Philosophy lecture

A serious moment for the smart set here within The Wulfshead (take off your hat!)...


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The Suit

And after man has made everything, everything he can
You know that man makes money to buy from other man
---James Brown and Betty Jean Newsome, "It's a Man's Man's Man's World"

I overheard, last night, at the bar, an unusual conversation between a patron and one of the bartenders. Not to worry: the gentleman's secret is safe with me. In fact, I wouldn't even have brought this up, except that I was reminded that there are creatures at The Wulfshead and in the world(s) beyond, that can be far worse than any ill-tempered washroom attendant, one might have had the misfortune of running afoul of, drunk or sober. Take the Suits, for instance. It is said that they are masters of camouflage.

While the Greater Suits are easily identifiable, there are those who claim that "being a suit" is something more insidious . . . a sickness that's difficult to detect, yet highly infectious in an enclosed office:

Some Suits are people who are capable of setting aside their feelings and ethics for the sake of serving a wealthy company. (This variety can be identified by its plaintive mating call: "It's only a job! It's only a job!") Others are humans who define their identity by their job titles, define "loyalty" as unquestioning obedience, and justify their actions by their salaries. If an oil tanker crashes in Alaska, if someone in the Third World works slave wages while making cheap goods for the Company, or some "cog" in the machine of a corporation is driven to drink by his dehumanizing job, that's someone else's problem. Habitat: Most suits remain confined in the fortress of their workplace from nine to five, but lately, this guideline has become less accurate, The "workaholic" will often stay at the office quite late, while the descendant of "yuppie scum" can carry out his duties anywhere thanks to the assistance of laptops, cellular phones, beepers and other similar devices. Identifications: Suit society requires elaborate rituals, many of which are performed for inscrutable reasons. Like a hive of bees endlessly dancing around each other in a hive or a swarm of cockroaches endlessly paying obeisance to a pile of dung, a team of suits slowly make their "dances" more elaborate as they gather credit in their bank accounts. The philosophically inclined insist on making finer distinctions between the species of suits. Can someone infiltrate a team of suits and still remain human? If someone isn't paid a lot by a corporation, can he still be a suit or is he merely a victim? Is the distinction between a "suit" and a "cog" merely a matter of salary? Some suits also show signs of wanting to be human, such as organizing company volleyball games, dancing to bad '80s rock and drinking cheap beer whilst wearing ties around their foreheads, or insisting that they're just doing their job to support their families. ~The Autumn People, by Deirdre Brooks and Brian Campbell~

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Excuse me...Bartender...oh, Bartender!

I know you already reassured me that I had the wrong idea about that waitress, and I was prepared to accept that I was simply being paranoid. However, I must now ask that you have several very strong words with the men's room attendant.



But please...don't tell her that I complained to you.
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Bartók

I say hurray for Bartók.

Thank you Bartender for introducing this new category to the Wulfshead's menu.


It's a daring choice.
You know what they say:

As our good friend Nausicaa would put it, "it's an acquired taste."

I say well done, Bartender! Bartók definitely deserves his place at The Wulfshead. He has earned it.

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Follow the White Rabbit

Drink Me
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L'arbre de vie

That painting across the room, Ma'am?
Why, yes, it is an original, like all of the paintings displayed here at The Wulfshead.

They've made a movie about the artist---"Séraphine," Ma'am.
Séraphine de Senlis. I am sure the gentlelady must have heard about it.

Indeed, Ma'am, the movie did quite well at the 34th Annual César Awards, last Friday. No less than seven Césars, Ma'am, including best film, best original screenplay, and best actress for Ms. Yolande Moreau in the title role.

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For god's sake, nobody tell Sean Hannity about this

He'll just say it was brainwashing children.
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Bar Talk

It's a good guess, but, no, the picture wasn’t taken at The Wulfshead. This one came to us via the Seattle Weekly, an article posted Dec. 28, 2007 at 10:50 am by Aja Pecknold. The photo was taken by Chris Kornelis. I am not sure of the location. Perhaps the gentleman from Seattle will know.

It’s an old joke, but it’s true: bartenders can have a lot in common with priests. And perhaps also with psychiatrists, to a lesser degree.

What say you, sir?

Why, yes, with prostitutes, too, I suppose. But that would be another story altogether.

The gentleman from Ohio, was just recounting to me, last Thursday, how in his 1855 book Table Talk, John Doran tells the story of a curate at Basse Bretagne, noted for his wit, who found that his duty at the confessional interfered with a number of invitations to dine. Seeking to indulge his stomach, the curate declared from the pulpit: "In order to avoid confusion, my brethren, I have to announce that tomorrow, Monday, I will receive at confession the liars only; on Tuesday, the misers; on Wednesday, the slanderers; on Thursday, the thieves; Friday, the libertines; and Saturday, the women of evil life." Doran notes that "the priest was left during that week to enjoy himself without let or hindrance."

I wonder whether anyone ever bothered to call the number on the card. I just gave it a try this morning, but I only got a voicemail box, and it is full.

Maybe Brian is in Church, what do you think?

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