Culture

I had been contemplating a number of posts on culture, particularly how it relates to the pub, and even more particularly the American Pub (definition pending), when I came across a bunch of photos fermenting on my iPhone. I suspect that there are many of you out there on this third rock who might be unable to reconcile a gathering of screaming bagpipes as a cultural event worth note. However, this is the Great Melting Pot, and to hear these guys wailing away in the confined space of the public bar was sublime. It was Tree Planting Festival weekend in our small mountain town, and I, for one, am a fan of the small town parade. There are not many small towns engaging in this distinctly American cultural pastime, or doing it properly in my opinion, and so I get moderately "into it". This incongruous marching assembly of drummers and bagpipers, the Eugene Fire Pipes and Drums, wafted past during the formalities, and then drifted into the pub afterwards. The simple lure of a free pint was adequate impetus for a a nice half hour micro-concert.

There is a good chance I can get them back up here in full regalia and with all the exciting bits of musical equipment. I have a business card here on my desk from the Pipe Major/Manager who suggested that if I brewed a batch of beer and named it after them, then they would periodically appear to drink it and to play. Sounds fair. I'm not convinced that "Eugene Fire Pipes and Drums" is a blue-chip beer name, so I'll have to mull that over a bit, but I'm fairly sure it will be a dark mild.

Rounds

The customers last night inadvertently reminded me of something (one of many) that I really miss about the UK, and that is, namely, The Round. I'm trying to recall if I've even seen a single session of rounds since I've opened just over three months ago. Sure, you get the one member of a party that volunteers to cover the entire tab after a meal and a few drinks, which is invariably paid with a credit card. But, The Round; it is a beautiful thing, full of nuance and subtlety, and it involves beer. I don't now why I find this interesting, but there it is - 5500 miles away a group of lads will come up to the bar with 20 pounds sterling and order four pints, which will be consumed roughly at the same pace. Then, by the Mysterious Round-Selection Algorithm, another of the party will do the same. And so forth. And so on. But, alas, over here in the Colonies I have to record randomly selected beverages and food items on a piece of paper, to be paid for either before or after The Meal by a credit card (again).

I often am left with the impression that perhaps we don't have a culture, this being a subject which I often think about but find myself unable to articulate in writing. Where are these rituals that define us? Oh, I know they are there, but they have an arbitrary, intertwined quality, as if still struggling to assemble into a cohesive pattern. In September when the firefighters were out and about in force, and thankfully supporting my pub, I struggled through the complications of figuring out just who was going to cover who's tab at the end of the night amongst 20 or so random and circulating government contractors. I have to admit to witnessing numerous acts of generosity, but not a single definable and namable expression of said.

I'm presently sitting at the High Street Cafe in Eugene, Oregon. They have food, WiFi, and beer, of which I could write stories about (along with my impressions and opinions of McMenamins). I lurk by myself, sitting in the nice corner seat by the bathrooms (yes, I know there is no bath in there). I'm not buying anybody a round. Why? Because I'm playing the frantic businessman on a resource-run to the local city, using the spare moments to write a potentially useless blog about a ritual that only works when all are in agreement and share an engaging tradition. In other similar situations, given a society of social gray matter, I might be inclined to buy a round. Too bad that the staff would not be impressed with a representative of a group of blokes ambling up to the bar every 34 minutes with a 20 dollar document of legal tender for yet another round. Let's just run a tab. (Author rummages for credit card).