| Sunday, April 17, 2005 |
| Booze and You [A Users Guide] |
Once upon a time, I was visiting Mark Wagner while he lived in Madison,
Wisconsin, and I lived somewhere else.
There were five or six of us. While deciding where to go for a beer, I
suggested “The Red Barn”. It was nearby; they had the best jukebox
around, never busy on a Wednesday, and they had some of my favorite
beers on tap.I thought the decision had been made, for the most part, but
almost everyone had a look that suggested a bad smell had wafted in.
Other potential places were bandied about, but none of them had the
charm of my first choice.
I grew tired of the conversation when 20 minutes had gone by and my
mouth still did not taste like beer. I asked why this was, and why not “The
Red Barn”. Mark took me aside and explained that I was no longer
welcome at “The Red Barn”.
When I asked him why, he claimed that the last time I
was there, I chased people around the dance-floor
with the mirror from the bathroom wall, spouting
some diatribe about what their absurd mating
ritual looked like to me.
Hearing Mark tell the story was like
experiencing the myths of another
culture for the first time. I had
absolutely no context for
what he was expecting
me to believe were
my own actions.
I told him it must
have been
someone else.
He continued, saying that
he had asked me to sit down,
and further why I was doing
what I was doing, and that
is when the
curtain fell.
He maintained that my response was:
“If they didn’t want me to do this, they would
have attached it to the wall better”
I recognized the stuperous logic, and in the end was
foisted on my own rhetorical petard. I accepted the actions as my
own, and the consequences, which were slight, but immediate.
We would have to find another bar to wreck, another staff to terrorize,
another clientele to offend. This might take some effort.
We got to work right away.
Wisconsin, and I lived somewhere else.
There were five or six of us. While deciding where to go for a beer, I
suggested “The Red Barn”. It was nearby; they had the best jukebox
around, never busy on a Wednesday, and they had some of my favorite
beers on tap.I thought the decision had been made, for the most part, but
almost everyone had a look that suggested a bad smell had wafted in.
Other potential places were bandied about, but none of them had the
charm of my first choice.
I grew tired of the conversation when 20 minutes had gone by and my
mouth still did not taste like beer. I asked why this was, and why not “The
Red Barn”. Mark took me aside and explained that I was no longer
welcome at “The Red Barn”.
When I asked him why, he claimed that the last time I
was there, I chased people around the dance-floor
with the mirror from the bathroom wall, spouting
some diatribe about what their absurd mating
ritual looked like to me.
Hearing Mark tell the story was like
experiencing the myths of another
culture for the first time. I had
absolutely no context for
what he was expecting
me to believe were
my own actions.
I told him it must
have been
someone else.
He continued, saying that
he had asked me to sit down,
and further why I was doing
what I was doing, and that
is when the
curtain fell.
He maintained that my response was:
“If they didn’t want me to do this, they would
have attached it to the wall better”
I recognized the stuperous logic, and in the end was
foisted on my own rhetorical petard. I accepted the actions as my
own, and the consequences, which were slight, but immediate.
We would have to find another bar to wreck, another staff to terrorize,
another clientele to offend. This might take some effort.
We got to work right away.