Post Panther Pondering

(written Friday, posted Sunday night)

Friday, and I'm bobbing in a sea of…disconnectedness? No, that's not right. Let's say vegging and knocking out piecemeal work. Bright eyed and bushy tailed though, despite Thursday night Panther action. My personal plan was to take Friday night off for PAW (but still run the trailer full of drywall scrap to the transfer station after work so I wouldn't fee like a total bum). However, I blipped on the fact that Ben and Cam were making a weekend run to MN Friday post-work, so…why not tonight (Thur)?  This meant I could still work in a few hours out at the lodge Thursday AND slave away on a VERY humid, 90F Friday with scattered t-storms. Being it's Friday AM, we'll see how it pans out.

Yes, the Panther. This was my first visit after the smoking ban went into effect. (Warning! Rant!) I'm not a smoker, but I can understand the satisfaction not only in drawing in a lung-full of the stuff but also of being at the ready with the well-worn lighter, the favorite brand of smokes and the comforting action of drawing a nail from the pack and striking the flame. It can't be far from the tactile-satisfaction-ballpark of cleaning a rifle (assembling the rods, opening a glass bottle of Hoppes, sliding open the chamber) or running a column adding machine (each key locking down with a satisfying, yet not over-the-top CLICK. Pulling back the lever and "feeling" the momentum of the drive gear taking the driven ones along for the ride. Etc. etc.).

First thing I noticed when I pulled up was a little red No Smoking sign on the door. "Oh, that's right."  Took a seat and noticed how clean and clear my vision was. Then I took in a nose-full. It was pure corporate cubicle. How years of nicotene stench disappeared so quickly, I have no idea. But it didn't smell like a bar at all, which to me, was quite unnerving. It's like a hospital without the antiseptic smell of the halls, or a horse stable with the manure. Neither are real pleasant smells, but to me they're part of the experience. Like the smell of fresh-cut lawn clippings with a hint of gasoline. I don't go to bars just for beer and pool, if that were all it was I'd put a want ad in the swapsheet for a pool table. I go for the stained berber, the mal-hung beer signs, the condensation on the glasses, the stools that remind you never to grab them from under the seat to scoot up to the bar because there might as well be grooves from a 100,000 other filthy hands that've done the same thing (and yet I do it every time). And of course the other sights, smells (the chemically infused popcorn popping in the background, for one), and the bad picks on the jukebox.

All in all, it's a swell deal for the bartenders who practically live in these places, but I can't help but feel like part of the experience is being homogenized, as is so many other "things that are bad". These aren't daycare facilities after all; we're there pickling our livers.