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***

  

Citizen Steve Eats - A Trip to Howbowda Bagel Company

    I ate a bagel sandwich today at Howbowda Bagel Co., located on Green just East of 6th in Champaign, IL.  The sandwich was called "The Wall Streeter".  Hot roast beef, horseradish, and some other good stuff like that.  It was supposed to be served on an "everything" bagel, but they were out of those.  In fact, they were out of all seeded bagels.  Damn.  I like seeds.  Ah well.  I got it on an egg bagel.  I've always thought that eggs deserve more stage time in the hours past noon.

    The egg bagel worked.  What was most striking about it was its smell, which overwhelmed the smells from the beef and the horseradish (no easy feat).  That egg smell can take you back a long way, eh?  Sunday breakfasts after church, packed diners in the city, and a few other rather nostalgic scenes.  I think it was that smell that made the sandwich go a bit further than the average beef panini.  And Dustin, the owner, hadn't been so ready to make my sandwich on the egg bagel.  He had recommended plain or whole wheat in leu of my beloved seeded bagels.  I guess this sandwich was what the afro-donning "Joy of Painting" host Bob Ross would have called a "happy accident".  And happy I was, indeed.

    Dustin says that business has been ok.  October is a good month, he says.  I think he means that it's a good month for any campus business, not for bagels in particular.  I've heard rumors that Howbowda hasn't been doing too well since it opened last year.  For one thing, some fellow capitalists opened a Dunkin Donuts right next to the place.  And a few months later, a Panera opened up across the street.  Now, I'm not the type to bitch about big corporations making it hard on the little guy.  Rather, I'm the type to buy my stuff from the little guy.  Unless the little guy sucks.

    And Howbowda Bagel don't suck.  It's the only place on campus where you can get a sandwich, and have it freshly made, and not think to yourself "I've eaten this exact same thing in Chicago, and Kankakee, and Charleston..." (I'm looking at you, Subway.)  And that's the joy of eating at an independent restaurant.  Dustin here has used his expertise to write up a menu, pick out quality ingredients, and make me a sandwich right in front of my eyes.  Then, he asked if I had any suggestions for the place, telling me that he prefers negative feedback.  "I don't wanna hear the positive stuff," he says.

    Bar Giuliani, the only campus coffee shop without billboards all over town boasting its many locations, has closed its doors.  I smell a gap in the local coffee market.  Guiliani was a favorite among hipsters and grad students- those who had ideals involving coffee shop ownership, and who were put off by transparent attempts to seem worldly (I guess "venti mocha frap" is Seattle-ish for "a ton of sweet shit").  Where are these socially conscious caffeine addicts to browse digg.com now?

    Next time I stop in Howbowda, I'll give Dustin my negative feedback: You only have one type of coffee, and you call it "coffee".  That won't cut it in 2009.  Maybe (God-willing) 2010 will usher in a coffee revival, when Americans can just sip a cup of joe without imagining they're trilingual French skiers.  But for now, Howbowda needs to diversify its brews, and maybe add an "-ino" or a tilde (as in "sweeteñer") to its drink menu.  Until they do, try the pesto cream cheese on a spinach bagel, and chug from a glass bottle of Nantucket Nectar.  Makes for a hell of a lunch.

Citizen Steve Speaks - Now, About These Gnats...

    While my one hand is typing this, my other hand is swatting and crushing tiny insects.  Tons of tiny, annoying insects.  And I'm in a library, tucked into a poorly lit corridor.  The gnats are upon us.  And we're being told there's nothing we can do about it.

    They showed up Monday morning.  Because I don't "do" mornings, I was unaware of the plague until just before 1:00 pm that afternoon, as I strolled to my first class of the day.  I had just gotten out of the shower.  I love showers, and I take them all the time.  As I walked to class, I noticed a few tiny gnats swarming around me, occasionally landing upon my flesh.  I didn't do a lot of shooing, as I feel that anybody swatting flies as they walk down the street looks like a filthy bum.  I just kept walking tall, as if the gnats didn't exist.

    But they didn't leave once I got to my lecture.  We watched a silent film that day, and as the gnats hounded me while I watched the movie, I couldn't help but swat a bit.  I had to swat them off of my skin, because they itched (and they're plain icky).  I had to swat them from my immediate area, as they were blocking my field of vision.  All this swatting was very distracting for me, and probably even more distracting for those around me.  I began to wonder why the gnats were following me.  Was I smelly?  Did the shower not "take"?

    That's a little glimpse into the neurosis that comes with being Citizen Steve.  Rather than observe that these bugs were clearly buzzing into every nook and cranny of the entire Midwest, I had myself convinced that I was encased in a small cloud of filth following me around campus, not unlike Pigpen of Peanuts fame.

    Yesterday the Daily Illini told me some things that I didn't want to hear.  But, such is the job of any newspaper worth their sawdust, eh?  They told me (in large headline form) to not call the bugs "gnats".  For my information, they're in fact "soybean aphids".  Today I heard a nerdy kid on Green Street say "Ah, these damn aphids!" and I almost punched him in his face.  I'm sticking with gnats.  Sue me.

    Secondly, the DI told me that prevention efforts against these things would be "impractical" and "a waste of time".  Bunch of tree huggers, if you ask me.  Well, if they won't tell you how to get rid of these things, Citizen Steve will: Squash 'em.  Squash the daylights out of them.  There!  I squashed one just now.  It felt good.  It still feels good.  I'm getting a little power trip out of this.  To hell with meditation- I just found my new source of empowerment: squashin' bugs, the American way.

    Speaking of America, another remedy for the gnats is Budweiser.  After a few golden pints last night, I forgot what a gnat was.  I also forgot what Indian food does to my stomach on top of those pints, hence my slow morning today.  But I digress.

    I'm told that the gnats will be all but gone in about a week.  Until then, squash away, and don't wear that bug spray stuff around campus.  I hate the way that stuff smells.  Thank you.