THE OLD BAR

Saloons throughout history, from Ricardo’s Babalu Club to Signor Ferrari’s Blue Parrot bar, have been the weigh stations of existence. For between life’s troubles is required a yeast based putty filler to keep us from coming apart – and the bar has always been the supplier from whence the mortar flew. We, us all, have spent nights of revelry and remorse at these monuments. The great drinkers of history have laid claim to the majesty as they laid waste to their respective libations. To whirr the mind, think of the verses scrawled on the backs of coasters and the scores smudged between stains on bar napkins. In all truth, I believe that it is paramount that you, the drinker, as you read this gibberish, grasp that you are taking part in one of the greatest and all-embracing movements of history. When you are bones, others will be drinking from that glass, sitting in that chair and perpetuating the very activity you yourself are perpetuating as others have before you. Whether you’re pausing to order me a shot, or simply overseeing Guy Gardener escort Batman from “The Warrior” for gently urinating on the bar, you will be equivocally filled with a sense of awe, greatness and foreboding for your hand in this round.