All Entries Tagged With: "dining out"

The Dog Bar

The surfers had enough trouble honing their skills on the less than crashing waves without their dogs tagging along to Ditch Plains. So they’d just leave them, incrementally at first, at Jimmy’s bar “just for a few minutes” in the morning.

Jimmy O’Dea, the proprietor was a good guy and not stupid. He knew that some of the surfers were taking vantage of his kindness but that most were loyal customers and spent a good deal of money in his establishment. In addition, unlike a few of the hodads from down the island, they never started trouble and tipped his employees most of the time.

It could be quite the scene some days when there was an offshore wind and healthy beachbreaks. The concrete floor of Jimmy’s bar looked like a canine Penn Station with labs and collies and shepherds and retrievers scattered about making it difficult to walk from the bar to the pool table. When nobody was looking Jimmy would bring them water and treats. He was their favorite, like an eccentric uncle who let you get away with things that your parents would never allow.

He warned the surfers that he ran a tight ship but the dogs already knew that. They loved the place and their manners reflected that affection. They also knew that good behavior was imperative and that Jimmy was a soft touch. All they had to do is conduct themselves as “ladies and gentlemen” and they’d never spend the day out in the rain or snow. On hot days the concrete was cool and on cold days there was the little potbelly in the corner.

But what was the most amazing is that there were never dogfights. Almost never. It was if the mongrels understood the perplexities and nuances of Jimmy’s tavern. Tact and refinement was the order of the day. Dogs, although they may not exhibit much logic, are quick to learn with a nose for reality and instincts that people don’t possess.

Most days in winter one could pass by and look through the window at Jimmy and his patrons. Lots of tails wagging. Lots of sniffing. Lots of hanging out waiting for their owners to show back up, thank Jimmy and slam a beer or two before going home. Doggie Day Care at it’s finest.

No growling would be permitted. No accidents on the floor or leg lifting, a very impressive display of excellent manners. Share the water. Share the treats. No aggressive behavior would be tolerated at Jimmy’s.

Then one day a spacey surfer, who looked worse than the mangiest of breeds, left his dog Max at the bar. Poor Max was a mess just like his owner. Max was smaller than most of the other hounds and one uptight asshole. The first day he tangled with Mona, a no-nonsense Rottweiler. He got pinned to the floor and nipped on the nose before retreating to a neutral corner, ostracized by the rest of the day’s pack.

“Don’t be sniffing Mona,” said Jimmy to Max, who would not listen worth a hoot.

Jimmy later warned the surfer who brought Max to the bar telling him his dog was disrupting the peace and interrupting the cosmic flow. He would give the dog one more chance but if he misbehaved he would be 86ed (That’s 602ed in dog years). The surfer nodded and stumbled out of the place, an oaf with Max on a leash when maybe it should have been the other way around.

The next day was a Saturday when Jimmy often hosted a full house until he threw the mutts out in the late afternoon. He would never really throw them out but you had to pick up your dog in the early afternoon of risk losing preferential status. There were tourists from The City in town and the cash register would be humming. These folks didn’t appreciate slobber on their designer footwear or climbing over dogs to use the facilities. Some were even afraid of the dogs when these teapot refugees probably should have been afraid of each other.

It was on a Saturday that Max blew it. Moments after his dippy owner dropped him off he started it with a German Shepherd named Alfonso who was not about to take any guff from the insolent Max. The smaller dog circled and Alfonso nailed him. That was it. Max was banned.

No matter how much the oafish surfer whined Jimmy would not budge.

The Dog That Smokes Saloon in Montevideo, Uruguay

“Rules are rules,” said Jimmy.

The canine congregation seemed to nod their heads in approval. Max was history. And still to this day Max sits across the street under a salty sun waiting to be reinstated and trying to figure out what went wrong.

This was some years ago and Max is no doubt six feet under. But the story still circulates in Montauk warning bad dogs and bad owners that the spoils of comfort and joy are earned not handed out like kibble.

As the years went by Jimmy got old just like the dogs. He retired and left the place to his daughter, Fiona, who carried on the tradition until the bar began serving food and all dogs were kicked out. On his retirement day Jimmy received a remarkable gift from the surfers who had enjoyed his kindness and hospitality for a good many years. It was a felt painting: not of Jesus or Elvis but from a long-closed bar in Montevideo, Uruguay called El Perro Que Fuma. The painting (above) now hangs in a place of distinction in a small cabin on Jimmy’s Boston Whaler.

– Connor Sturgeon

Visiting El Jardin, Antioquia

Tips from the self-propelled experts at Dip Advisor

Don’t step in dog poop.

(Actually these towns are far cleaner than most places in the world. People here are very good about cleaning up after their pets. The problem often rests with a few patos (jerks) and an assortment of free-lance canines that rarely carry around those plastic poop gloves. The absence of paw thumbs also poses a problem for even the most conscientious mutt).

Never wear shorts unless you want to.

(Despite what the guidebooks say nobody gives a damn what you wear or do. As I said to a friend on the street in Andes: “You are just jealous. If you had legs like mine you would wear shorts too”.

Engage

Since there are few gringos here you may get a stare or two from the locals. The best panacea is an enthusiastic greeting which generally calms their fears. (They’ve seen us on the TV crime shows after all). Like everywhere else in the world there are those who have yet to develop socially. It’s not about you but it could be.

Don’t step in horseshit. (Hey it’s a cowboy town. C’mon)

Dig los frijoles.

The aroma of beans cooking in the morning is a secure experience. It’s good for your mental health.

Tell the locals how much you love their town. They won’t be surprised but they’ll take it as a compliment. After all, it is a rare Andean jewel.

Tranquilidad.

Always tranquilo. Noise be damned. Nothings, is perfect. The acoustics are part of the landscape. You’ll get used to it after 10 years or so.

Always greet people before beginning a conversation. It sets the tempo.

Use your GPS to find the closest bano.

And suggest that the local people refrain from using electricity so that you can take that perfect photo without overhead electric wires everywhere. You may get a laugh or a stare depending on the depth of your conversational partner

It’s perfectly natural to talk to dogs. Everyone here does it. Just keep in mind that most don’t speak English. Add food to the conversation and they can translate.

Don’t step in llama shit

Play tango in the morning. The louder the better.

Pray Away the Hay Program Destabilizing Ranchers

(Ridgway) As with many self-righteous revivals there are often pitfalls most notably relating to over-zealous, twisted application and holier-than-thou contingencies within a congregation void of real love and toleration.

Such as it has become with Pray Away the Hay, a faith-based effort aimed at creating a strict theocracy with evangelicals at the stern. A once lauded syllabus outlining a concerted agenda has been shaved down to stubble allowing for the reemergence of heretics and pagans in the county.

Most of those engaged in the petitioning of the Lord with prayer have sordid pasts from drug use to alcohol abuse to a plethora of social ills. They escape from these addictions and substitute salvation tales and the dogmas of those who seek to control their flocks.

And there’s plenty of money in it for the Puritan bosses even thou their followers are suffering due to mindless tariffs and trade wars with China and former allies such as France and Germany. The frustration and misdirection herein has now invaded the ranching community causing fiscal harm and mindless summations not at all related to the spirit but rather to the pocketbook.

The promise of a bailout by the Trump people has turned into a fiasco where they only ranchers receiving money are of the big dollar corporate variety.

“We started evening vespers back in March but the hay is still there,” said Charley Tonne, who earned a doctorate of divinity at the University of Downtown Delta in 1980. “We hopped it all up during the summer months with rodeos and parades but still nothing changed. Last fall we introduced a more militant approach utilizing tirades of dutiful propaganda and the terrible swift sword of sabotage.”

Tonne, head preacher at the Church of the Once Damned insists on being called doctor even though the level of study is generally compared to a junior high school curriculum.

“I read the Bible and took accounting classes at night,” he said. “Looking back I wish I had taken more classroom work in banking and finance. I excelled in Bible study while securing a grasp of micro-economics. So long as there are the good folk we will have mega churches which have about as much connection to metaphysics as they do to hayfields.

Getting back to Pray Away the Hay, Tonne and his born again followers have suspended the controversial program saying that it is clear that the Creator likes hay and that they “should not be bothering him with incidental issues while heaven and hell collide.”

-Kashmir Horseshoe

“Make Italy Great Again!” – Benito Mussolini, 1925.

RANCHERS PRESERVED FOR PERPETUITY

Ridgway) In an attempt to sustain the cowboy culture, seven local ranchers have been preserved thanks to donations from an assortment of conservation entities.

Although details are sketchy at press time (and the cows are in the corn) it appears that the lucky seven have been soaked in a formula of turpentine, ditch water and honey.

“In just a few hours these guys will not only be protected from the elements and aging,” said an open space advocate, “but never again will we see subdivisions built right on top of their heads.”

Local residents, shocked at first by such new age planning, say rampant development threatens to destroy their lifestyle and that 35-acre rancheros and golf courses often crush their cowboy hats.

More on this as we make it up.

“An agnostic is just an atheist without balls.” – Stephen Colbert

Highway 550 Shipped to Denver

(Colona) Colorado State Highway 550 will be transported to C-Dot bunkers in Denver as part to a plan to repair the road before tourists begin arriving in May. The principal artery will be hauled away in 5-mile increments and restored “in just a day or three months” according to officials familiar with this sort of excavation.

What this means for motorists accustomed to using the thoroughfare was not particularly clear this morning. Royal bridge builders and road maintenance engineers have already begun stockpiling massive piles of beetle kill near the roadway leading observers to believe that material will substitute for the more traditional asphalt. Until we know more it is apparent that venture brain trusts will persevere and the people will endure.

That stretch of highway from Montrose to Ouray has always given us trouble,” said Willy “The Pirate” MacLeish of C-DOT.  “And that says nothing of its bastard cousins “The Three Saints” – Red Mountain, Molas and Coal Bank Passes on the way to Durango.

There was no mention of conduits further south to Farmington since C-DOT does not recognize the sitting government in New Mexico and prefers to ignore all reference to the state, much like the EPA, which is allegedly engaged in a giveaway of public lands and the ED, which offers equal and inferior education to all.

The whole damn highway needs a lesson in humility,” continued MacLeish. “The highways in The Pale (The Confront Range) come first and these hick paths can just wait their turn. So what if thy were built based on traffic in 1965.”

– Kashmir Horseshoe

AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL CANADIANS:

from Seamus McGinty, Skibbereen, Cork, Republic of Ireland

Please be careful with Harry and Meghan. Centuries ago when we allowed English gentry, not to mention royals, to land on our coast, things went bad fast. Cheers!

Bibliophiles must register in Montrose County

(Simms Mesa) Persons convicted of literary crimes must register with local law enforcement agencies after February 15. These generally well-read, often erudite offenders will remain on a Colorado database for 6 months.

After that time these bookish felons must renew/update vital information including address and telephone number so as to earn a safe conduct passage, dismissively referred to as a library card during more archaic periods of book burnings and pious interdiction.

Person deemed guilty of risk levels higher than 1.5, on a scale of 1 to 10, will be monitored for indications of loud talking, loitering and in some cases destruction of checked out items. Overdue fines could be levied and usually are when the person fails to honor his/her contracted responsibilities according to Penal Code 86R-Y, established in 2008.

Furthermore, the much-maligned Bookends Project demands that suspect persons must submit to indiscriminate ordeals and surgical diagnosis if behavioral patterns persist. Physicians may then prescribe colorful pills and failsafe injections (inoculations, vaccinations, flu shots) in hopes of driving out the parasitic demons of these so-called bookworms.

Bibliophiles who ignore this warning could face fines (compiled daily), loss of inter-library privileges and banishment to the Dark Ages.

-Tommy Middlefinger

For more turn to Celtophiles- Scourge of Connemara in your prayer books.