Citizen Steve's Stomping Grounds - Murphy's Pub

    The first thing they teach you at blogging school is "Show, don't tell."  So how, in one blog post, should one go about capturing the spirit of a dear place (say, Murphy's Pub), without simply drooling one's fondness for the locale all over one's keyboard?  How can one plop his reader into one of those old, carved-into bar stools, elbows rested firmly against the wooden bar top, staring one of the youthful bartenders in her kindly face?  Well, in the opinion of this author, one accomplishes this through a patchwork of precise detail- close looks at set pieces, quick quotes devoid of context, one-line anecdotes, et al.  You know, the kinds of things that escape my memory when it comes to Murphy's, despite my Norm-From-Cheers-like attendance record at the pub.

    Murphy's is, after all, decidedly unconcerned with detail.  The decor?  Random crap on the walls associated with any old brand of booze.  The daily specials?  A shot here, a pitcher there- none of which have any connection in theme or distributor.  The music?  Whatever that gaggle of drunk bar-crawlers has just picked on the digital jukebox.  Elvis, followed by ACDC, and, of course, Miley Cyrus rounding out the trio of tunes.  A tasteful combination of song.

    (One may wonder why I don't, at this point, simply amble across the street from my Mermaid Lagoon to Murphy's, and document its detail firsthand as I write this.  I am reminded of the time I brought a book to Murph's and posted up at the bar, the employees' faces being the only familiar ones.  I planned on mowing down a few chapters between sips of Budweiser.  When I resumed my reading the next day, I began thirty pages behind where I had left off before I entered Murphy's.)

    No, it's not the details of Murphy's that keep me and the rest of the bar's diverse clientele returning for food, drink, and company day after day.  And I don't think it's the lighting, either, although they do a swell job with that.  Rather, I'd wager it has something to do with the lack of pretension, coupled with a respect for the tradition of running a proper public house.

    Take, for example, the taps.  I tend towards dark ales, while my frequent companion, Cait, opts for tangier brews.  We're both obliged year-round at Murphy's.  Some pints currently available at the pub include New Belgium's 1554, a dark, malty ale that never overpowers its drinker; and Goose Island's 312, an "urban wheat ale" with layers of refreshing flavor.  While these fine beers are poured capably by experienced bartenders, most of the beer circulating around Murphy's comes in pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which are often ordered two or three at a time.  And there's no distinction to be drawn between the Pabst drinkers and the craft beer sippers.  For most patrons, it's a pitcher of Pabst one night, and a sampling of micro brews the next.  A young drinker can take a crash course in the many styles of beer over the course of a few nights at Murphy's, without leaving campus to duck into the world of grad student bars and the beer purists behind their counters.  Murphy's does beer right, without bragging about it.

    On the occasions when I bother to look beyond the unassuming pint glass in front of me, I examine the person who brought me that glass.  Most nights at Murph's, that person is Zach.  Granted, sometimes that person is Steph, Gaby, McGreal, Pete, Mary Jo, Emily, Matt, or any from a handful of others, but when I want a Manhattan, it's Zach who tells them how to make it.  And when I want to make my drink a double, it's Zach who knows not to upgrade to the bigger glass.  And when I don't know what the hell I want, it's Zach who knows to make me a double Manhattan.

    And as I sit on my stool at the north end of the bar at Murphy's, drinking my double Manhattan, or my 1554, or my Pabst, or whatever Zach puts in front of me, I sometimes cannot help but see myself as would a fly on the wall: a drunk at a bar.  A statue of me would have the glass molded to my fingers.  In these moments, I'm a stock character, conveniently used as the comic relief, or as the sad sap, the slouching premonition of what's to come should the hero lose his way.  It's a character defined by his own ineffectualness; his achievements distant, his soapbox a mockery.  It's almost enough to make me feel like nothing but a sad, sack of sh-

    What's that, Zach?  Oh, yeah, sure, one more pint.  Thanks.  Hey, did I ever tell you about my trip to Door County?  Well, me and nine of my friends...

***Murphy's Pub is located at 604 E. Green Street, in Champaign, IL***