Death of a Superstar

The days are dark. The nights are lonely. The great glam rocker Jimmie England is dead. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Jimmie England ran the pallet picker for our local beer supermarket. Most looked upon him with pity because all they saw was the washed up superstar who fell to earth. But not me. I still saw the glam boy of yesteryear, the androgynous guitar god who set Iceland on fire, the...you get the picture.

Gone. All gone in an instant.

It seems during the great Thanksgiving beer rush of '07 someone dropped a case of Fuller's London Pride and neglected to clean up. Everyone's trying to get their beer and get home before the bird burns or kickoff, whichever comes first. In one dark corner of the mart, the spilled Fuller lay dying and an innocent Jimmie wearing his trademark platforms was heading right for the puddle of tasty nectar.

In the roar of the maddening crowd no one heard Jimmie crash to the floor. He wasn't missed by the other workers since he never was much help in the first place. Everyone assumed the crowds had spooked the aged rocker and he went home...crowds just reminded Jimmie of his past glory days or he hated people, something like that. Most of the beer slingers were happy to have him out of the way.

That happiness would come back to haunt them a few hours later. While cleaning up for the night Jimmie's spandex-clad body was found face down in a puddle. How fitting...Jimmie England drowned in the pride of London. Most wept for Jimmie, some for the London Pride.

I haven't managed to get back there since hearing the news. For me Jimmie was the beer mart. But he lives on, in his music, in the hearts of his fans, and in the dark corner of the beer mart. Apparently his ghost has already been spotted, whirling and playing air guitar, his face dripping with joy.

Poles and Splints

Jesus H Christ! I haven't blogged in days because you can't type with your fingers in splints. No kidding, people are barbarians. I think the human race is getting crazier. We are definitely more angry animals than ever before.

My husband and I decided to check out a new bar not far from our place. I got there first, chose prime seats and made my self comfortable. Nice place, plenty of taps, friendly staff.

Now: the ceiling is low and in two places along the bar there are poles that extend from floor to ceiling...obviously holding the place up. My prime seat was right next to one of the poles and it was very cozy. The bar in front of me, the pole behind me. Soon I am joined by my darling husband and we settle in for an afternoon of drinking.

All of a sudden some drunk bastard staggers out of the back room, loses his footing and grabs for the pole. He's so drunk he must see two poles and not being sure which to grab he goes wide...smacking Scott in the back of the head. I mean he SMACKED him! I fell off my perch laughing and mid-fall I accidentally knocked some lady's (and I use that word loosely) beer out of her grasp. She's on top of me before I hit the floor. Now I'm fighting for my life, time stops. I have no idea what's happening with Scott, I can only worry about me. I attempt to poke her eyes out. I saw it on Oparh once, very effective.

Two guys who have nothing to do with anything decide they need to get involved. At first I thought, "Great how many people do I have to fight today?" Luckily their idea of getting involved was to peel the she-man off me.

Cops came, arrests were made. I broke two fingers on my left hand, three on my right. Scott has whiplash. We've been banned for life from that bar.

That's it! If it ain't broke don't fix it. No more new bars for us. Bar Great Harry: great beer, great people, no nut jobs, no poles.