by Reynaud

I am mak­ing fun­ny time in this bars of Lawrence in the night. I am ac­com­pa­ny­ing for this “Jay”, who is some­thing (the ex­plo­sion in the head). I think he is know­ing some dev­ils and this dev­ils are dress­ing in fun­ny cos­tume. And this too I must say: this “Jay” is the WHITE man. Like the milk, with the black hairs up­on. In the night, his face is the moon. We are go­ing for some bars to make “re­view”. Be­fore, I have make copy­writ­ing. I am not know­ing one rea­son but for this “Jay” is buy­ing some drink.

We make ob­ser­va­tion of many thing: le ter­roir (the taste of what it is); the taste of drinks, with this val­ue and the “buzz”; le clien­tele (how they are); and how nice are the ones who are work­ing. If you are mak­ing the note, it must be the spy (say noth­ing!). Mis­ter Matt Helm. I con­fess it: I am not lik­ing so much now Poirot. I am lik­ing “Colum­bo” (this Mat­lock is suck­ing). We are some­time mak­ing the con­ver­sa­tions, some­time mak­ing the STARE. This “Jay” is not mak­ing so good the “tip”. (In a bar, a woman is mad.)

“Re­view” of Bar no.1: THE JAYHAWKER

I have dis­cov­er this bar in a crazy ho­tel. Some Cow Boys are walk­ing in there. They are re­gard­ing for long time “Jay Hol­ley”. They speak that he is one “peach”. I urge the change­ment of lo­cale. The bar is dark in this lurid place and so there, it is bet­ter. First I see your Pres­i­dent Lin­coln- do you re­mem­ber? The bills you have to pay? He is over the bar. And so next I am notic­ing mu­sic: a boom-boxe. Like the Gil-Scott-Heron. You din­go! (Jay Hol­ley make de­mand for “The Cure”). This bar­tendress — this bar­woman is con­trol­ling the boom-boxe. She is a couch. Big, with the sand­stone JAW. And the STARE. No fuck­ing with.

“What do you want?”, the re­frig­er­a­tor speaks.

“One scotch. Please with soda.”

(Jay Hol­ley is ask­ing for the FOO-FOO: The Pina Colada.)

And now again come the Cow Boys seek­ing Jay Hol­ley. They taunt and yet they are fun to touch each oth­er — this is the way of the Kansas Cow Boy. They ob­serve the PINA COLADA. Ha­ha­ha. Cow Boy. (I am drink­ing the scotch, there­fore care­less.) The boom-boxe play The Ra­mones, Cretin Hop; the sound­track of re­gret­table taunt­ing. The Cow Boys are say­ing more bad things.

And so, even­tu­al­ly: Jay Hol­ley en­rage. Even this couch, this ap­pli­ance bar­tender, she too en­rage. (She re­move the nose chain).

The Cow Boys — the Bud Lites — are fool to en­gage Mis­sus Re­frig­er­a­tor and the Young One. Jay Hol­ley is tall, and low in bal­ance — I think it is re­ferred as: equi­lib­ri­um. And the so­fa-sized bitch at the bar is Bad. Then, there re­sults some COW BOY ASS-KICKING. Ding Dong! The Comp­ton Kung Fu! (It does not take long.)

The Cow Boys, af­ter, they whim­per and limp; they run to the door, and there­fore pre­tend the ma­cho, out­side, sidewalking.

Piss off.

Then there is free drink. Yes, the couch is buy­ing, with wrin­kle mon­ey from the TIP JAR. Jay Hol­ley pro­claim this the com­pli­ment supreme. The couch she kiss my mouth. I taste Buf­fa­lo Bob. Jay Hol­ley must talk the shit, long time, ges­tic­u­lat­ing. He is full of the HEROISME, and the LARGESSE: say­ing kind­ly things he can nev­er ever recall.

COW BOY ASS-KICKING. RAMONES. SCOTCH WHISKEY. LARGESSE.

And so: there­fore, I con­demn the JAYHAWKER as one GOOD BAR. There, do not be cheap (a warning).

(And, for fun­ny time in the night, do not be amongst “Jay Hol­ley”). Hal­lo Jen­ny O, and this Re­gan (if you are not gone). Mon­key­head! And one leek risotto!
I re­port, with love;

R.

Filed under Drinking on November 3rd, 2003

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