CONfabulation

It wasn't exactly a bar crawl or a pub crawl since one was very much a pub and the other was very much a bar, and it was still one of each of those, starting at the pub and ending at the bar. Two drinks in two locations full of the sound of human voices. It counts as a crawl. I've done art crawls before, and this was my first crawl of this type, however you want to describe it, whatever the specific and precise nomenclature. I've never done one before and it'll be a while before I have another one like this again, in large part because there's no chance to repeat it. Because the pub's closing tonight.

I'd read about it closing a few days ago, and went there last night to check it out, indulge in fish and chips, have a cider that tasted like college and a margarita that meant business - and the cider really did taste like the ciders I had in college, sweet and soft, the bottle the same shape on my lips. It brought back a host of good memories of being afraid of new things and doing them anyway, the thrill of being someplace very grown-up and learning how to handle myself in that kind of world. It didn't quite have the smell of some of those places, but this pub was only in its present location about twelve years, and you need at least fifteen to build up that kind of aroma. If there was a scented candle of such an aroma, I'd seriously consider buying one, and while the smell wasn't there last night, the feeling was. My younger brother was on the fence about going last night, but was up for it tonight if it'd still be open. Tonight was its last night, so I called him up and off we went.

We stopped for hot dogs first. I got to the pub and saw that they were going a step beyond having the last night in that they were actively dismantling the jukebox - the jukebox that the night before had played the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Kansas, those kinds of bands - and figured that if they were taking that apart, there probably wasn't a kitchen anymore. Myself, I'd decided that I could do pub drinks two nights in a row but not pub foods, so I'd eaten before I left. But he was still waiting on dinner. So we went to a corner hot dog place a block away and he got one with onions and mustard, and another with ketchup, sauerkraut, and relish, plus a papaya drink. That's seriously what it was. Not papaya juice. The menu said "papaya drink." It tasted more like the melon the fruit is than the fruit itself usually does. We hung around as he ate, marveling in the old school accents that wandered through and ordered hot dogs well-done. Armed and ready, we made our way down the block, and down three steps, and into a place full of the human voice. The music was almost gone - sometime during our stay there, someone played "Piano Man", and if that's the last song in a place open until two AM with smokers hanging around outside, it's a suitable one. I had a cider and he had a beer, and we both did a shot of Jameson's straight up. Earlier that night, I saw a guy come in on roller blades, wearing hockey gear and bearing a stick, and during our hour and a half there, we saw people pass on well-wishes and old stories to the bartenders, thanking them for so many years and all the memories they'd helped make.

The only music that played was one song. Nothing else. Everything that I heard was the sound of the bar itself, and the sound of the human voice. Up and down the bar, in front and behind, throughout the guts of the place as the kitchen got cleaned out and the empty bottles taken away. It was a fantastic sound, with nothing getting in its way, and the rarity of it was both that there was nothing in its way and that it was overall quite happy. A place for people to meet and greet and take some of the world away for a while can have alcohol, it can have food, it can be indoors or outdoors, there's a lot of variance and possibilities, and for a moment, while I had it indoors, nothing got in its way. Just this beautiful sound that I could usually only catch a few syllables of at a time. Next to me was my brother, who spoke about his in-laws. Next to me was someone asking for a drink, or someone catching up with a friend and telling him to meet another friend who'd know who sent him, or trying to move through a narrow space to get to the bathroom without making anyone spill.

We had our drinks, and we walked out. It was a few degrees above freezing with an almost full moon high above and we were bolstered to walk seven blocks from a pub in its last hours to a bar comfortably set for the foreseeable future. Even less space, even less overhead, three steps up instead of three steps down. More music, though. A range from the same kind of music as the night before - Creedence Clearwater Revival, Cream - to songs that came out earlier this calendar year. Another beer for him, an Irish coffee for me because I'd wanted one for a while and the first place wasn't equipped to make coffee anymore. Not as many people around, but still close enough to the first place in that it wasn't too loud we couldn't hear the presence of the people around us. It wasn't an overwhelming amount of sound to hide the fact that the place wasn't very good or a lot of screens as a way to keep you from realizing you aren't having a good time. There were screens, but no sound, and none in the back. There was music, but not so loud it cut through the conversations. It was remarkably well-balanced and arranged, and we talked about travel and friends and real estate and made each other laugh until it was time for us to head on out. I might live on the same island, but he had an hour's travel at the very least, and wanted to get back home before tomorrow.

We started at one spot and ended at another. Drinks and talk at both. Two links still make up a crawl. There's other places in both our neighborhoods for us to do it again, and it'll never be quite the same. And I'm good with it having been this way once, because it was the kind of thing that even if both were staying around, wouldn't feel the same for it being something so new. It wasn't college in the bottle of cider so much as it was the memory of how it felt, and now I've made a new set of memories.

For some years now, I've been saying The National is my favorite band that's presently producing work. Not my favorite of all time; favorite out of all the bands working right now.

That may change. It might change quite soon. Because Voxtrot just announced their second album.

Yes, really.

A while ago they'd said that they were working on something, and today they told us when we could finally expect the album. They'd already released three songs and today they sent out a fourth, plus the knowledge there'd be seven more new songs on the album. I knew there'd be an album coming and I've only listened to one of those four, hoping it wouldn't be long before I heard the rest of them. As joyful as it was to know there was new music by the band out there for me, even sharper was knowing if I waited a bit longer, there'd be a complete work instead of individual pieces waiting for me in return. Almost three and a half years ago, they put out a compilation with two unreleased songs and it felt like a bounty of riches. Now there's ten more on their way. It's almost more than I can dream of.

The National's going to have some stiff competition.

Waiting for mail after a federal holiday is a study in impatience and adjusting expectations. There's a lot of frustration on waiting for luxuries in ways there wouldn't be if I was waiting for necessities, most of it fairly minor and petty. On the flip side, it's fairly easy to distract myself and move on for a little while, at which point there's other things needing my attention.

In other sources of anticipation, it's apparently going to snow sometime tonight and through the morning, and it'll be the first snowfall of the year. With that, the waiting is still from human hands, but much less directly than the networks and supply chains that make up the post office - though it's still got me restless over something I'm very much looking forward to.