I haven't written on this blog for a while.  What is the point?  There is no point.

     Rules have been imposed on me.  No mentioning of people's names.  No writing about people.  No specifics.  That doesn't leave me with much.

     So, writing about the bar, and what happens there is no fun.

     In the old days when I started writing on the web, no one would give a crap.  I would just write about myself, and post pictures of my art.  No one cared.

     But once I started writing smack about other people, things changed.  Plus, I had a lot more fun.

     Anyway, 'The Drunken News' has gotten me into trouble with some people.  Trust me, it's been more trouble than it was worth.

     I mean, "Who sends emails to bartenders about what I write on facebook?"  The bartenders didn't want or like the emails, so I had to curtail my writing.

     It is all for the better, I suppose.

     To me, 'The Drunken News' just started as a comedy thing to amuse myself and one or two others.

     Then it turned into a thing that I would get into trouble for.

     Then, I quit 'The Drunken News', and some people said I should keep going.  The support I got was enough to reinvigorate my interest.  I was seriously going to quit.  I actually did quit, but it only lasted a day, haha.

     I guess even nicknames of people can be revealing because people know who I am referring to.

     People have written about me, god knows why, and I could give a bleep.  I mean, what does it matter what people write?

     The problem remains of "Where to go from here?"
     I don't know.

     A bar is a business.  All the bartenders care about is that the bar runs smoothly.  That is it.

     As a customer, it is my job to give the bartenders money, so I can 'rent' a drink for a while.

     But yeah, there is a lot of drama.  Alcohol does different things to different people.  That is what makes it all interesting. 

     Even last night there were a plethora of events.  But these things will disappear forever.  I ain't writing about these things here.  I don't want to get into trouble.

Absolutely Nothing Happened Last Night

     There was not a thing that happened.  It was absolutely quiet, and there was no activity from anyone doing anything.
     Nothing was said or heard.
     There was a stillness.
      A quiet feeling permeated the room.
     Beyond that, not even an insect stirred.

     It was like a ghost town.

Some Thoughts on a Sunday Afternoon

     "Well, what I did today was to write a bunch of smack in my notebook instead of postin' it all up on facebook.  That way, if I done get killed, my notes can be published,...what do they call it?  Post-humously,"
David thought to himself.
     "Anyhow, it has been really weird lately, and I is a fixin' to lay low, and generally behave myself.  Some folk don't take too kindly to no jokes, and they certainly don't like to be made a fool of, especially by someone like me who they don't consider to be worth a dang anyhow," David continued.
     "My Lord, alcohol sure does get me into trouble at times.  That whiskey is the main culprit that does do it.  Man, o man, that stuff makes some truth come out that I don't want to say, but since I am drunk, it just comes out anyhow.  I guess and reckon that that is all part of the fun, I suppose, " David reflected.
     "Gosh darn it, I sure am in a heap of trouble, and I don't know how to git myself out of it.  I could stop existing, like some would want me to, or go away, but I also think some people ought to move to North Dakota.  Maybe they would be happier there, " David pontificated.
     "All I knows is that I just wants to be an artist, and I is one, no doubt about it.  Some think I am a bad artist, or not very good, but I beg to differ since I seem to have the ability to produce paintings that people actually shell out hard-earned money for.  So I don't know what the fuss is all about," David reasoned.
     "Damn, well, I can't give up now.  In fact, I'm just gettin' started.  I can't be blamed for trying to survive in this world.  What am I supposed to do, nothing, and just be homeless?  Sheez, you do a little work right in front of people, and they get all huffy and such.  I'm just doing my thing, nothing wrong with that," David sussed up.
     "To spy on people who spy, well, that is all a game.  I still think it is funny.  I find it rather hilarious.  People with nothin' to do, in everybody's business, examining what they do at every minute, and then when I do the exact same thing to them, they want to beat me up.  It figures, I'm always the one that gets the short end of the stick and scapegoated and all that.  At times, it don't seem fair it all.  But as long as it is all in fun, I don't see no harm in anything.  Maybe some people just need a vacation, or a break.  Maybe a movie, instead of sipping wine every night and judging people.  I mean, there are parks in the city where people can sit, look up at the sky, and say, "Man, life is good.  Maybe I shouldn't be so condescending to people, and treat folk better, and stop being a paranoid person, all pent up, and such," David stretched out.
     "I guess if it was another day in time, maybe I would get lynched or shot in the back like they used to do.  That is how they used to deal with folk they didn't like much," David reflected.
     "I just don't see how it can be a museum of tolerance, where one guy gets singled out.  That just don't seem right.  It is like they want to run me out of town, at least.  And for what?  So that they can pick up on girls without anybody gettin' in the way?  Sheez.  I mean, there are tons of places to meet women.  You can't put all your eggs in one basket anyhow, no how," David mused.
     "I guess it all don't matter anyways...I mean, I just want to live my life, and so does everyone else.  But when I see a bunch of old men hovering over some young ladies that are just minding their own business having a nice conversation over a glass of wine, it makes me ill.  I mean, girls should be left alone, unless the company is cordially invited.  I can't help but feel a little protective.  I guess the girls know what they are gittin' into when they enter that place, but no sooner do they sit down but that they are hounded by the wolves.  It ain't a pretty sight, " David mulled over.
     "I do try to mind my own business, but it is kind of hard when people are in mine.  Haha, people who dislike me a lot are always lookin' at my art, seein' what I am up to, sheez.  Can't they just leave me alone?  My word and my god!" David exhaled.
     "Well, I guess that is all I feel like sayin' right now.  I could write more, but I have some online gamin' to do, " and with that, David turned off the bloggin' website, another thing that has gotten him into trouble with certain folk.

     There are people I talk about on 'The Drunken News'.

     Then, there are people I really like, and I don't talk about them on 'The Drunken News'.

     Finally, there are people I would really like to talk about, but I don't dare.  It is too dangerous at this time.

     The normal people that I consider my 'frenemies'...they are fair game.  They are neither true friend or foe.

     There are some psychotic people around, so it is best I just let them hibernate.

     Hey, some people can't take a joke.  That is true.  Normally, I would say, "Fuck them," but apparently even that is too much.

     It is funny that people are noticing my writing a little bit, but it is for all of the wrong reasons.

     That is about all I have to say right now.

The Gossip Machine

     I came to San Francisco in 1996 on an art scholarship. 
     Within a week, I noticed how much gossip circulated around North Beach.
     Everything I did seemed to be observed by somebody, and discussed.
     I wasn't the only one being talked about.  They talked about everybody.  I was just one more person to talk about.
     I wasn't really well received when I got here, but people wondered where I got money.  For the first two years here, I was pretty much living off of my scholarship money.
     After graduation, I found a live/work situation which made me really unhappy, doing things I didn't want to do, in order to survive.
     Eventually, I got a job as a doorman in a local bar.  That worked out for eight years.
     Then I worked at the ballpark for three years as a cotton candy vendor.  That was fun, but the pay was miniscule.
     For the past two years, I've been selling my art in a bar, barely scraping by, but having a good time.  I love what I do, and I'm happy.  Sometimes I have nights of $0, sometimes I do pretty well, thank you very much.

     So, one thing is constant.  The Gossip Machine is intact.

     Well, I guess it gives people something to do, and to focus on.

     Somebody said the other day that it was like 'Peyton Place', that famous old soap opera.

     It is pretty much a trap to get caught up in The Gossip Machine.  I have allowed myself to get sucked up in it as a joke.  I don't take it too seriously because all the people involved aren't even worth it to gossip about.

     I mean, what am I going to say?  This person is getting drunk again?  That is old news.

     People talk about who is dating whom, and I care nothing about such matters.  It is none of my business, unless, of course, it is as a joke.

     They don't talk about important things, like how to get ahead in business, or how to finish the final draft of a short story so it can be sold to a publisher.

     Mostly, they just 'blah blah blah', and quite frankly, it bores me to tears.

     I guess if they don't keep their lips moving at all times, their mouths might seal over.

     I don't see too much thought or philosophy in action.  Sure, there is some, but mostly it is just drinks and conversation.  Nothing wrong with that.  It is just a bar.
     But can't it be more?

     I often wonder what people do in the day.  I don't know how some of these people make it to their jobs on time in the morning.

     They probably go to their coffee shop, and do their day-time gossiping, talking about the previous night's events, in order to get ready for the evening.

     Some of these people say they are poets and writers, and I don't know when they do any writing.  How good can their work be if they are getting slammed every night?  Also, what in hell are they writing about besides drunken nights talking smack?

     I don't know.

     Anybody who questions my writing, or takes it too seriously should have their head examined, pronto.

The Outsider

     I am an outsider.  I am not from here.  I am mostly from Los Angeles, with an eight year stint in Utah.

     I am 45 years old now.  Seventeen of those years I have spent in San Francisco.  Some say you are not a true resident until you have been here for twenty years.

     Anyhow, I go to a local bar every night called, "The Texan Outhouse".  It has nothing to do with Texas.

     The bar is frequented by all kinds of people, from all walks of life.  Some of the customers are more well-off than others.  The economic range is 'completely homeless' to 'doing pretty good'.
   
     That is part of the appeal to the bar.  Anybody and everybody is welcome, some more than others.

     So, anyways, my perspective is of that of a fucked up artist ex-Mormon and current alcoholic.  I like to mix it up.

     I make art every night in the bar, and I often sell my art, too.  People like what I do enough to cough up some cash for it, which makes me happy.  It beats working.  Trumps it.

     Some people like me, some don't.  Nothing I can do about that, except to mind my P's and Q's.  I don't want to wear out my welcome.

     Sometimes I make fun of people in my art, and in my writing.  I think it is funny, that is why I do it.  Sometimes, however, I do it because I am morally outraged, or disturbed by what I see.

     One thing I do see, myself included, is people doing the same things over and over again, without variation.  I make fun of this a lot.

     For the most part, though, I don't know what to say.  It is just a bar.  It has a history and reputation of being a literary bar, though, where people would come in and write.
     Currently, I hear a lot of people say they are writers, but mostly they are talkers, I think.  I don't see any writing going on, except once in a while by the dedicated few.
     
     I do observe a lot of show-boating and drama.  There is a healthy competition at all times to be the center of attention, which is another great thing to make fun of.

     Overall, I like the bar a lot, and I like the freedom it provides.  I only wish more people would take advantage of this.  But that isn't my problem, is it?  No, I don't think so.

     Critics of my art work, and of me as a person, never buy my art anyhow, so I don't know why I care what they say.
     Hands down, the art that I do that sells the most is my naked lady art, so I'll continue doing that, drink a beer, and have a good time.

The Nexus

     Are you enjoying having no new 'Drunken News' blog entries?     It is just hard for me to care anymore.

     Actually, I wish I had full reign to say whatever I wanted, about who I wanted to write about.  That would be fun.

     However, if the fun element is completely stripped away, then there is no incentive.

     Not getting paid for my writing, the fun I have writing is the only motivating factor.  Take away that one element, and there is nothing.  There is just a void.  An empty space waiting to be filled.  A blank sheet of paper.  A white canvas.  Nada.  Zip.

     Is there anything to be said about a bar and its' denizens?  I think there is a lot.  A bar is a crossroads in the nexus of humanity.  Time stands still.  There is a lot to observe because of what humans do when they are intoxicated.  They become more of themselves for a while.

     The fictional name I came up with for the bar is 'The Texan Outhouse'.  That way I could still call it a 'First Class Toilet'.

     Meanwhile, as an update, I am still going through all the entries, to remove any and all offensive material.  So far, to be honest, I haven't found much. 
     Mostly I think what is going on is that people's egos are out of control with 'self-importance' set on high.

     The End For Now.