Je ne m'appelais Jacky jamais
Decrepitude and a general European affectation are the prime constituents of a trendy bar, so my prediction for next season’s hot spot is — wait for it — “Pissoir.”
In the meantime, I remain a devotée of my local community cesspool (in French, piscine de ces). What turns a common or garden drunk into that loyal specialist, the “regular”?
Of course, of course, a need to “belong,” to “rather be with you people than the finest people in the world.” But what makes one choose a particular spot? Does it matter in any way, or is it just that nobody knows this is somewhere? Is it based on the low, low prices? Is it based on friendly faces behind the bar? Nice asses in the booths? Surely, all this and more, and more.
But it’s that little extra — what those same French call the “I don’t know what” — that is so hard to pin down, yet holds all the difference between Wal-Mart and Pastis. Here’s where I could go after one of my trademark-pending socioscientific bar surveys, but I’m weary. I will merely make an unverified assertion, but on it I stake my reputation: people just want to be loved, and failing that, they want another drink. The bar gives an opportunity for the former, and guarantees the latter. There is no opportunity for critical failure as long as you don’t start hitting anybody. You are working with a net.
Of course, of course, we all want to return to the good old days, especially those of us who never had any. We want to remember when we were cute but an idiot anyhow, and it was not held against us. Of course, it will all be held against us on Friday at 11pm, but you might do better Wednesday at 3am. As a wise man used to say to me given half an opportunity, when you reduce your expectations to zero, you sometimes get what you want.
But why any particular bar? I think it’s just a process of elimination, as well as basic thermodynamics. It’s the same as with people on an individual level: most of them don’t like you, but keep trying. Also, if you sit in someone’s bedroom long enough, they’ll let you call them sweetheart. “I cannot imagine anyone else sitting on that stool, Jack, and if someone once did, he was merely marking time until you came along. Surely, this is the best of all possible bars.” My friends, people are inherently unimaginative. All they want is a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll. All they want is a warm place to wrap into a fetal position and weep. All they want is a way out that isn’t too way out. All they want is a jug of wine, a book of verses, and me.
Congratulate me on this, my fiftieth entry in the “blog.” I am truly a cultural force. I outlasted Neal Pollack and didn’t even have to write a novel. Gawker, watch your back.
by Jack, December 3, 2003 10:28 PM | More from Drinking
Within the Chronology
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