I hope I am not stepping on my co-blogger JWT's toes here, but I would like to congratulate the Luther Happy Hour on twenty years of vague memories. Everyone on the blogroll, not a few of our commenters, and some of our children have been regular attendees at one point or another (except, well, this one and this one but hey, he's new and was here just a minute ago), and JWT himself was present at the creation. JJV, meanwhile, brought CRH and myself into the fold. This very blog was most honored to serve for a few precious months as one of the select means used to notify attendees of that week's location; these prose masterpieces (and I mean that) may be found here as well as via a link on the right side of the blog.
Happy Anniversary! I am pleased and honored to have been part of this tradition for so long. Here's to twenty more years, at which point we should really go grab dinner somewhere.
Showing posts with label bar wars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bar wars. Show all posts
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
As if Millions of Taxidermy Specimens Suddenly Cried Out in Terror and Were Suddenly Silenced
Unfortunate news from Capitol Hill today as fire strikes the masthead favorite Tune Inn. I know of at least one occasion on which the entire blogroll was present at a convivial gathering there, except for JCF who was no doubt down the street at Phase One. Given the reputation of the kitchen I am surprised that the entire block was not consumed by a greasy fireball.
CRH and I used to share an apartment across Seward Square from the Tune, and we were kown to make an occasional visit to the watering hole in the company of JJV and such. I do not claim to be a long-time regular, but not only do I remember a time before its relatively recent sprucing up - the fire will actually lend some character back to the place - but I Was There to not only dance at the Tune Inn, but to see someone else in our group get kicked out for dancing at the Tune Inn. (I had been against the whole concept and therefore did not draw the ire of the establishment.) In those vastly more irresponsible days it was comforting to know you could be served merely by uttering "glass" or "pitcher" in a time when only one brand of beer was served.
My most recent Tune experience took place during last year's National Police Week, when my stay there was prolonged by being trapped in the back of the place while a bagpipe band played to an appreciative and eventually deafened capacity crowd. (Honest, honey!)
I will take exception to the linked article's characterization of both the Tune and the Hawk-n-Dove as "dank." Neither place was particularly humid; for that kind of atmosphere you headed up the street to Duddington's Underground, whose basement brick walls literally sweated in the summertime and whose attraction was pitched to me initially as "You'll love it, the place smells like a foot."
On a final, tangentially related note, the post title, while I think appropriate, provides further unnecessary proof that George Lucas cannot write his way out of a tauntaun carcass.
CRH and I used to share an apartment across Seward Square from the Tune, and we were kown to make an occasional visit to the watering hole in the company of JJV and such. I do not claim to be a long-time regular, but not only do I remember a time before its relatively recent sprucing up - the fire will actually lend some character back to the place - but I Was There to not only dance at the Tune Inn, but to see someone else in our group get kicked out for dancing at the Tune Inn. (I had been against the whole concept and therefore did not draw the ire of the establishment.) In those vastly more irresponsible days it was comforting to know you could be served merely by uttering "glass" or "pitcher" in a time when only one brand of beer was served.
My most recent Tune experience took place during last year's National Police Week, when my stay there was prolonged by being trapped in the back of the place while a bagpipe band played to an appreciative and eventually deafened capacity crowd. (Honest, honey!)
I will take exception to the linked article's characterization of both the Tune and the Hawk-n-Dove as "dank." Neither place was particularly humid; for that kind of atmosphere you headed up the street to Duddington's Underground, whose basement brick walls literally sweated in the summertime and whose attraction was pitched to me initially as "You'll love it, the place smells like a foot."
On a final, tangentially related note, the post title, while I think appropriate, provides further unnecessary proof that George Lucas cannot write his way out of a tauntaun carcass.
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