Back in the day, I had a girlfriend who moved in with three other people into a new construction townhouse after we graduated college. I’d visit frequently, making a pest of myself and becoming best friends with one of her roommates (Roy!), making me an even more frequent visitor.
Consequently, I got to know the landlord, who always seemed to be hanging around, just like I was. This particular landlord, a fella named Jimmy Georges, possessed a first rate Boston accent. I mean this guy should be in the hall of fame of Boston accents. I’d been living in the area long enough to have encountered the Boston accent many times each day, but I had never heard it as perfectly rendered as when spoken by Jimmy Georges.
Anyway, there I was one day when Jimmy Georges happened to be at the apartment, caulking something or collecting a rent check or whatever, and I asked him about an oddity of the apartment: why was there a forlorn-looking countertop and sink out there in the living room? I was a young, green newcomer to “the big city” from a smallish town; to me, it seemed like an architectural boner. So Jimmy Georges explained, “It’s a wet bah.”
A wet bar? I know you think that a high-class person such as myself would have had several wet bars in his childhood manse, but I had never actually heard of such a thing. I was informed that a wet bar is where you make the drinks.
How embarrassing! I was known at that time for making drinks, or at least for drinking the drinks that other people made, so for me to display such social unawareness about a drinking matter cast me in a totally different light to the drinking public.
At that moment, I decided I would never suffer such embarrassment again. One day, I would have my very own wet bar. It might take my becoming a captain of industry, or maybe just a wet bar salesman with easy access to factory seconds, but one way or another I was going to be making drinks in my living/dining area.
Still waiting for my big wet bar sales job opportunity.
Eventually, I’m going to retire from my current role as a quiet player in backroom diplomatic negotiations that foster world peace, and when I do I’m going to open a shop called “Pat’s Bike and Brew.” I’ve always wanted to open a shop that combines two of the things I most love in this crazy, mixed-up world of ours. This will be a place where you can get your bike serviced, purchase tools and parts, and get maintenance advice. Or just shoot the breeze over a couple of Belgian golden ales, brewed right there on site. Needless to say, I’ll brew the beer. It’s not like I don’t have significant experience with it.
It’s just occurring to me, and probably already occurred to you, that authorities may not be so pleased with a bike shop serving beer. Can you imagine a car dealership serving beer to patrons while they wait for their alternator to be replaced? I’m sure you can, and so can lawyers who have made a career out of suing car dealers.
So I have a better idea: “Pat’s Watch and Clock. And Beer.” As a person with many watches and clocks, several of which don’t work, I’m just the right person to show enthusiasm for your love of old mechanical timepieces, which are easily outperformed by cheap plastic devices with Disney characters on their faces. As we talk about the beauty of grandpa’s old Illinois Regulator watch and all its little gears and springs and jewels, we can uncork a couple of Abbey Ales. Just don’t spill any droplets into the movement, because my Abbey Ales have a fair bit of unfermentable sugars in them and will make a sticky mess of grandpa’s precious pocket watch.
With this in mind, it may be best to go with “Pat’s Radio Repair, and Good Beer.” I like old radios, especially when you can find a baseball game on them. And I like good beer when I’m listening to baseball. In my radio repair shop, you can bring in an old Telefunken tube radio that used to play The Shadow in the 1940s. I will find the offending dead tube and get a replacement from an online supplier that has purchased the whole world’s remaining supply of radio tubes. And then you and I toast me with a glass or two of my dry-hopped Hefeweizen while listening to the staticy a.m. signal, until you, as a lightweight, get drunk on my beer and pissed off that the radio only plays “traffic on the 3s” and foreign language radio programs instead of The Lone Ranger. And then you throw the radio across the room, smashing it to bits.
Maybe I’ll just open a beer tasting room instead.
Am I seriously thinking about getting my family a vacation in North Korea before the next war shuts the place down permanently? No. But let me tell you a secret: if we did visit the land of Jim Kong Hun, I’d definitely want to visit his new restaurant and get a sampling of some of the vittles the portly dictator has a hankering to be fixin’.
I’m told he does the cooking himself!
Jim Kong Hun Running Through The Dinner Menu with His Sous-chefs
What’s most exciting is being able to engage him in a conversation when the meal is done, as I heard he can be rather affable and is only too happy to come out and talk about how he prepared each dish. Needless to say, questions are limited to dishes ordered and cannot veer into politics. (I may test that theory if/when we visit North Korea.) Yelp users say that although he comes across sometimes as a brusque blowhard when he is reading prepared statements on state media, he actually has a really kind and gentle demeanor when he dons his chef coat. Just don’t piss him off.
I'm most interested in the velvety, chocolatey, gooey dessert that he calls “The Atomic Bomb.” (The menu states, “Must Try!”)
I recently heard that, by and large, we humans are not consuming enough chocolate.
I’m pretty confident that I consume enough chocolate for several people, which can only mean that some people out there aren’t pulling their chocolate consumption weight. They claim to eat their fair share and sometimes even manage to, but then they slack off, and soon are failing to make chocolate an integral part of their diets. If there’s chocolate around maybe they’ll indulge, but they aren’t creative enough to think consciously about how to get their chocolate numbers up.
Guess what: that person used to be me. I know you think of me as a chocolate hero, always eating extra chocolate to account for the laggards who aren’t willing to put in the sweat-equity, always managing the house’s stores of chocolate and variety of selection, always ready with a friendly quip or adage about chocolate.
Close. I do go above and beyond, but the fact is I haven’t been ready with a quip about chocolate in quite some time. Will be talking to my life coach about this at our next session.
Trumpian Tweetage Haiku Continuum
Must go nuclear option.
NO MORE DACA DEAL!
We don’t have a wall
Not going to have a country
FUND THE BORDER WALL
Trade Wars are good and
Easy to win. They get cute?
Don't trade; we win big!
Promote the Fake Book
Mentally Deranged Author
Now that collusion
With Russia: a total hoax
Kim Jong Un, I too
Have a nuclear button.
And my button works.
Tax cut/Reform bill
Massive Alaska Drilling
Sanctions on North Korea
World wants Peace, not Death
Women I don't know. FAKE NEWS!
Army Navy Game
He's bad on Crime, Life, Border.
Vets. Guns. VOTE ROY MOORE!
Time Magazine Called
Prob'ly "Person of the Year"
I took a pass. Thanks!
The Christmas Story
Mother, Father, Baby Son
Jesus Christ. Bahrain.
Matt Lauer just fired
When will top executives
Be fired for Fake News?
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