tanked, and argued their way out of the bar discussing the American Civil War. A few minutes later, one comes back to make his point more permanently and stalks off. That's my hope, at least.


Now onto my past life as a dog. I myself am not innocent of acting in a rude manner, a certain romantic obsession of mine nearly leading me to willingly cross lines that I had drawn for myself many years ago as well as act in a less than sincere way to friends of mine. Head clear now, and a short and frank talk has me realizing that I am not bettered by acting in such a way, waiting for someone to emerge or waiting to somehow sneak in. The leash was one that I had fabricated, and it no longer binds me. I need not find myself as was suggested, I've just managed to slip back into my "JP" suit, as for as long as I've known myself (a very long time indeed) I have always managed to remain the same old me regardless of experience or circumstance. Call it a hair-shirt, I am now able to retain focus (thanks, Trent!) on myself and what I must do.

For that short and honest talk, I thank you, Terri.