And the search for the perfect hangout.
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• It sells tobacco and cigarettes, aspirins and stamps, and lets you use the phone.
• There is “a snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels (a specialty of the house), cheese, pickles and … large biscuits with caraway seeds.…”
• “[A] creamy sort of [draught] stout … and it goes better in a pewter pot.”
• “You go through a narrow passage leading out of the saloon, and find yourself in a fairly large garden.…”
For the most part, George and I see eye to eye. Except on the problem of music. Rock and roll was an essential element of Guy’s bar, and the music was always excellent, at moderate volume, and selected by Matt the bartender, whose tastes were eerily similar to mine.
Furnishing-wise, Guy’s bar was unremarkable. Graffiti chic, you might say. A dusty pinball machine, a neglected shuffleboard game and a beat up dartboard occupied the back room. My wife got a kick out of the ladies room with its two commodes facing each other, a low table between them. I suppose so you could play a hand of gin rummy while doing your business.
I had always supposed Guy was well into his seventies; in fact he was only 53 when he died. Most of those years were spent sitting stoically on the front patio, enjoying the scene, the talk, a Pall Mall and a Stag. A few nights before the end, Guy treated the wife and me to a round of Schlitz beers as we sat out front people-watching. It was a fine summer night. I wish now we would have stayed and chatted longer.
Some malcontents are forever seeking out new experiences and adventures, constantly on the prowl for something better. I am not averse to trying new things, but so often I find them wanting. My lifelong search for the perfect hangout stopped when I found Guy’s place.
Spoiler alert: at the end of Orwell’s essay we learn that there is in fact no pub called The Moon Under Water. But Guy’s bar does exist, though its future is currently in the hands of a probate judge. I hope to God the bar remains open. I am far too old to go in search of another.
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?