There is a way of speaking and writing that maintains an air of dignity and reverence about that subject that toes the line between eulogia and the elegiac. Thankfully, I as an orator and man of letters have failed with thunderous aplomb in all three scenarios. Don't let me sing your praises. Don't let me speak at your funeral. And, for the love of God, don't let me pretend like I'm keeping a neutral tone. Now that we are all on the same page, know a little bit more. On this site, last week, my editor here, Liz Tracy, announced the potential sale of our beloved Churchill's Pub.
I'm not one to lend himself to the whimsical fancies of attachment with brick and mortar locales. Does it make me sad to see a place go? Yes, but I triage my feelings. Losing Books & Books would be a blow to our literate community, but when the death knell finally takes the few remaining Barnes & Noble stores that are strewn throughout the tri-county area, c'est la vie to those unperson-able behemoths.
So, armed only with what I read in my boss' piece and with zero input from all parties involved, I'll say this much, whatever happens when new ownership takes over, will be dealt with once the new owners take over. If the new owners are smart, they'll continue to work with the people who have helped make the venue a profitable place. I'm pretty sure that owner Dave Daniels will discuss a long roster of promoters and events that have been a success.
What's most important to me is that Dave has finally taken his retirement seriously. He is 74 years old, looks great, has a full set of hair, maintains his British sense of humor, and follows the greatest sport in the world. Dave Daniels is the envy of men half his age. I'm certainly envious of this soon-to-be internationally jet-setting bon vivant.
I hope this or some other beneficial deal is finalized, and that your retirement brings you as much enjoyment as your pub has brought me in the last twenty years of my life.
Thank you for the footie on Sundays in those bleak 1990s day of satellite TV and disgustingly-over-priced covers at Argentinean restaurants with fuzzy subscriptions. Thank you for giving the only accepted excuse for rising early on a Sunday, match time. Thank you.
Thank you for allowing South Florida's scummiest musical gourmands a place to call home. Where jazz, punk rock, metal, noise, and everything in between could come together and exist with a tense peace that only made the experience better. Thank you for letting us take that stage, abuse that sound system, spill beer on your electrics, and never offer to help clean (in retrospect, a bit dick-headed on our behalf, but now, nearing forty, do know I always use the garbage cans provided). Thank you.
Thank you for making There's Something About Mary worth watching even if it was just for that one scene. Thank you.
Thank you for your bathrooms. As a germaphobe, I will go on record and say what has already been said ad nauseam and thought by all; those pools of reckless filth are the worst that I've ever seen in three continents, but for some reason, probably due to the raging libations within me, I managed to have sex in one of them many moons ago. Thank you for making me face my fears regularly and for maintaining a proper cleaning schedule for my footwear. Thank you.
Thank you for the revolving collection of British public transportation vehicles and taxis that have intermittently littered the lot and the detritus of a neighborhood that has seen the desperate days of the crack plague and homelessness. Thank you for giving Joaquin a sidewalk where he could peddle the same drawing to thirty different people. Thank you.