My rant for the day: Jezebel's
Oookay class, today we're going to talk about one of my favourite bars that lives only in memory, and how much I hate change. No, not a little bit of hate, but the kind that makes you daydream about walking away from a building as it explodes into a huge prickly fireball of exploditude while nonchalantly picking lint off your jacket (Ala most any stylish movie where the bad guy blows up something the good guy really, really likes.. like his cat.. or his collection of Garbage Pail Kids from the fourth grade).
Jezebel's was perfect. Large couches you could lose your cigarettes in (And alternately find other people's), friendly waitstaff, artwork gifted by local artists.. dark lighting.. etc, etc. It was unobtrusive and relaxed, a place where one felt as if walking in and hanging out wouldn't be punished by the opinions of others.
Mellow. Smoky. Good.
It switched to Jimmy Lee's for awhile, and that was still alright. They lost most of the artwork and changed the status to Sports Bar. That was easily avoided; just don't go on Sundays or Mondays. Most any other night you could watch one of the various eighties movies kept behind the bar on the big screen.
Fast forward to 2003.
Dale Ann's Ladd's Edition something-or-other (This is where you start playing The Omen soundtrack). The sign out front pierces thru the night with this goofy-assed caricature of, one can only assume to be, the owner (Or perhaps a blonde Nancy Kerrigan seen thru the eyes of Ralph Steadman high on a tab of LSD he found in a coat he hadn't worn since 1982).
Upon walking inside you are greeted by the sounds of idiots.
Not to mention the track lighting ripped away from the ceilings of a Starbucks catalogue. The brightness instantly makes me become more aware of myself, of my surroundings. The smoke guttering upwards from the mouths of those who turn to eyeball me like strike comparison to the end of shift whistle in a Flinstones cartoon.
Uncomfortable.
I first notice that the big screen television has been replaced by a stage hastily placed together stage, upon which a young lady is singing acapella sad gaelic songs of lovers, and loss.. and love lost.. and... haggus...
Hah.. hahaha... sweet jesus.. open mike... open mike.. fuck what's next, Karaoke? I quickly look around for some kind of schedule, instantly realizing that a schedule is the last thing that belongs here.. but there it is, posted next to some guy who looks like he walked off the set of Pump Up The Volume.
Hah... yes... open mike... karaoke... overpriced marguerita nite, it's all there. Like so many other tasteless bars that have lost their one insight as to what a bar is for.
Drinking. Usually very heavily. Where you *might* get a basket of french fries, but it's considered a privilege usually only offered to those who have been there since 11 A.M.
Fuck man, why can't people just go to a bar and drink.. and why the hell is my bartender wearing sunglasses?
GAAAAAAAHHHH
Oookay class, today we're going to talk about one of my favourite bars that lives only in memory, and how much I hate change. No, not a little bit of hate, but the kind that makes you daydream about walking away from a building as it explodes into a huge prickly fireball of exploditude while nonchalantly picking lint off your jacket (Ala most any stylish movie where the bad guy blows up something the good guy really, really likes.. like his cat.. or his collection of Garbage Pail Kids from the fourth grade).
Jezebel's was perfect. Large couches you could lose your cigarettes in (And alternately find other people's), friendly waitstaff, artwork gifted by local artists.. dark lighting.. etc, etc. It was unobtrusive and relaxed, a place where one felt as if walking in and hanging out wouldn't be punished by the opinions of others.
Mellow. Smoky. Good.
It switched to Jimmy Lee's for awhile, and that was still alright. They lost most of the artwork and changed the status to Sports Bar. That was easily avoided; just don't go on Sundays or Mondays. Most any other night you could watch one of the various eighties movies kept behind the bar on the big screen.
Fast forward to 2003.
Dale Ann's Ladd's Edition something-or-other (This is where you start playing The Omen soundtrack). The sign out front pierces thru the night with this goofy-assed caricature of, one can only assume to be, the owner (Or perhaps a blonde Nancy Kerrigan seen thru the eyes of Ralph Steadman high on a tab of LSD he found in a coat he hadn't worn since 1982).
Upon walking inside you are greeted by the sounds of idiots.
Not to mention the track lighting ripped away from the ceilings of a Starbucks catalogue. The brightness instantly makes me become more aware of myself, of my surroundings. The smoke guttering upwards from the mouths of those who turn to eyeball me like strike comparison to the end of shift whistle in a Flinstones cartoon.
Uncomfortable.
I first notice that the big screen television has been replaced by a stage hastily placed together stage, upon which a young lady is singing acapella sad gaelic songs of lovers, and loss.. and love lost.. and... haggus...
Hah.. hahaha... sweet jesus.. open mike... open mike.. fuck what's next, Karaoke? I quickly look around for some kind of schedule, instantly realizing that a schedule is the last thing that belongs here.. but there it is, posted next to some guy who looks like he walked off the set of Pump Up The Volume.
Hah... yes... open mike... karaoke... overpriced marguerita nite, it's all there. Like so many other tasteless bars that have lost their one insight as to what a bar is for.
Drinking. Usually very heavily. Where you *might* get a basket of french fries, but it's considered a privilege usually only offered to those who have been there since 11 A.M.
Fuck man, why can't people just go to a bar and drink.. and why the hell is my bartender wearing sunglasses?
GAAAAAAAHHHH
You're of a dying breed that appreciates bars where you aren't put on display under flourescents and forced to listen to a drunk frat boy try and sing "Hungry Like the Wolf", 'cause, well, we all know that's REAL entertainment.
Bah.