Dr. Dobb's Journal August, 2004
I t had been over a year since I'd stepped inside Foo Bar, the late-night hangout of computer-industry executives, programmers, and journalists out on the edge of Silicon Valley where I occasionally work as relief bartender to listen in on industry gossip. I'd been too busy to moonlight for a while and wasn't quite ready to pick up a bar rag just yet. But I thought it would be fun to see how it felt to be on the other side of the bar. So I dropped in, cleverly disguised as a customer.
I was totally unprepared for what I encountered.
My first thought was, "My gosh, somebody cleaned the place." It was not a welcome thought.
The room was, in fact, a lot cleaner but it went beyond that, I realized, taking stock.
The floor was no longer dark, creaky planking with crunchy peanut shells. It was quiet beige linoleum.
The book-swap bin that Bernie the bartender had installed by the front door, with the hand-lettered sign, "Barnegat Box"—gone.
The lighting—I couldn't remember what the lighting had been before, but I knew I couldn't see to the back of the room from the front door, and now I could.
The booths in the back had been replaced by round tables with white tablecloths. There were initials carved in those booths that dated back to the days of Shockley Semiconductor.
And where were the regulars? These new people sipping flavored margaritas at the round tables had PR written all over them.
I grilled Bernie over a bowl of chili.
Sorry. I mean, I ordered a bowl of chili and asked Bernie what had happened.
"Capitalism happened," said Bernie, who has some romantic ideas about the redistribution of wealth, which he applies after hours to supplement his bartending income, although I'm not supposed to talk about that.
He put "Nighthawks at the Diner" in the CD player on the corner of the bar—Foo Bar has never had a jukebox and still didn't—and explained that the conglomerate that owned Foo Bar had bought a small trucking firm just before gas prices went through the roof and had picked up a lot of Martha Stewart Living stock just before she was branched out into indictable activities and had bought a bunch of Clie handhelds just before Sony terminated the line and they were a little strapped for cash.
"Jeez, did they also lend their car keys to Darrell Issa?"
"They aren't brilliant businessmen, I guess, but they always let me run this place without interference. But now they've sold it."
"And the new owner did this? Who is the new owner?"
"Now there you raise an interesting question," Bernie answered, if you call that an answer. Long story short, he didn't know. Apparently, nobody knew. Bills got paid and paychecks got issued and the renovation got done, but it all seemed to happen through a string of ephemeral intermediaries, and the checks bore various familiar-sounding but actually unfamiliar corporate names.
Lacking any answers, we drifted on to other topics.
"Think these self-destructing DVDs, like Flexplay brought out last year and this French company is flogging this year, are going to catch on?" I asked.
"Probably. It's a meme. You've got term limits for politicians, terminator seeds that won't reproduce. It's not a question of whether it's a good idea, it's a question of whether it has a good beat and people can dance to it."
"So you give it a ten?"
Just then a Take-Charge Guy rose from an animated discussion at one of the round tables and strode purposefully toward us. "Say," he said, "you were playing that morose tripe last night, too. I brought you something just a little more upbeat." He pulled a CD out of his sportscoat pocket. "Please put this on."
Bernie silently accepted the proffered CD and replaced Tom Waits with Barry Manilow. The customer is always right.
"This is just unacceptable, Bernie," I snarled. "We've got to do something."
He got that look in his eyes that he gets when he's about to redistribute some wealth. "I think you're right. Let me see what I can turn up."
...to be continued...