…unless you’re writing about phrases to strip from your writing.

The ideal bar doesn’t exist in America. An ideal bar is something that’s gone beyond our ken. In nineteen-ten a bar was a place where men went to meet during or after work, and all there was was a long counter, brass sails, spittoons, player piano for music, a few mirrors, and barrels of whiskey at ten cents a shot together with barrels of beer at five cents a mug.  Now all you get is chromium, drunken women, fags, hostile bartenders, anxious owners who hover around the door, worried about their leather seats and the law; just a lot of screaming at the wrong time and deadly silence when a stranger walks in.

My thoughts are that the ideal bar doesn’t try to be anything other than a bar.

The bar is an alternative social setting that provides alcoholic beverages and sometimes entertainment. It should be a welcoming, diversified establishment, without being overly decorated. Too much decor can defeat the purpose of it being a bar. If I spill something, I don’t want to feel bad about it.

I prefer a 2:1 female to male distribution (at least) to keep things lively. The large majority of my business network is male. I don’t need it to be the same way in the bar as well. I’m there for a reason.

None of that Cheers bullshit. I don’t want to know everyone in the bar, nor do I want to know everyone’s name. Part of the appeal of any social establishment, bar or otherwise, is the serendipity involved in meeting new people that you would otherwise not have the opportunity to speak with, or the courage to start a random conversation with.

An abundant selection of both domestic and foreign beer listen on a menu with both price and geographic origin. No fruity, vibrant colored, sugared down drinks that are mostly water being offered to me as “today’s special.” They are clearly served everyday, and there is usually nothing special about them.

A practiced deejay, preferably spinning vinyl, playing an eclectic mix of old and new tunes varying in genre. The “average” music listener should only recognize a maximum of 40% of the tracks. The rest should be either mash-ups, b-sides or simply rare excerpts. There should never be a specified 80s night. If there is a band playing, they are allowed up to, but no more than, one 80s cover.

A consistent supply of bar snacks (pretzels, peanuts, etc.), with the option to order actual bar food. I understand keeping the kitchen open can be burdensome on the staff, so keeping the bar open to 12:00 is acceptable.

No doorman with his “clipboard,” which is usually an empty piece of computer paper anyway. The bar should automatically except a diversified crowd of ages and gender, without one person dictating the flow of personality that decides to enter. The only rule I can think of for exile while in the bar is fighting and / or too much cologne, decided by majority vote according to the current patrons

An equal separation of bar activities, including, but limited to, pool, darts, foosball, air hockey and karaoke. This limits the guy playing pool from jamming the back of his pool stick into your ribs every time he decides to take his turn  If karaoke is an option at the bar, all songs by Journey and Fleetwood Mac post-1977¹ should be banned.

The bar should have active and sufficient air control. A sweaty environment, in most cases, automatically makes everything less fun.

No credit car minimums. How I decide to give a bar my money should be up to me.

And finally, a one-word, catchy name. I don’t want to have to say it more than once when I’m giving directions, or spell it wrong and type it more than once if it’s through text message. Von in New York is a perfect name.

What’s your ideal bar?

1. Everything after Rumours is awful.

For whatever reason, I never found myself ready to dive in until recently.

Passing The Baton is a family-saga rich with deep world history and action filled WW2 military warfare. It’s strung together by a narrative that combines educational, research-heavy text with the a coming of age tale of innocence.

The protagonist of the book is Norman “Joe” Hirsch, late-brother of the author Bill Hirsch. The story is told through the eyes and voice of family-friend Jerry Rekned.

Norman, humble but confident, was described as:

…handling himself well in almost all situations.  He didn’t pick a fight and didn’t have an aggressive attitude.  If he got into a fight, I’d pity the other guy.  That’s saying a lot for a twelve-year old.  He wasn’t, and didn’t have to be, an entertainer.  He had all the textbook qualities on the plus side of the ledger.

On the contrary, younger brother Billy was described as being:

…noisy, a jokester, and a so-so athlete.  Billy was a strong little kid, slightly muscular, but on the small side.  Billy didn’t pick fights, either. But he didn’t avoid them, and did get in to them.  He was a scrapper, with more of a flare-up temper than his older brother.  When he got into a fight, he could get furious and dish out plenty.  He was a tough adversary, but there wasn’t much sense to his various one-on-one street brawls.  Sometimes he was self-assured, and at other times he wasn’t.  Norm had friends and was admired. Billy had friends and was amusing.

As Norman and Bill extend to the heights of their adolescence, they both enlist in the air force in 1942. The text makes it clear that they are both too naive to realize the extent of struggle, chance and violence they would face in combat. They both enthusiastically agree to join the battle as flight navigators.

The book has its peaks and valleys of historical context, humor and emotion. An extended metaphor throughout the book was that of chance and luck. Norman’s father, Reuben, was a gambler. Norman had the same love for a game of cards, and understood that as a fighter, the odds of survival certainly weren’t in his favor.

As his final 25th mission, which would mark his end of duty, slowly approached, Norm:

…felt a special discomfort that returned to him from time to time.  It was a sense of disquiet about the odds.  A professor would say “a statistic aberration.”

Norman’s plane was shot down in the heat of battle in Germany in 1944. Although the travels and horrific violence of the war aged him emotionally years beyond his time, he still lost the entire life ahead of him.

He was 23 years old.

Bill, after learning about Norman’s death, courageously agreed to finish his line of duty.  He survived and returned home with the baton in hand at the end of the war. He would eventually pass it on to three children and seven grandchildren.

I’m one of the seven.

So, the baton has already been passed. It just happened to take me completing my grandfather’s story to realize it. I suppose it’s my turn next.