Drones Club

Monday, May 15, 2006

Everyone's a pub-namer

It is an interesting social phenomenon that upon announcing one's intention of opening a pub, everyone and their mother has got a great name for it that you absolutely must use. I've collected the following rogues' gallery of unpromising dactyls from my housemates:

1. The Teats and Ass (Lyle)
His idea for the shingle illustration was that of a cow's teat violating a buttock, at which point I suggested that he took his pornography too early and too often.

2. The Butter Place! (Philippe)
I cannot use this.

3. Auld Tarnahan's (Onstad)
As ever, he is thinking like a marketing firm and not a local pub owner. I don't know anyone named Tarnahan, and it is not common for me to use the old spelling "Auld." The whole thing smacks of the ersatz.

4. The Dude and Catastrophe (Roast Beef)
He was very much involved in some sort of computer meltdown when I solicited him, and I expect he will come up with something better later.

I called him a bit late in the evening, and did not get anything beyond this suggestion before he dramatically hung up.

I continue my search for the perfect name. I can tell that this will be difficult, and I can also tell that I ought to stop asking anyone's advice.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

A second career, so late in life?

The most delightful opportunity has arisen. While lamenting the day's angling at the Crab & Pickle this afternoon, I overheard the owner and keep, a fellow by the name of Jerome Naughty (indeed his birth name - I have met his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Paul and Doris Naughty), claim bold and loud that he would be selling the place within the season. I gathered the scoop from Drenqi, the little old Basque in the txapela who perpetually seems to work off the same glass of Lillet: seems Jerome's got to sell the place because "his wife, she is a bitch," and "Jerome, he no can stand for it no more."

That logic aside, the place is on the quiet market and I'm damned if I can think of a reason not to strike while the iron is hot. A pub is a simple business, needing only a man to bring the kegs in the morning, a fellow to fry the foods, and a busboy. A keep such as myself could pull pints and set out the dekels, all while making sure the patrons were kept in good conversation, darts, and pickled eggs. I tell you, the only stop between here and there is the little meeting or flash of the mind wherein I choose the new name for the place. I shall keep you apprised thereof.