Coffee or Tea, Anyone? Both?......

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:          Coffee or Tea, Anyone?  Both?......

For the record, I once participated in an "International BORE OFF" with a chap who was reputed to be the most tedious and boring of humans anywhere on the planet.  However, I won, and walked off with the trophy held high!!  What an accomplishment!

I think the contest may have been rigged!  

In any case, as a Geezer in Full command of my faculties, sort of,  and in the full flight of GeezerHood generally, I'd like to present to my beloved and faithful readers a new presentation about the wonders and glories of COFFEE and TEA consumption, and the marvelous venues that serve the finest of those concoctions (or are they confections?) 

Some people, we're told, do not care for coffee, and some prefer "mud" over tea, we're told...  reliably, sometimes!  (I have a friend who prefers hot tea to coffee.  Very strange!)

(Both coffee and tea, by the by, contain nutrients and antioxidants!  Both help protect the body against cell damage.  Do we need more reasons to drink the stuff??!!  One should think not!!  Oh yeah, and Vitamin B2...!)

SweetHeart and I do not start our day without a trip to a favored coffee house.  Wait!!!  Don't leave yet...  I'm not finished!  She prefers decaffeinated coffee with a modicum of hot water at its base.  I, on the other had, prefer a puddle or a quarter slurp of caffeinated, dark roast coffee with the balance filled with the purveyor's finest decaffeinated blend!  Oh, and did I mention the superb aroma of fine coffee??!!

Whilst positioned at said coffee house -- lately, Stone Creek's Harwood Avenue location; sometimes Downer Avenue -- we tend to haul out our electronic telecommunications devices, explore certain puzzling challenges and commence attempting to solve said puzzles!  E.g.   Wordle, Connections, Mini-Crossword challenges.  We generally succeed in conquering said challenges!  I mean, what fun, what joyful pastimes for those of us still in control of our brainwaves and sentient powers!  (Before they fade?...)

This morning, I'd like to add, in case anyone is wondering, or curious or perhaps already stupefied, we repaired both to Stone Creek and to Colectivo, the Oakland Avenue location.  (We enjoy interacting commercially and personally with Frank at the latter locale...)  Sometimes a second cup of mud is necessary, or at least greatly desired and

appreciated.  Sometimes iced coffee is a nice treat, particularly in the warm and sunny days, or, put another way, the blazing moments of summer!  Wouldn't you agree??

In the afternoon, we tend to prefer, not hot tea, but ICED SPORT TEA -- light ice and a slice of fresh lemon, if you please...   A large of cup of ice to take away with us, also please, as often the light ice is insufficient, 

Could be an image of a fabled coffee house
on Capitol Hill in Seattle, Washington!
Once thought to be the American
birth place of popular coffee houses!

 (not sufficient), and we prefer more tea than ice, you see....  One needs to re-ice the tea lest it warms too quickly!  We are nothing if not astute, possibly even quite brilliant,  about maximizing our quantities of tea.  If one does not specify "Light Ice," one might enjoy a few brief sips and nothing accosts one's nose but large and uncomfortable cubes of ice destined to freeze the proboscis!  Resulting in very little actual TEA!

There are highly important lessons to be learned here!!

But let us now return to the crux of this writing, or posting, if you prefer.  Coffee in the AM, Sport Tea in the PM!  Pay Attention!!  

Could be the Foundry...  Our 
favorite among certain
of them!  

   When during my wandering         days, I landed in the Seattle-    Tacoma region of the western     states, and discovered Capitol Hill  (high atop Seattle) and the many     fine coffee houses situated

 thereupon; thus I fell a bit     mesmerized and thus found myself amorously captivated by     and enthralled with the glories of truly good coffee.  A discovery most delightful and profoundly delicious!
Thus my eternal fondness for fine coffee began in earnest!!  

I don't think I have anything more to report...  The aim, here, is merely to extoll the virtues of great potables such as coffee and iced sport tea (Maybe hot tea as well...  Black, Green, etc.).  And to share with all and sundry the pleasures of both beverages, just in case some of my devotees might be seeking pastimes and potables yet undiscovered.  Thank you, and happy imbibing...  Oh, this has nothing to do with and is in no way intended to steer my beloved devotees to spirited or intoxicating beverages.  Thank you!  (Did I say that already?)

Humbly Submitted in August of 2025 -- by Joel K.

 

 

The Bean that Salvages Morning... Its Coveted Rewards!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:     The Bean that Salvages Morning...  Its Coveted Rewards!


For many humans, those who regard early morning rising as an agony and a curse, heading off to clock in to one or another form of drudgery...  meaning work...  a cup of coffee is or can be a form of adrenaline.  Maybe a necessity, like an injection of life-saving medicine.  A magic potion that jump starts the brain and possibly the heart as well.

For me, my fondness for coffee began sometime in the early 1970s, in Seattle, Washington, when certain now-famous coffee purveyors set up shop in Pike Place Market, one in particular, perhaps needless to add.  Several other coffee houses followed, some better than others in terms of flavor and variety of recipes and concoctions, some lavishly decorated with artistic designs.

In my GeezerHood, my fondness for good coffee has grown into a kind of obsession, as if one addiction has supplanted another...  alcohol for java beans...  and that sweet sense of resurrection sends happiness coursing through the intricate roadmap of arteries to its destination brain! 

Perhaps I should elucidate!  I really like good coffee!!  Currently, SweetHeart and I have two favorite coffee destinations:  Colectivo and Stone Creek, the former either Prospect or Oakland or Lakeside, the latter on Downer and Park.  Naturally we've enjoyed other locations -- including a few in Madison.  I mean, we're explorers...  adventurous to a fault!!   

Sadly, I don't have as much time as I'd like to be a coffee house character these days, as the necessity to earn a living interferes with my social calendar, my love for the bean.  When we do have a moment to lounge and sip the juice of the gorgeous brown elixir, we note that

there is and should be no expectation of privacy in a coffee house.  I overhear young people overusing the word "like" as they discuss boy and girl friends, jobs, varied relationships, parties, hangovers, school, books, hair, lip rouge, fashion, piercings, hair....

Older habitués talk about politics, lots of political stuff, relationships, marriages and divorce, books, careers, social engagements, theatre, opera, children and the challenges that children bring to themselves and their parents, grandchildren... politics.  The holders of public offices that they can and cannot stomach...  "How in the name of all that's sacred did that idiot get elected..."  
Topics of that nature.

The other aspect of, "There's no expectation of privacy in a coffee house..." is something that annoys the hell out of those of us who are "regulars."  Certain patrons tend to stand way back from the coffee clerks' counter, that is, back from the patron currently at the counter, as if in a

There are many outstanding coffee purveyors in
Milwaukee.  Visit Phoenix, for example, on
Fond du Lac Ave. just west of 35th Street!!

healthcare facility, like a hospital registration counter, or a bank!!  I mean, what the hell...  "Is the guy in front of you ordering a caramel machiavelli infused with opium or ecstasy?  Move up, for f-ing sake...  This aint no doctor's office!!  You can actually overhear someone ordering a double-dip latte with a shot of non-fat raspberry syrup, calotropis,  chia seed extract and figwort!!  Everyone know it's not a secret code or a nefarious contract...!!"  (Or is it...  I may have to pay greater attention...??!!)  


Nevermind...  Back to the bean and the coveted rewards it provides.  In my / our long-standing patronage of Colectivo, for example, I've managed to amass 1,000,000 rewards points, probably worth approximately $900.00 in coffee beverages and bags of beans.  Lately, I dropped down to something just fewer than 900,000 points, owing to the children's insistence that "you have to start spending those points!..."  But I'll get the balance back to more than a million!  I's a mission, one I do not take lightly!  


My children have been battling over who gets the coffee card in the will!!  I ask them not to speak of my point balance so loudly as I fear some scofflaw or assassin might overhear, and conspire to bop me in the head and make off with my card!!!  "I mean to say, children, it's worth a small ransom!  I must swear all of you to absolute secrecy!!  Whisper of it among yourselves if you must, however...  If you do not heed my warning, I shall cash in my points and make off to an island with my beans!!"  (In the words of Clouseau: "...That got them thinking...   eh Hercule!") 

Let us give thanks and praise to Ethiopian goat herd, Kaldi who, it is written, first discovered the potential of the BELOVED BEAN.  Kaldi, according to "Legend," discovered coffee after noticing that after eating the berries from a certain tree, his goats became so energized that they roamed the night without sleep!  (That last part's a bit hard to swallow -- if you'll forgive the expression...  I find that I can sleep soundly in almost any circumstance, except after hearing certain politicians speak!!  Thank you...)  

[Special Note of Dedication and Gratitude:    With profound thanks to Beloved Daughter, Bethie, who suggested that a brief treatise on coffee, favorite houses of imbibing and certain rewards for purchasing and consuming great quantities of the stuff, might be an interesting (the word "interesting" is intended merely editorially, based on reactions and opinions of the multitude!) addition to one's canon of Geezer Writings, thus encouraging this edition.  With great praise, Amor and Abrazos to the aforementioned dedicatee, and sincere thanks to potential readers...  the perpetrator remains your humble if not entirely obedient servant...]

Humbly Submitted, 05-08-19 -- Joel K.

          



   

Chapter Three: Into the West...

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    A Possible Murder Mystery...  Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Chapter Three – Into the West…. But First, a Ritual

        The auditorium was packed with gowned men and women, different groups of them in different colors, a glorious array of distinctive regalia and insignia.  Everyone wore the requisite graduation cap.  On the heads of most of the graduates in the assemblage, square caps with their colorful tassels abounded.  As he sat there waiting for the remaining graduates to file into the cavernous hall, Jack Rosnov thought how those massed square caps resembled a vast, undulating sea, as heads bobbed and turned in conversation or observation.  He amused himself by thinking that if one of the caps were removed from one of the heads, would it seem as though a great sea suddenly drained, as if a plug were pulled from its floor deep below the surface, causing a great swarm of bodies to rush helplessly into an unseen drain and disappear forever into a great, bottomless trench.

Hating the wait, not wanting to be a part of the pageantry of graduation day, Jack was cursing vigorously under his breath, fuming, expecting his head to blow up in rage at any moment, like a bomb, a mine in an enemy harbor accidentally struck by an invading ship.  And then, finally, everyone was seated on the main floor of the auditorium.  Various university dignitaries trooped in, taking their seats at the long table facing the audience of graduates and their families, mothers and fathers and other relatives seated further back, beaming with pride, situated behind the graduating seniors, masters and PhD candidates.  The ritual commenced, at last.  The university president rose and gave lengthy introductions, finally presenting the prominent guest speaker upon whom an honorary degree would be conferred sometime during the proceedings.

Jack did not hear the name of the commencement speaker as the latter was introduced, nor did Jack really care.  Though he knew he could look up the speaker’s name in the commencement program, he had no real interest, at least not at that moment.  He did notice, however, that the speech was quite good.  He thought he remembered that the speaker was a professor of anthropology or history or, perhaps, social sciences.  The man talked about humankind’s propensity for violent behavior, and tried to make the case that human beings, at least in part, were not responsible for “inventing” its own base, cruel and too often outrageously violent behavior.  

“After all, it was a great ape who took up a club and struck another member of the ape family long before homo sapiens began fashioning weaponry.”  At least that’s what Jack thought the dignitary said.  In the end, the speaker’s message made the point that human beings have the intellectual power to reverse the backward evolutionary slide.  “We have the means to resolve conflicts by using our brain power, vs. using the destructive power of guns, knives, bombs and other more destructive weapons.”  It was that point, that snippet from the commencement address that stuck in Jack’s head, in his memory.

Following the ceremony and the private family party that saw many friends and family members gather in the basement recreation room of the Rosnov family home, Jack took a job, briefly, as a bartender in a tavern at which he had previously worked, “Mario’s on Mason.”  Tending bar was a profession he had used as a funding mechanism for part of his college education, and would use again to bankroll his soon-to-commence, he reassured himself, travels throughout the western United States.  The memory of that commencement gathering occupied a permanent etching in his brain.  It was during that happy celebration at which he once again enjoyed a long conversation and pleasant visit with the young woman who would eventually become his wife.   That event, the future marriage, was, at the time, unforeseen, and several years and a number of adventures removed from the graduation celebration that was happily unfolding, a tapestry of merriment, laughter, story-telling and free-flowing alcohol.

At Mario’s, Jack continued to concoct drinks and draw beers for the faithful patrons who considered the place their club, for many a refuge, for others a place they seemed to regard as home, at least until asked to leave or ejected at 2:00 in the morning, standard weekday closing time.  Mario’s was a kind of legendary east side Milwaukee bar, a “character lounge,” a hangout, a place of careless revelry for local celebrities, an occasional national celebrity and for those who simply wanted “to be somebody.”  Often feeling they succeeded, as into the procession of nights, they absorbed too much alcohol and felt themselves genuinely amusing and interesting, not merely boring drunks given to tiresome jokes and too much loud and forced laughter.  

Mario’s would provide the bankroll that Jack needed to make his escape, extend his empirical reach into the vast, beautifully wild and romanticized west.  Within the space of two months’ time, more or less, Jack and his possessions were packed into the older but serviceable convertible, and then finally on the road.  The odometer would eventually tick off some 180,000 miles before the red Chevy’s engine would burn itself out in a chaotic soup of blackened and co-mingled oil and water, becoming a bulk of fried and unusable scrap.  Jack and a friend would hitchhike home from the old Chevy’s final resting place, a service garage and junkyard in central Wisconsin.

********************************

Navigating the nation's highways with a mixture of giddy anticipation and anxiety, he enjoyed being on his own, driving the Interstate but retreating frequently to back country roads, drinking in the pleasures of summer landscapes and the faces of rural America.  It was a journey of pure joy, of freedom.  Jack knew he’d eventually wind up in Washington State, but savored the unhurried pace with frequent stops, collecting ideas and odd characters and memories of things seen and experienced, jotted into a spiral bound notebook.  Its pages would become smudged and bubbled, a kind of ski slope of moguls in miniature.  He had no camera but never regretted the decision not to carry one with him.

Eventually, two or three weeks into the odyssey, past stone sentries that lined the highway of a western landscape location he wouldn’t later recall, past hills, rivers, mountains, small towns and too many watering holes of a different sort, Jack arrived.  He landed in Tacoma, Washington, the suburb of Ruston to be accurate, near a scenic park bordering Puget Sound, Point Defiance.

Jack would soon reconnect with friends he met while serving in the armed forces, a bit more than four years prior to this “homecoming.”   Some of whom were residents of long standing, and still made Tacoma or its nearby communities their home.  Jerry Smythe was his first contact, closest among the friends with whom he’d soon reunite.  Those who knew him well called him “Jere the Hare,” owing to a bald pate rimmed by what remained of fair-colored fringe, his proud head always termed by his friends, female and male alike, a “perfectly-shaped cranium.”  

One of Jerry’s procession of paramours — Louise — had often announced, “He has a beautifully-shaped dome, and if anyone says otherwise, I’ll bonk his head with a skillet!”  Jerry often regretted ending his relationship with Louise.  “She was the best cook of them all,” he insisted.  The remark a bit cryptic, as he would not discuss nor reveal the nature of his relationships with “all” of the women in his past.  Or, perhaps, if a “serious love affair” had ended badly, crippling forever any need or wish to commit himself to just one of the  women who populated his longings.  Jack would shortly be introduced to the latest in Jere the Hair’s parade of lovers, a Latino named Magdalena whom Jerry called, not surprisingly, "Maggie."

(Special Note:   Next Chapter, if there is to be one!:    "A Grim Discovery!"  Stay Tuned, and thank you for your rapt attention...  Inattention?  Complete Disinterest??!!)

Humbly Submitted, 10-23-18 -- Joel K.

Identity... Nicknames... Noms de Plume, and Like That!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      Identity...  Nicknames...  Noms de Plume, and Like That!

As I gaze through the lens of hoary GeezerHood, that lofty pinnacle (or is it the nadir?) of life on this planet, I cannot help but ponder the complex concept of identity, that of those we know and encounter in our lives, and our own.  Masks? Do we ALL wear them? It's a puzzle, what? 

In my youth, I knew a kid who held the unenviable nickname, "Stinky."  I don't recall that he was surrounded perpetually by a repulsive odor, in fact I don't think that was the reason. Perhaps he fell into a sewer, you know, just once!  Maybe he collected stinkhorns!  I don't know, but the nickname stuck throughout elementary school, and what an awful stigma to have to carry. (I wonder if people still call him "Stinky"?!)

I suppose I digress a bit!  We all know the phrase, "re-inventing oneself." Not sure I know exactly what it means.  In fact, I don't know who the hell I am, most of the time. I think we all tend to identify ourselves in terms of the different phases of our lives. We're different individuals as children, as teens, young adults...  And what about mood swings?  Bi-polar disorder? Do they change who we are, how we've perceived and identified? Certainly "Bi-Polar" has to pin a name tag on the afflicted party!!   

And how about a specific identity that's attached to a person in a specific place he or she tends to frequent? A case in point, maybe not a perfect example, but perhaps kind of interesting...  Consider a telephone conversation in which an casual listener might think both

parties nuts, or brain disordered:

"Simon's Tap!"
"That you, Wa...? I mean..."
"It's me, Archie.  Who's this?"
"Um... it's me, J...  I mean...."
"Mario? That you?"
"Yeah.  How you doin' Archie?  'The Boy' around?"
"How's Bobby?"
"SweetHeart?"
"Yeah, Bobby.  How's she doin'?"
"She's doin' OK. Big Nick there today? TV Johnny? Oil Rag Ralph?..."

Maybe nicknames are not about identity or even real perceptions of personality or a consequence of re-invention! But we do tend to be identified and given different names by people based on how we present ourselves, our personality traits, talents, appearance, what we do for work! "Mario" rose out of my tendency to sing for the gang at the saloon. Don't know how "Bobby" evolved!

I've had conversations with scholarly individuals who insist we never really know who we are, how to self-identify or convey who we think we are to others. So many tend to identify people in terms of what they do, not who they actually are. We present different faces in the workplace, often very different from those we present to intimates -- family members and close friends -- away from our places of employment.

Email, texting, telephone conversations... they tend to identify people in ways that may be very much or entirely contrary to who we / they might actually be. I have an old friend who is, in most circumstances, bright and articulate, but his telephone manner made one think of a shorthand clerk with a particular dislike for anything longer than 10-seconds on a telephone:

[ Phone rings! (Longer than four rings and he's gone!) ]
"Doin?"
"Nuttin'."
"S'up? Jeetjet?"
"Nah, d'jou?"
"Jake's...  five!"
"Ten OK?"
"Got smokes?"
"Some."
"Bucks."
"Some."
"Bring."
(Bang! The end of it was always ear-pingingly loud!)

The conversation -- or whatever it was -- was always the same, no matter who was called.  I

This is not a good likeness
of Uncle Icky! Nor is the
top image a good depiction
of the laconic caller, but you
probably get the idea!

often wonder if he knew, or cared, who he was calling.  Probably didn't matter!  As long as someone showed up with money and smokes in the time allowed!

Long ago, some good friends lived upstairs from us.  The male part of the duo had a fondness for strong drink...  To be accurate, I guess we all did in those days. One afternoon or early evening, he stumbled in, climbed a few steps, stumbled back one or two, finally arrived at our open back door. "Hey," he slurred as he beamed a smile, eyes not quite focused, addressing the three of us, SweetHeart, our only child at the time and me.

Our little daughter, then just in infancy, perhaps nearing toddler stage, pointed at our friend with a certain degree of dramatic emphasis and said, "Ick." From that day to this, our friend is known affectionately as "Uncle Icky." We've had T-shirts made with the nickname emblazoned upon them.  I assure you, he wasn't chronically "icky" with strong spirits, and in fact is a very bright, well-informed and largely self-taught individual. There was, still is, about him a great deal of humor, sober or inebriated! He doesn't seem to mind the moniker, "Uncle Icky." I guess he'd of said something by now, three or four decades later!

Florence did not look like
"Mickey da Rat," but she
did have Red Hair!

Certain labels or so-called identities we hang on people are not at all kind, or fair, or accurate. At a major hotel at which I worked in the Seattle-Tacoma area, there was a salad chef we christened "Florence of Arabia." Why? When she was concocting her leafy, culinary masterworks, knives flashing and whirling, lettuces and vegetable matter flying about her head and upper torso as she worked...  I mean, it all looked like a vegetarian sandstorm! It's entirely possible she went from her job to an art studio, or maybe, avocationally, she knit socks, or volunteered as a counselor to people struggling with identity issues...

One more thing...  I think it's rather sad and unfortunate that people tend to identify certain individuals in terms of prominent physical characteristics, often unkindly so...

"That you, Biffy?  How ya doin'?"
"I'm OK. You?"
"Good, thanks!"
"Hey Biffy, I lost my address book. Can you give me Iggy Blotnik's phone number?"
"You mean the guy wid de ears?"
"Look, Biffy, it's true Iggy has noticeably large ears and elongated lobes, but he has many other, including some very admirable characteristics too. He's bright. He's knowledgable. He's a great conversationalist. Good hair and teeth. I mean, the guy's a well-known micro-biologist!!"
"You mean the guy wid dem ears!"
"Gimme the phone number, Biffy."

So who the hell are we, really? And how do we truly come to know one another? I mean, in a real and significant sense! Oh well...  I'm hoping I'll eventually figure out a point to all this foolishness! Hey! Maybe everyone in the nation ought to have a talk show or a reality program to let people know who we are! Wait! Here's a swell idea for a brand new television show:  "Who am I? Do I Know, or Do You?" I should call Doctor Phil, or somebody. On second thought, never mind...   It's all too obscure and indefinable!!

Humbly Submitted, January 18, 2018 -- Joel K. 

   







  






       


  

The Drinking Culture! Or, Fine Pubs and Their Pickling Potions!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      The Drinking Culture!...    or, maybe...  "Pickles" at the Gate!   

“Where the hell's ‘Lare the Hair' ?” I bellowed within the private confines of my skull, silent rage and  impatience growing inside my brain like a bulbous nodule of fatty tissue, my face a plate of purple beets.  I was seething.  He was seriously late.  I hated to be anything but on time for a Seattle Totems hockey match, though they were doing poorly in the 1970 season. 

Didn’t matter.  I was hooked; we were both hooked on the "Totes."  “So where the hell is he?” I asked aloud to Arnold, the bartender on duty at The 400 Club.  Arnold shrugged. He murmured, "Huh?"
  

The tavern’s name was a small mystery that, long before, may have had something to do with its location or address (but of no relevance at the time!), perhaps the number of drunkards thrown out and banned for life?!  No one really knew, and there was no one in the place who had the answer, nor was there an obvious clue to provide one on its walls or from those wobbling on its vinyl-padded stools.

I dumped down a couple more bottles of Rainier beer, paced nervously, played the punch boards.  At some point in the anxious and impatient waiting game, I walked to the men’s room where a smallish, high window was the only “periscope” through which to view the tavern’s parking lot.  I climbed onto the commode, the sole elevation from which to see the lot and its contents, searching for Lare’s “midnight blue” Pontiac.  I slipped off the rim of the bowl, my right foot twisting badly as it and I fell into the bowl, plunging into the cold water of the toilet.  I hollered in agony.

I hoped no one in the crowded bar had heard my pitiful screech of pain, something like the ear-piecing cry of a particular owl -- so named for its strident sound -- streaking from its perch in pursuit of a hapless rodent.  I hobbled to the bar.  “Arnold, gimme a bottle of Olympia this time.  I feel like I fell off a precipice.  I got a ‘soaker’ when I hit bottom.” Arnold was unlike the stereotypical bartender. He lacked the quality of attentive listening!

  

“Hey,” said Arnold, at some point coming round to the patrons' side of the bar to prop up a drunkard, then turning his quizzical gaze to me, “Why’s there a puddle under your foot?”  The “Hair” finally showed up, wearing a sheepish and apologetic grin. 
"We've missed the whole damn first period," I complained. "Why so late?! What if we missed Claudie DuFour catching a puck in his mouth?!"

*******************************

My own dear father collected them!  Saloons, taverns, bars, gin joints, whatever one's preferred nomenclature might be!  He had a catalog of them, his favorites and those of secondary appeal, given what they charged for a large beer (the chaser!) and a shot of brandy, and whether or not they had a cribbage board.  As I look back in time from the high mountains of wizened geezerhood -- soberly these days -- I freely admit I inherited his fondness for them. I had my own collection!  Sometimes when I'm daydreaming in my office -- on extremely rare occasions, of course! -- I recall certain brilliant episodes of tavern life, glorious

"Yeah, that's the ticket!  Back
me up Five Deep!  Hey, where
are my shots?"  

memories of the Boozing Culture! 

There's a village in the "Lakes Country" west of our major metropolis.  Okauchee -- with its nearby waters of the same name -- boasted, like so many small towns in Wisconsin, a saloon for every 10 residents, or so it seemed! Westphal's was our favorite. Always the joint resounded with brilliant conversation, and equally brilliant patrons.  
"Hey, Stinky, what's it again you do fer work?"

"I'm a drunkard."

"Is the pay any good?"

"Yo, Durwood, I like that sweater.  Argyle comes alive on youse! I could, maybe, sometime borrow it, if I ever, like, have a date??!"

"Anybody got any dope to sell? What?... I'm talking too loud?!"

"Hey Bry! Why must I always pay for my drinks? Am I not your duly-invited guest here? I mean, when you come to my house for cocktails, social and cultural interaction, do I ask you to pay for your drinks?"

During my days living in the Seattle, Washington area, my friend and fellow beverage host, Leonard, was frequently assaulted by his estranged wife, Mavis.  She'd sit at the bar, become extravagantly inebriated and then pelt him with the lemons he'd just cored.  She often grabbed him by his tie and punched his face.  Poor beleaguered Leonard.  Such elegant times! The boozing life at its zenith, its finest! Leonard disappeared after Mavis drove into the plate glass window at his last-known saloon job. As if it were a regular occurrence -- glass shards cascading onto the hood, twinkling like cheap baubles -- she calmly got out of her car, entered the joint and bombarded Leonard with lemons! (We don't know how she found him! But I believe at that point Leonard had already begun to wear clip-on neckties! Mavis was furious! No one's heard from Leonard since 1973!)

University life! Just like scenes from The Student Prince, eh?! The Ardmore, The Gym, The Vogue... Such sophistication! Entire mornings and afternoons spent in glorious intoxication. "Hey, you through with classes for the day already?"

"What?...  Oh, uh... I must check my schedule...  What time's Epistemology?"

Might be an interior shot of The
Ardmore, possibly the Vogue!
Doesn't really matter.  They
were both on or near the old
Marquette U. campus, an image of
which is pictured below...  (Suitably,
kind of tipsy in the mid-day sun!!)

My great friend, Pat, and I used to perform grand "hook-a-thons," meaning road trips on which we'd try to stop at every saloon we almost passed. Wonderful times, I think?? Prior to enlisting in the military he and I secured a case of cheap beer -- in quart bottles, 6 for each of us -- and consumed the entire ocean of suds at a drive-in movie theater. Police arrived at 2:30AM, roused us from our peaceful if unconscious state and hauled us to the town jail, and there we remained incarcerated until a parent came to spring us. Brilliant!  Oh yeah, and "flaming shots," particularly memorable at two different joints on Burleigh Street; often I resembled "Beppo the Human Torch" -- a brightly illuminated by-product of those highly intelligent episodes, hair and whiskers gorgeously ablaze!

There's a two-pronged point to all this nonsense! (At least I think there is?!): 

1.)  In the "drinking culture" -- the local bar as poor persons' club -- we hang with kindred souls, some tortured, some merely perpetually drunk, we regard ourselves and our companions as terribly amusing, wonderfully funny! Aren't we?  Are we merely forcing laughter and trying too hard to entertain and be entertained, to forget, to blend in, or to "be somebody"!

Not the "905" we actually consumed,
but, you know, quarts is quarts! (Please
see Paragraph 10 above for reference!)

2.)  When we've either quit entirely or cut way down on our consumption of alcoholic spirits, are we permitted to look back on those earlier times of life and recall them with laughter, with actual joy in our hearts, as cherished events worth remembering?

How the hell would I know? On the other foot, Sure! Why not?! I mean, I think we can't simply ignore or try to forget our days of magnificent inebriation, when we were stein-hoisting, falling-down members of the Drinking Set! That was simply us, or that was me, in a different sphere of consciousness, in younger times, in a previous "compartment" of life's richly eclectic trajectory! Aint it? Sure, they may not have been our finest hours, but they helped to mold us into who and what we are today, to construct and form our characters, to solidify and validate our attitudes and values! (True! Some of us never actually make the transition... !)  

Oh yeah, one more bright memory in the great panoply of boozing adventures...   Red Top, Muskie Don and I succeeded in being thrown out of Hooligans Super Bar, that was before it became gentrified! It was a beautifully planned affair. We were running drunk until it got yellow out, went to an all-night market and bought a half-gallon of Tutti-Frutti ice cream. We offered the frozen confection to Hooligan's early-morning opening bartender, and ordered him to make us each a cream drink. We decided to call our creation a "Tutti-Frutti Pink Gin Sissy." "Oh yeah," one of us insisted, "Don't forget the paper umbrellas and the fruity-tooty garnish!" 

"Get the hell out of here now," the bartender bellowed, as he reached for his Louisville Slugger, his red-blotched eyes blazing with ire!! We stumbled out, but with exemplary dignity!!

A couple of concluding thoughts! I have to state quite honestly, we truly enjoyed the Drinking Life while it lasted. It was our inheritance, in a manner of speaking. SweetHeart has often said, "Alcohol abuse doesn't run in our families, it gallops," borrowing a line from a famous movie comedy. Just as honestly, having now parted company from strong drink, we find our lives happier, more manageable and, in a sense, more secure in many different ways. We have no intention, here, of denigrating the Drinking Set and those who do imbibe alcoholic beverages. It's just not for us at this juncture. Many if not most of our

frequent companions drink. No problem for them, nor for us...  it's just a different beverage choice, and almost always in sensible moderation.  
So raise your glasses, friends and fellow lovers of fine literature (and the sweet nectar of your own choosing!), and drink a toast to great saloons and the great friends who frequently or occasionally populate them. Or, if the coffee house is your "social club" or gathering place of choice, raise your mugs! Thank You!

Humbly Submitted, 04-19-17 -- Joel K.

Questions:

What's your favorite tavern or bar or saloon?

What's your favorite beer?

Your favorite mixed or blended drink?

What's your favorite or funniest memory of tavern life?
What's your favorite coffee house, and its location?