Bar Fly Banter, Vol. 1

So I was having a pleasant conversation with Ms. Fire at the local watering hole when the following exchange came up—

Max: “Man, I met some pretty wealthy people at this conference I attended. People with $6 Million liquid, to say nothing of the vastly greater wealth tied up in their various investments. Pretty sharp folks.”

Ms: [says nothing, cannot stop ogling my manly mustache.}

Eavesdropping Barfly: “Yup, it takes money to make money.”

And pan out to 60,000 feet.

Now I know this gentleman. He’s a Semi-Regular. My definition of a Regular is someone there more often than I, and a Semi-Regular as someone whom I’ve seen more than 20 times. For the record, there are fewer than 6 Regulars by my definition.

Let’s take a step away and give a little more info on the bar, as it provides a primary backdrop for many of my anecdotes. It’s your stereotypical sports bar—not a chain, but a stand alone establishment. They have Bud Select on tap. For me. They have a Christmas party every year for their staff. Ms. Fire and I got one of 10 "Favored Patrons" invites. I rocked Eminem on the Karaoke. Damn, this is turning more into a resume of my awesomeness than a bio on the bar.

Linearly thinking, the bar Regular and Semi-Regular patrons range through a wonderful blend of semi-successful business folks with an affliction, blue collar toilers with a habit, and bumbling mental trilobites with a problem. I love all of my marionettes equally. Mr. “It takes money to make money” definitely tends towards the obtuse end of the spectrum—every 95th percentile needs its 5th I suppose.

Now I don’t usually engage in any mental sparring with patrons who, in my opinion, would likely fail debate against animals I have eaten. Usually. Unless they A) unprovoked, knock one of my favored football teams or B) interrupt Ms. Fire’s stroking of my supple mane. He chose B).

Max: “What exactly does that mean, ‘It takes money to make money’?”

Barfly: “Well, if you want to build an apartment building you gotta have the money to build it.”

Max: “So, if you woke up with $6 Million liquid, what would you do?”

Barfly: “Well, you sure wouldn’t see me showing up for work at the garage tomorrow.”

Max: “So you’d quit your current job. Then?”

Barfly: “I’d probably move to the Bahamas and never work again.”


I acknowledged his piercing business acumen and promptly returned to my cups.

So I offer a simple bit of advice. If you, reader 5 of 13, or any of the other 12 of you, come up to me and mindlessly recite the underachieving mantra “It takes money to make money,” I’ll kick you square in the shin. In my experience, it hurts much worse than a punch in the nose. Of secondary benefit is that your lawsuit’s gonna look pretty darn silly.