Down the Hall on Your Left

This site is a blog about what has been coasting through my consciousness lately. The things I post will be reflections that I see of the world around me. You may not agree with me or like what I say. In either case – you’ll get over it and I can live with it if it makes you unhappy. Please feel free to leave comments if you wish . All postings are: copyright 2014 – 2019

Archive for the category “Pubs”

No Matter Where You go, There You Are

1NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO – THERE YOU ARE.

And things are different wherever you go. Not “better” or “worse,” just different. That is true wherever you are. Everything “at home” is what you are used to, and whether you go to spend the day with your next door neighbor, or cross the ocean to…let’s say, Ireland, for example.

Different.

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Feed Me. I Don’t Care What

4AFTER A FULL DAY of visiting historic Neolithic sites and the 13th century ruins of a Cistercian Abbey we were tired, a bit overwhelmed, and hungry.

The entire trip back to our “Base Camp” in Belturbet was consumed with trying to decide what to eat for dinner. We were exhausted, so preparing a meal for ourselves was quickly ruled out. We needed someone else to do the work and set the food in front of us.

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Let’s Lift A Cold One

Liquor Store 1I DECIDED, DECADES AGO, that the people we elect to governmental offices, are, generally, unbelievably stupid. Those that aren’t stupid are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Fortunately, the stupid outnumber the crooked.

Here in Indiana, including Terre Haute (That’s French for, “I need a drink.”) our elected officials have risen to a new low. For a town that once had the reputation as a House of Ill Repute with a State College, it has some truly silly laws concerning a simple beer.

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Keep Tipper Gore Out Of This

taft-collageEVERY MORNING WHEN I TURN ON MY PHONE and look at the baseball scores, double check the weather forecasts, peruse the news, see if my calendar has any appointments scheduled, monitor the local gasoline prices and check my email (in fact, I do everything except use the phone to make a call) I discover that two or three people have sent me something they regard as “trivia.”

What is or isn’t trivial is really quite a subjective call. It is like whether a particular person is sweet dream beautiful or merely nightmarish, or do Brussels Sprouts make your mouth either water or fill with projectile matter. It is like wondering if some favorite politician is a lowlife, scum-sucking career criminal or just a thieving degenerate spawn of Satan.

You catch my drift?

Most of the things sent my way are not trivia. The fact that today is so and so’s birthday is not trivia. The fact that some guy at a County Fair in California is selling “Deep Fried Slim-Fast Bars” is not trivia. It is hellishly funny, but not as funny as another guy, in Milwaukee, who has erected a sign on the roof of a building on the approach path to the Milwaukee Airport that reads, “Welcome to Cleveland.”

That is a guy I’d like to meet.

For the better part of last year I participated in a weekly trivia contest at a local pub. Teams of erratically educated people would get together to show off, compete for gift cards good only at the pub, and to drink themselves into memory erasing stupors.

Our team had one member who must have done nothing for the last 20 years but listen to Top 40 Radio and watch sitcoms. He was a very valuable person to have on board. Another member had a disturbingly encyclopedic memory for anything to do with Sports. I was the Old Guy who could actually remember something that happened before the invention of TiVo.

I was doing the trivia thing for the enjoyment and to get out of the house so my loving and talented wife, Dawn could have some peace and quiet. I can be a bit like a young beagle puppy at times – cute, but headache producing.

I don’t drink – a fact that helped late in the game as I was one of the few left in the joint who could remember facts about William Howard Taft and get my car keys in the ignition on the first try. Through chance and dumb luck our team was surprisingly successful. Appetizers for everyone!

I began to separate myself from the weekly event because I began to suspect that our Sports Maven was nuttier than a truckload of Payday candy bars.

The trivia game is supposed to be fun. Am I right? But for this fellow it had turned into a Blood Sport. If he supplied the wrong answer to a question about who won the Orange Bowl in 1913, he would slam his fist onto the table, turn persimmon red, and have to go take a walk to cool off.

Naturally, I would throw kerosene onto the fire.

“I think you’re right! Tell the Moderator that you challenge her answer and that you are playing under protest.”

“##^@@&*$##%%!!!!!” (followed by a few laps around the parking lot)

That’s a paraphrase, of course.

I used the Holiday Season to completely exit from the team – and so did all of the other members – leaving Mr. Pecan Log teamless.

I heard that he glommed onto another team and proceeded to drive them batty.

Oh, well.

I may go back over to the pub and play the game again someday, but I’m going to assemble my own team beforehand. I want no psychotics, nobody who has to keep throwing away their sobriety pins and no one who thinks the answer to every question is either Al or Tipper Gore.

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