today i turned up a notebook that thankfully i never took to any boy’s house.
15:48. a pint of “oxfordshire ales” “marshmellow.” at the kings arms. it is all right. (reasonably refreshing.) bar itself is nice—meets my NO MUSIC criterion—but there is a fucking loud clock—but i am the one who went and sat under it. i regret i did not notice the cider tap options before i went with this ale—but i am, supposedly, desultorily, on some kind of regimen to inform my tongue about the different flavors of beer. i do believe bars should have NO MUSIC—if they’re really going to be bars—(my own fantasy bar, of which i am the fantasy proprietor—Hull—would have no music on alternate days.) (the other alternate days it would play the music i approved of—only songs conducive to contemplative and serious drinking.) i was telling this to alessandro di trieste last night—he had asked me why i liked the bear—sort of an odd question, i thought, since the bear has been around since 1212*, so obviously it has been consistently and thoroughly appealing for long enough that its appeal should be objective—anyway, i was like, `well. there’s NO MUSIC. and the bartender is very cool, the times i’ve been there, anyway.’ `so you think a bar should not have music?’ `yes. there shouldn’t be meals, or quiz night, or gambling machines, or dancing—just alcohol.’ `that is a very—somehow, contemplative idea of a pub—it reminds me of what you were saying earlier, about—the catholic churches you have gone to, and the pope…’ `yeah. i’m liturgically conservative about bars.’
* wikipedia says 1242.