Tell Me Mister Know It All

Among the rather large number of things I don’t understand, one looms larger than the others today. Allow me to address it first with a simple question:
Are there quantifiable traits that go into making an excellent bar owner?
Seriously. Are there? And if there are, what might they be? In all likelihood the traits are numerous, and probably differ greatly depending upon who is answering the question. There is one, though, that, in my somewhat expert opinion, should never be exhibited by any bar owner.
He or she must not be a know-it-all.
Entering into a new business arrangement believing that you are smarter than everyone else spells doom. Know-it-alls don’t listen, they don’t watch, they don’t study, or ponder, or mull. Why? Because they already know it all.
It’s a prime example of bad thinking. It’s the sort of thinking that lead Roseanne Barr to believe she could render a splendid version of the National Anthem. It’s the sort of thinking that infected George Lucas just before he decided that Jar-Jar Binks would lend Episode I that special touch of whimsy. It is, in fact, the sort of thinking that lead to, among other things, New Coke, the Chrysler K-Car, Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg, social Darwinism, and Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s decision to leave the rubbers in the drawer the night they conceived Paris.
Bar owning is serious business. Many owners fail to grasp this most rigid of facts, and it’s especially problematic when talking about buying an already-thriving establishment.
Which brings me, at long last, to my main point.
I have watched the purchase and subsequent downfall of several terrific bars over the last few years. These places were fully-fledged members of their neighborhoods, each with a scads of regulars, and robust weekend and “theme” night crowds. They were, in short, thriving concerns. Then, for a variety of reasons, their owners decided to sell, and each buyer seemed dumber than the next—guys who couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions printed on the heel.
One in particular stands out, though I’ll avoid using either its old or new name. The place was pretty much all you could want in a neighborhood tavern. The cocktail waitresses remembered your name and your usual drink, and the bartenders were total pros—long-time service people who knew when to float a free round to regulars, knew their names, and the names of their kids. For food, it offered an array of standard bar fare—nachos and the like—in addition to a compliment of yummy Greek dishes. The coolest thing, however, was that the cook was an actual chef, trained at the Culinary Institute of America, and so each day there was a special menu of stuff you almost never see in a local pub—cold blueberry bisque, spicy New Orleans gumbo, escargot in garlic butter, etc. The atmosphere of the place changed according to the time of day. Around lunchtime it attracted business people, then a late-afternoon gaggle of elderly stool-flies. A family contingent moved in for dinner, only to be replaced in the later part of the evening by a college crowd, for whom it was walking distance from campus housing. Every Wednesday was Ladies Night. Atypically, more women showed than men. Tuesdays and Saturdays, they had karaoke, and you felt embarrassed for fewer people than is usually the case. They showed sports on TV, but you couldn’t really call it a sports bar. Two pool tables lurked in the back room, host to a league night on Thursdays. You could smoke anywhere you wanted, strike up a conversation with all sorts of different people, get full, get loaded, and have a righteous ol’ time generally.
Then the owners, tired some said of their hectic lives, found a buyer and got out of the business. It happened over night.
A waitress said to me, “See that guy over there in the Aloha shirt? He’s the new owner.” As a regular, I was curious, and so went over and introduced myself. In return I got a limp handshake, and a snotty attitude. The guy didn’t give a shit, he was meeting one of his regular customers. Many of the other habitués complained of the same treatment.
And it got worse in a hurry.
First, he changed the menu. Said it cost too much to keep it supplied. Then he changed the beer selection, which had previously featured beverages from all over the world, to a bland assortment of watery American drool—he had made promotional deals with the distributors, you see. Right on the heels of that, he decreed that no waitress or bartender was to hand out free drinks. If they wanted to buy a customer a shot from their tips, that was fine, but freebies were right out. As a follow-up, he ruled that boyfriends and girlfriends of the staff were persona non grata when the staff was on duty. Over the next few weeks he cancelled the karaoke nights because he didn’t like them, he fired the chef for refusing to reuse yesterday’s fry oil, and he canned all but one of the waitresses and bartenders—all the good ones, of course. The one he kept was rude and lazy, but adhered to the new rules with malevolent gusto. He redecorated, removing the pictures of happy customers and other homey touches, replacing them with sports team and distillery neon. It had been his life-long wish, it was said, to own a real sports bar. He topped off the remodel with the installation of several plasma screen TVs, which he paid for by raising drink prices by a dollar each.
The long-time customers, some of whom had been drinking there for twenty years, were peeved and bolted in droves. The family diners found other destinations because the food now sucked. The college kids stopped coming because the place had lost its eclectic charm. Soon, all the owner had left were the stool-flies, guys who can nurse a single glass of beer for three hours, and always tip a quarter, never less never more.
He lost money by the bucketful.
I stopped by a few weeks ago, just because I was in the area and wanted a quick shot and a beer before work. I was the only customer in the place. The bartender, a surly kid with too many facial piercings, told me it’s always like this. I smiled, drank my booze, and left.
The new owner is a fool. Beyond that, he’s a know-it-all. He looked at a thriving business, thought he could make it better, and instead murdered it.
What a stooge.
Many of us drunkards want to be bar owners. When you decide to make the move, do it wisely.

Mister Walker Percy 

I thought of a conclusion.

You know this reality is kind of true. I would be weird. I am still trying to solve the last chapter of my book. Like every work I have written I am scared to write a conclusion. A conclusion is always an end. An end is a means that I have to start a new beginning. Well what brought me to the subject of an end was my thoughts of the Great American writer, Walker Percy. When I went to the Wedding of Chip & Kerry I talked with Mrs.Percy and told her I am a writer and still working on the conclusion. She brought me a subject that her husband had a hard time finishing the ending of the Moviegoer. I know that doesn't sound right but I am just worried that I am able to finished and I won't be able to conclude it the right way or the way I wanted to start it off.

I guess writing will help me solve the solution.

Caption Naming Contest. I know its not Sunday but I have been busy. I haven't thought of this until now. But I did wonder I am a democrat, but I always thought Babies tasted more like beef jerky  

Part of Blog sent by Miss Canada

Damn You Tony Orlando and the your freaking Yellow Ribbon

This blog is comes from Miss Canada.

Tie a yellow ribbon 'round your SUV
It started with yellow ribbons. Yellow ribbons from the old folk song, dating all the way back to 1981, showing support for the US troops abroad. Yeah, we all thought it was an older tradition than that (see essays here and here) -- some suggest dating back to the civil war. It turns out that the practice of tying a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree really only exploded with the Scud missiles during the first Gulf Storm.If only it stopped with yellow ribbons. At one time it was a nice gesture -- a show of solidarity, support, faithfulness. Now Americans are ribbon-crazy. Next it was the AIDS awareness red ribbon. The pink breast cancer awareness ribbon. You want a list? There are millions! Black; Black and Blue; Black and Pink; Blue (Dark); Blue (Light); Blue and Yellow; Brown; Burgundy... Wait a minute, I'm not even out of the B's yet? Luckily there are kind souls willing to help us match our colour to a cause, and even sell us the ribbons to go with it -- See here.Now, I don't want to seem unpatriotic or uncharitable. I support all sorts of good things -- just not by wearing ribbons. Or by wearing pins that look like ribbons. Or even by (my favourite) slapping a magnetic ribbon onto my vehicle.Let's think about it: We put ribbons on our cars to tell the world that we support our troops. Our troops are in Iraq. They are fighting for oil. To fuel our gas-guzzling, irresponsible SUVs. Whereupon we paste ribbons to tell the world that we support our...

Jack & Me, and a perfect apartment for me

I tend to complain and today was a day I thought I wouldn't complain but I just feel hot and sticky. The weather itself is no fun. I am again stuck at home writing. Which of course can be a great thing. I spent most of my day at home pondering what could I do to cheer myself up. I have after all nearly finished reviewing an edited my novel. I am thinking of Jack Kerouac today. I mean, Me and Mister Kerouac have a lot of similarities and brings me to the point that I believe that I am his reinarcnate.

Here are a few similarities. Both of were raised with French Canadian Mothers and American fathers. Both were ackward as children that people found to be wierd. He tried many careers before settling into writing, like I have. He had a strange set of friends, like I do. He dropped out of Columbia, I dropped out of Ottawa. Both of us are left handed. He loved to explore new parts of America, I love visiting backwoods of areas. Both of us have trusty best friends that inspire us to write about them, he had Neal Cassidy I have Michael. Both of us have our mothers confidence to continue writing. Both of our fathers have a great sense of humor. Both are proud of there sons. Both of us, tried out for some sort of sport and failed to do something and quit, he played Football & I wrestled.

Jack was a drunk, I am a drunk. So you see there are a lot more possiblities that I can compare myself to Kerouac. But those are just a few I could think of on the spot. I was thinking of that when I went to Barnes and Nobles and found a cool post card of him and his cat. I figured it would be kind of cool to get a cat just like that. If I ever get a cat, I would get two, one named Ginsberg and the other Kerouac. Named after my two favorite beat poets.

I can imagine myself living in a small apartment with two cats in the city. Writing or at least having papers filling the rooms with poetry and articles that I deem somewhat subjectable or unsubjectable. Its just a dream I have. Of course, my dream is to get out of Houston and live in Montreal where its cooler or maybe even New York. Have a place where I can sit on my lap top and write. Ah that sounds like an ideal place to live a nice studio filled with manuscripts and papers of notes for my latest books. Bookshelves full of books of poetry and generation X stuff like Nick Hornsby and MTV Generation stuff. Records on the floor. I know it would look like a disaster but heck it would be my personal place. I would get a housekeeper to clean every 2 weeks. I would do the laundry in the basement or have my own washing machine. I was thinking a place like Patrice has,but in a str8 neighborhood. Close to everything to walk around at night. A place I can walk or ride my bike around the city. Ahh my dream apartment. I would have furnature from IKEA and stuff from home.

I can dream can't I. I know that this dream is far ahead of myself and I know I am not ready to move out on my own yet but I am slowly thinking about it. I am still trying to think what I am going to do next, like am I going to like living in Montreal or will I live in Montreal, or would I like to live in Montreal. I am saying I am going there for vacation its not like I am looking for work and staying there for a long ass time. Its a vacation.

I also want to go to Ottawa while I am there. To visit and sight see. Maybe have lunch at Minglewoods. Just explore the city. Or I may relax and take it easy. A lot too think about while waiting. I have to first figure out where to stay and when I can stay and for how long? Pretty much a lot to think about. I just want to get out of Houston soon the heat is driving me nuts.

My birthday is coming up and I am thinking I am going to be old.25 woohoo a mile stone. A quarter of a century. Yea, I am now officially going to be in my mid twenties. I am also one of those lables now. 20 somethings. YUCK. Well I can't wait to be 25. Yea, I have some fall back ideas, I mean sure 24 is great but 25 I am practically 30 but hell I am going to be happy. I am still not married, don't have a kid yet. So things are going good for me. Going to celebrate it in New Orleans, hopefully I am going to be able to go visit the quarter. I want to go to Pat O's and drink a Hurricane or two.

I also want to go to Preservation Hall to listen to some good jazz. I am thinking of all the stuff I want to do while there.

Well I am going to write more later.