Maybe it's No Fun November, my month long cleanse of no booze or fried food, that made me notice. Maybe it's the fact that we haven't been able to regularly go make our way to a local watering hole without any rules or restrictions or sitting outside for what seems like eternity.
But whatever it is as I flipped on "Good Will Hunting" for the 1000th time yesterday while I was doing some work, I noticed my increasingly alarming desire to go sit with the boys at a local spot and pound some ice cold beers.
Will, Morgan, Chuckie, the curly red haired guy everyone forgets the name of - they make downing some cold ones while eating some questionable peanuts look better than anything in the world. There's nothing like it. I miss it dearly.
And it's a very specific environment I'm talking about.
It can't be confused with a "club". At no point, no matter how late it gets, can any music that came out after the year 1986 be allowed to be played without the regular whose shoe marks are engrained in the spot he stands at at the bar every night bitches a bit before changing the touch tunes.
The outside of said pub needs to look like an underdeveloped shack that didn't get finished in the 1950's and just holds a sign that reads "pub" or "ice cold beer" on the outside with maybe a light up sign of the local sports team. When you walk in the smell is fried. Not TikTok "Yo he's friiiiied" fried. It literally smells like they tossed the remnants of the fryers in the air and it instantly makes you want loaded fries.
You find a comfy spot at a grimy, slightly sticky table closest to wherever the game is on, and you feel at peace. You know you won't be leaving for the next 2-4 hours depending on how many times the softy of the group says "Yeah I'll do another".
They have bottles on special, but you want a nice domestic draught. There's something about the sound a thick, rounded at the bottom, draught glass makes when you set it down on that sticky, grimy wooden table after taking a gulp. It makes the 50 cents extra worth it.
Once the laughs have subsided and everyone's unfortunately ready to hit the road again until next Thursday, the waitress brings out the checks. "Man this could be ugly" you think to yourself after gorging your face with what seemed like endless apps and beers. Only to turn over the check and see a friendly $10.35 at the bottom tab. "Oh yeah," you remind yourself, "This place is called "Sam's" not the Clevelander in Miami."
Damn, I miss that.
All this spawned from another viewing of one of my favorite movies of all time "Good Will Hunting".