Voyeurism and the Quest for Good Beer...

Tonight I went out searching for a watering hole. I figured since I was starting to get more serious about writing, I ought to have my spot, my Cheers, my Hemingwayan hot seat. It is more difficult than you might think. My neighborhood is largely Mexican and Brazilian. I have no problem with either, but the music and culture are quite loud and the atmosphere on a Saturday night can be frenetic. Si quiero una fiesta, es buena; pero si quiero tranquilidad, es una problema. I need someplace where I can think. It's a helpful precursor to writing. Well, sometimes.
In Sandy Springs, a neighboring city which has neither sand nor naturally occurring springs, I found a bar called the Ship and Anchor. I had heard of it before, but had never actually been there. It seemed promising at first. A large 5 mast 10' reproduction of a ship encased in glass at the front entrance. A long forking bar at the center of the back wall with roughly 6 people at it, plenty of seats available. Of course the flat screens projecting sports chatter and modern pop radio were slightly invasive, but I understand a place has to stay open. Still, the riveted copper bartop and stained oak paneling did help make it feel a little less contemporary Americana. At least the menu started by extolling the virtue of the British pub and its many beguiling facets, which included fresh pints and stimulating conversation. Technically, I found both, although I didn't actually partake of the latter.
Near my stool, I overheard a couple talking. There was a cadence to their conversation, and a softness to their voices, primarily the gentleman's, which intrigued me. The first thing I heard was them asking the youngish barmaid if Captain Ahab ever came in. Her response was 'I don't know who that is'. Poor thing; I'm sure she doesn't. They went on to criticize the younger generation for it's lack of attention to the finer things, apparently such as incredibly long and meandering novels by the authors of old. They did seem to understand, however, that with things like music videos, cliff notes and (guilty) blogs, we just don't have attention spans like we used to. Heck, I went to the bar intending to work on a story for a musical, and I never got past writing down abject comments which I'm currently translating into this excerpt. I blame MTV. I blame Martha Quinn and Kurt Loder. I blame...no, it's gone.
Regarding the quest for good beer, Ship and Anchor did have a couple favorites of mine, and they were priced at about the average, so I really can't complain there. What I did remember while enjoying the moderately priced ale was that once back in college I was called 'voyeur' by a fellow theatre student at a party. I'm quite certain she didn't mean it in the modern context, where one would likely be referring to some type of sexual deviant or pervert. I think she noticed something about me that I perhaps hadn't quite realized about myself--I am content to watch. Anything, almost. Granted, I do take part in my life now and again, but when you strip away all the relations and responsibilities and, say, dump me in a stool at some random pseudo-authentic bar, I will probably do nothing more than sit quietly and look around at people. Perhaps I'll listen to what they are talking about if I can do it discretely. For example, I was recently at a hockey game hanging out in the 'club' section (the expensive area--I know a guy who works for the team) and saw Owen Wilson standing nearby, chatting with a friend. Now, it would be the impulse of just about anyone to want to stop by and shake his hand; I saw some people doing just that. Maybe just say 'you're great' and run away. At least create a mildly interesting story to tell at the next whatever-it-is-they-do. But I decided not to. Because...I guess because it's just not like me to bother. I even know why he's in town, what film he's shooting. I used to live in Harlem a block from another of his film locations. I have a friend who spoke to him while he was writing 'The Life Aquatic'. I have plenty of things to talk about with him. I just don't.
The word 'voyeur' comes from the French word meaning 'one who sees or inspects'. As a lonely college student desperate for both attention and anonymity, I once thanked a girl for calling me one, giving me a label as if I had thus become a member of the landed gentry. Now, almost 15 years later, I thank her again for her perceptiveness, for helping toss me an insight into myself. If there is one thing I have learned about myself, and also conversely, one gigantic mystery that I simply cannot unravel, it is that I long to be in the darkest, quietest corner of the busiest, most bustling room of wherever I am. But I don't think it ends with mere inspection. It is not enough to just soak up this secondhand kinetic roll off. I have to write about it. Or, it at least needs to inform the material that I am writing about, whether directly or not.
I find myself wanting to answer the pair of intellectuals who sat near me: yes, Ahab is here! I have sailed the weekend waters of small middle-class America searching for a fertile seabed where my target may be dwelling, only to find that it has always been there just beneath my keel, perhaps waiting for me to peer down into the depths before ramming at the hull. For it is the need to write which is my white whale--my ancient and overgrown sense of dread and adventure, future and fate. And, as long as I remain aware of its intimate presence, I shall stab repeatedly at it with my inkheavy harpoon until one or both of us are pulled into shiny uncertainty forever, leaving nothing but a trail of mixed lifebloods and empty tankards to tell the story.