Category Archives: yeah, i don’t know what this is

waiting for…

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A country road. Grass. A tree.

Vladimir sitting in the grass on the side of the road, wearing a single boot, looking forlornly at a boot in his hand.

Enter Miss Elizabeth Bennett

VLADIMIR: Nothing to be done.

MISS BENNETT: Surely, Mr. Putin, something can be done, if only you put your mind to it.

VLADIMIR: My mind, or my boot? I should put something to it.

MISS BENNETT: It is an exceedingly disreputable boot, sir, but we are on business that cannot be delayed; we have not an instant to lose. Pray put on your boot, sir.

VLADIMIR: The boot. It’s not the boot, it’s the bones. Everything here is bones or looks like bones.

MISS BENNETT: Still, should we not leave? Otherwise I fear we must be very late indeed.

VLADIMIR: We can’t leave. We can’t be late. We have to wait.

MISS BENNETT: You are certain, are you not, it was here?

VLADIMIR: Here?

MISS BENNETT: Where we were to wait.

VLADIMIR: He said to wait in the grass.

MISS BENNETT: My dear Mr. Putin, we are in the countryside. Grass is as common as needles. It would be astonishing not to be in the grass.

VLADIMIR: We should leave? Where would we go?

MISS BENNETT: Some place more agreeable.

VLADIMIR: Agreeable. Is there such a place?

MISS BENNETT: It will do you a world of good to consider the possibility.

VLADIMIR: What if he comes and we’re not here?

MISS BENNETT: You prefer, then, to wait.

VLADIMIR: We must wait. We can’t wait. Everything here is bones or looks like bones.

MISS BENNETT: Very well, we shall wait.

MISS BENNETT: Shhh. Did you hear that?

VLADIMIR: Hear what?

MISS BENNETT: That!

VLADIMIR: Is it him?

MISS BENNETT: Who?

VLADIMIR: You’ve forgotten. Already you’ve forgotten.

MISS BENNETT: In polite society, a good memory is unpardonable. Indeed, this is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.

VLADIMIR: I congratulate you.

MISS BENNETT: You are being ever so amiable. I did not think you capable of such congeniality.

(Vladimir shrugs.)

VLADIMIR: It’s not him.

(Miss Bennett looks around.)

MISS BENNETT: No. I fear it is not.

VLADIMIR: Bones. Nothing but bones and things that look like bones.

(Vladimir starts stand.)

VLADIMIR: We should go.

MISS BENNETT: You are the most contrary person. I begin to think you incapable of even the least flirtation with consistency.

VLADIMIR: We should go.

MISS BENNETT: Very well, if you feel so keenly about it. Let us go.

(Vladimir resumes sitting. Looks at the boot in his hand.)

VLADIMIR: Nothing to be done about it.

MISS BENNETT: Your boot?”

VLADIMIR: What about my boot?

MISS BENNETT: Your disreputable boot may go hang itself, for all I care, and cursed be its bones.

VLADIMIR: Bones and things that look like bones. We may as well stay.

MISS BENNETT: There is to be a ball in Meryton on Tuesday fortnight, and I am to have the first dance with…

VLADIMIR: A ball?

MISS BENNETT: A ball.

(Vladimir looks at the boot in his hand.)

VLADIMIR: A ball. There will be dancing.

MISS BENNETT: There is nothing quite in the world like dancing. I consider it the first refinement of polished society.

VLADIMIR: Will he be there, do you think?

MISS BENNETT: I should think so. Everyone will be there.

VLADIMIR: I won’t be there.

MISS BENNETT: You’ll still be waiting, then?

(Vladimir looks as if he’s about to cry.)

MISS BENNETT: Oh, do put on your boot. Or remove the other. How can you be so very silly?

VLADIMIR: How can it all be bones? And things that look like bones?

VLADIMIR: Does he take us for fools? Why do we wait? We are fools.

MISS BENNETT: I may flatter myself, but I think I am not so uncommonly foolish as my younger sisters.

VLADIMIR: We should go. There will be dancing.

MISS BENNETT: Although I dare say I have, in my way, been ever so headstrong and foolish.

VLADIMIR: We should go.

(Vladimir puts on his boot, stands.)

(Miss Bennett sits in the grass. Removes a buckled shoe.)

MISS BENNETT: Nothing to be done.

VLADIMIR: We should go.

MISS BENNETT: We should go. We must go. We can’t go.

VLADIMIR: Miss Bennett, it looks a hopeless business.

He moves away from Miss Bennett.

VLADIMIR: I sometimes wonder if we wouldn’t have been better off alone, each one for himself. We weren’t made for the same road.

MISS BENNETT: It looks very much like bones. Mr. Putin. Bones and things that look like bones.

VLADIMIR: We should go. There will be dancing.

(Vladimir sits.)

the point

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Okay, this happened. On social media, I posted a photograph of…well, wait. Let me just show you the photo, that’ll make this easier.

That’s it. It’s not anything remotely artsy; it’s just an interior shot made from a corner booth. The primary reason I shot the photo was because it amused me; it’s a classic private investigator perspective–back to the wall and a view covering all three entrances and exits. (Yes, I worked for about seven years as a PI specializing in criminal defense, and yes, I actually did pay attention to those things back then, but no, it’s not really a concern to me anymore, but yes, it’s still sort of a habit.)

A friend commented, casually referring to this as a ‘dive bar’ and adding “…or what we call here, ‘the pub’.” (‘Here’ in that context meant Ireland.) And for reasons that probably don’t bear examination, I felt compelled to point out that this place is NOT a dive bar. Or a pub. It’s a sort of combination roadhouse and bicycle bar.

Because this is how my mind works, I’ve spent a few idle moments (well, maybe half an hour) thinking about the taxonomy of drinking establishments. Obviously, there’s no universally agreed classification; there’s no International Organization for Standardization overseeing drinking establishments. BUT there IS a history.

On the outskirts of town, along a road and bike trail — bicycle roadhouse.

The Roman tradition of conquering places and fucking around with local cultures and norms relied heavily on their ability to build and maintain a network of roads. Along those roads, they created tabernae–rude sheds and shelters where travelers could refresh themselves with food and drink, and maybe a safe place to sleep. Eventually, taverns began more like houses open to the public, and local folks would gather there to get news from travelers over a friendly ale. Public houses–pubs–became central to neighborhoods. Public houses located outside of town (or on the outskirts of town) generally provided rowdier entertainment–roadhouses.

Now there’s an entire constellation of drinking establishments. We still have pubs, some towns still have taverns that also act as inns (though those are largely supplanted by hotels and the hotel bar), we still have roadhouses. But we’ve also got dive bars, which are sort of low-rent pubs devoted to serving local folks inexpensive drinks without a lot of fuss. We’ve got bicycle bars for thirsty cyclists, and brew pubs for beer connoisseurs (from the Latin cognoscere, meaning ‘to know, to understand, be familiar with’), and concept bars that are devoted to a specific theme (like zombies or hobbits or steampunk or bondage), and sports bars with eighteen large-screen televisions showing a disconcerting number of sports events, and cocktail bars where beer and ale is spurned in favor of spirits, and wine bars which you can figure out yourself, and pool bars (both swimming and billiards), and population bars directed at specific groups (like LGBTQ or veterans of foreign wars) and I’m probably forgetting several other types of drinking establishments.

My point is…well, I’ve forgotten what my point was. I definitely had a point when I started writing this. I wonder what happened to it. Somehow I seem to have gone from looking at things from a PI perspective to tavern taxonomy to the fucking Romans to a semi-random rambling list of bar types. A point could get lost anywhere in there.

Turns out, that photo at the beginning did NOT make this easier.

Uh…how ’bout those Red Sox, huh?