I was listening to Chicago’s 25 or 6 to 4 on the radio this morning and the opening lyric "waiting for the break of day" caused this sort flashback to a time loooong ago when I used to closeout the bars around the UT campus. Many Fort resident’s will share fond memories of Griffins. See, there’s a subculture to the bar scene. You have your regulars and the horny people hoping to drink enough that it doesn’t matter who they sleep with and then there is everyone else. As the night lingers on and the horny people’s beer googles grow thicker, their pack thins. Of course the everyone else crowd just dissipates over time and the words "last call" send them packing. That leaves the regulars. I frequently found myself among The Regulars.
"Last call!" doesn’t mean the bar closes. It means it closes to everyone on the outside. Griffins, for instance, quit serving beer at last call and switched the taps to sarsaparilla which just happened to taste a whole lot like beer. The comradery experienced after hours is beyond description. Social barriers fall as the bartender joins the crowd and the taps open to anyone who wanders behind the bar. Bonding occurs. Tarot cards come out and futures are told. Eventually it all goes away. At some point, a brave soul decides it is time to leave the cave, the womb like environment. Those windows painted over in flat black guard the outside from the revelries inside and protect The Regulars from the harshness of the outside until they stupidly open that door and the 7am sun cuts through them like the unholy opening the Ark in Raiders! Bodies vaporise. Souls vanish! And these tales go untold…until the next Last Call.