Popination Crenellation

a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Pints Pub.

The Feast of Christ the King

It’s always a treat to hear

Nadia Bolz-Weber

preach, whenever she comes to the cathedral where I regularly attend. This past Sunday was the Feast of Christ the King, and so the readings were all talking about kingship and dominance and talking clouds and I AM THE ALPHA AND THE OMEGA and all that. Nadia’s sermon (in its entirety here) was a meditation on worry, and a contemplation of power and leadership and God being present through time. I recommend listening to the whole thing, but the place I want to begin is in her idea of the worry autobiography (worryography?)—she listed a few things she worried about most during various points of her life, and reflected on the worry vs. the reality. So let’s try one, shall we? Here’s mine:

• Childhood: bullying

I worried daily about whether I’d be getting bullied at school or yelled at at home. Either or both happened every day.

• Teenhood: boys, self image

Once my hormones erupted, I found myself flailing myself frustratedly at crushes, and mortified at what acting the fool would make me look like. Reputation. I was desperate to cling to my image of being the smartest or most talented one in the room, since I wasn’t the prettiest.

• Young adult: getting cast (also boys), theatre department politics

I was something of a late bloomer, relationship-wise, so the ‘boy worry’ really took over and continued even when I began dating finally. Castability and fuckability. The Byzantine politics and bitchy diva dynamics of the well known theatre department (and then later, the dance and theatre troupes I worked with outside of school) were a constant worry, one that my friends and I constantly macerated on together over tall glasses of vodka or Jack & Coke.

• Adult: money

As a performing artist, and then as an academic, I never but never had enough money for most of what I wanted to do. This is why I continued to live with my ex-husband for so long after we agreed to divorce. My finances were that dire, and controlled by him. After I got away, it was challenging to cover my own expenses solo with an adjunct’s pay (if you can call it that—I call it a Scooby snack). This worry, I think of as the old Sherlockian meaning: like when the Hound of the Baskervilles caught up with Sir Henry, and worried at his throat.

Weirdly, I don’t recall being overly worried about world events up until relatively recently. I mean, yes, there was the nagging fear of nuclear war as a kid that kind of permeated everything. The fear of being sexually assaulted is a constant in every girl’s life. But those worries were minor compared to the more immediate worries I’ve listed above. I wonder why. See?:

• Recently: my partner’s health, my own health, the election results, climate change

None of these worries were out of line, by the way. I may have ended up okay, but all those things I worried about either did happen, or were so likely to have happened that it’s weirder that they didn’t than that I worried about them. Worrying didn’t make the things happen, nor did it stop them. So what did all that energy I put into worry do to my nervous system, to my skill building and developing personality, to my career’s momentum (again, such as it is), to my talent? To my life?

‘…worrying about what might happen didn’t do one thing to make me feel safe, or to prevent bad things from happening or to ensure that good things did. It really only kept me from being present to the gifts of the day I was in.’

Do your own worryography and share it, yeah? It’s a good exercise. I’d love to see what you’ve dug up in the comments.

But church still isn’t a pub!

And so here we are—at another in my newly found practice of post-church Popinations. This time it’s an authentic British pub with a long and storied history. It’s been down here on this corner forever, but I hadn’t been here in forever. I think it’s because it’s in a sort of out of the way area: it’s not quite downtown, not quite on Club Row on Broadway, not quite on Capitol Hill with the art museum and etc. It’s just kind of… nowhere. But it’s really good, if tiny, and it boasts authentic Brit fare, both food and booze-wise. And it’s decorated accordingly. As far as I know. See, I’ve never been to England, so the only Brit pubs I’ve been to have been here in the US. Is it really authentic? Maybe I need some feedback from the lads at the Moon Under Water to find out for sure. What would they call authentic, when it comes to being British? Fish and chips? They’ve got em. The styles of beer they have on tap are all created by Pints, as well, and seem to be all British types, including a couple seasonally rotating cask ales. No, like, really real life cask ales which come out room temp and uncarbonated. That’s the real deal, as far as I know.

Lookit all them bottles!

Pints Pub

Outside Pints, they’ve got a red phone box (I assume not in working order), and Union Jack flags flying. It’s an old building, painted brick, and the only thing I’d suggest doesn’t smack of authentic English pub is that there’s no swinging sign outside the door, with a logo symbolizing the place. And it’s only called Pints (though the sign suggests a possessive, I’ve never seen it spelt that way anywhere else, including on its own menu. So I don’t know what to think.)

Inside, it’s cozy and well-appointed, with only a couple seats at the wooden bar, the rest being high top tables sprinkled throughout. Though they do, as I mentioned above, have two true cask ales on hand, I had an Airedale Pale Ale instead. Why? I don’t prefer my beer at room temperature and without any fizz. I like my beers cold  and with a bite. Unless it’s a Guinness, but actually I do still like those cold. American palate? Ehh maybe. So sue me.

Next time I go down to Pints, I must sample some of their whiskeys galore—the whole bar area was covered with what looked like hundreds of whiskey bottles mounted upside down, with spigots attached to them. I felt like the world’s happiest alcoholic gerbil.

The Airedale Pale Ale was crisp and tasty.

The Potentate of Time

‘The actual potentate of time is already present in the future I am so busy worrying about.’

I don’t tend to get too worshippy even when I’m in church. I don’t know if it’s possible to claim a practical churchgoing self, but I’m not sure how else to put it. Episcopalians’ way of treating the Bible like they’re English professors does comfort me, and that’s why I’ve chosen them. Or maybe God has chosen me by plunking me down there, or whatever. But I do get inspired when at church, frequently–it’s not a mystical, speaking-in-tongues type thing for me, but it’s more of a breath of fresh air, or an ah-ha moment about a problem I’ve been mulling over. Part of Nadia’s sermon did this for me that Sunday. It was the assertion that a dominating power is not a permanent power. An actual ‘this too shall pass’ sentiment that I can get behind.

‘Let us tend to the worries of the day we are in, let us love what is ours to love, heal what is possible to heal, change what is possible to change in this day. And when we look back may we see the one who was always with us, who is always with us and who will be always with us. Making a way, loving us into each moment.’

Word. 

Speaking of:

SIDE NOTE: All this talk of inspiration/breath of air, reminds me of the repetition of the Holy Spirit in that liturgy, the breath of life, etc. To be inspired is to breathe in this energy. To expire is to lose it, end it. In the beginning was The Word, and you can’t speak a word without a breath in. An in-spiration. So like. Yeah. Inspiration. Better than despair. Even though I don’t owe it money, anymore.

And for Nadia’s fantastic work: