Tales from My Local – Out of Context

I re-encountered my jotted list of these overheard gems the other day and thought I would share:

Yelled: “Loose Goat! There is a loose goat!”

“Camels spit. So fair warning on that.”

“Racing pigs are always fun.”

Said with intensity: “I love chickens.”

Response asked with equal measure incredulous surprise and avid interest: “Why?”

“I think I had substandard fried butter.”

– Unidentified attendants at the Tallahassee Florida Fair 2011

It was a thoroughly enjoyable spectacle all around. Most of these, as you might have guessed, came from the petting zoo and animal competitive displays— in that part of the country actually quite serious business. Not really a bar but lots of beer aflowing which contributed I’m sure to these and many more unintentionally hilarious statements.

I love that each quotation is a vignette snapshot encapsulating an entire scene.

 

Tales from My Local #1

Southern Tier Pumking

I’m that girl that you are not paying any of kind attention to in the corner.

Quietly sipping my beer, nose buried in a screen or maybe even a book at 12:31 on a Friday night.

You might not even glance in my direction but I see you.

With a soft smirk I hear your awkward, rambling, chauvinistic, bombastic, lewd, self effacing conversations.

Oh I know I have been there, so forgive me my judgement.

I might be on the other side even now — you might have really seen me and similarly smirked my snifter of dark brew with hoodie and jeans.

So there, we are even.

I must say, however, you are quite splendid.

Although probably not the way that you intended, you are captivating.

You with your black T bible verse in star wars title theme shirt.

You expounding on the wonderful intricacies of a black pencil skirt by way of flirtation.

You with cowboy boots and miniskirt in a martini bar.

You with Reading Rainbow shirt, getting carded at the bar (sorry you are too young for that to be “retro cool”)

You four who discuss jeans— skinny jeans — for 10 minutes.

You who woo with talk of ultra-marathons being— not to brag or be like whatever or whatever — but it really is god-like.

You, who win the eve, with your Pabst hood up in summer with khaki shorts and black socks pulled up to your shins.

Please keep it up you magnificent specimen of bar culture.

This barfly is amused to no end.

I like beer… an intro to Tales from My Local

I love the idea of having a pub. My “local.”

A casual, comfortable, decent-brew serving place where maybe even a few people, yes, know your name.

The German tradition. The Irish tradition. Where people gather, drink (but not to too excess) and enjoy each other.

Just so we are clear: I’m not a girl who just likes boys who like beer…

I like beer.

Terrapin Side Project #14: Tomfoolery Fall 2011.

I like boys too but that it is a different blog post.

I can tell countless stories of the Ex ordering a gin and tonic, me a stout, and 9 times out of 10 they would be delivered reversed. Even by the waitress that took our orders.

I wish it wasn’t so very eye-brow raising for a gal (me) to say “I was down at the pub the other night taking to this guy…” Which maybe I do say a mite too often.

But my pint companion could be pushing 70 (usually is actually) or 50 or 21. He’s an interesting person to talk to. A kind face with a ready laugh through which I can see a different life and perspective for a while.

He could easily be a she. But I don’t find a whole lot of solo women in bars. Or, if I do, they often aren’t interested in just chatting with me.

So I talk to Dave the bartender down the street about his family back in Ireland while he sips a (no lie) bud and says that the Guinness over here tastes terrible.

I hear about a couple’s recent trip to Europe, their desire to escape the south even though it means leaving their chickens.

The environmentalist tells me about his agriculture research and his daughter’s love woes.

“Get Down” Brown and I share jibes and life advice in equal measure.

That is what I love about a local and beer: it is a communal experience. A pint is poured to be toasted and shared. Kinda like wine but (for me at least) not headache inducing.

My Local

In New York I had my place where I could sit and watch and taste and just be. Surrounded by people yet alone if I wanted. The game(s) would be on and I could read or talk or just take some time to think.

Comfortable and confident. Sipping something yummy.

I’m still searching for my local in Athens. I’ve found some good prospects including a fantastic coffeeshop that has some decent brews on tap regularly and Rasputin by the bottle where I camp out for the weekend to work. But I haven’t found the right place yet.

I’ll keep looking. I hope you find your place. A place. Be it coffeeshop, bar, or bench outside of a store.

A place to enjoy the scenery. Reflect. Laugh, smile or frown at things you see and hear. And, most importantly, to be able to chat with strangers who part as friends.

To me a good local — a good beer — means finding new friends whose names I might never know but whose stories I never forget.

This is all by way of introducing a new passing fancy: Tales from the Local Corner.

The @write_practice the other day was to write about your surroundings. I was sitting staring at my wall at the time and not inspired so instead of writing something fresh I found the first one in my notes and polished it up a bit. So here is the first in a series.