Rave-on, rave-on

Despite its repeated mentions in this blog, I haven't been to the Raven in a month of Sundays. Which is why I was delighted when my friend Z-Ditty called and suggested we go there Wednesday night. After a few arm-twisting phone calls, a group was gathered and we spent a few decorous hours sipping Scotch on the rocks and discussing Foucoult. Or some of us may have just focused on making as many Heinekens disappear in a very short amount of time whilst badmouthing people's jukebox selections. (If I have to hear "Dead or Alive" one more time....Bon Jovi stopped being entertainingly ironic a long time ago and now is just tired.)

The Raven is a much nicer place these days, largely because its owner decided to patch things up. So one no longer has to worry about what's going to crawl out of the cracks in the leatherette seats or about the ceiling caving in on you, because that blue tarp that held it up for most of last year did not look like a load-bearing tarp. I'm happy to see that they're keeping the graffiti up in both the men's and the women's bathrooms because there's a lot of political discourse going on there that should be archived for the ages.

But the Raven's essential core hasn't changed. It still is a place where it is easy - at times, far too easy - to meet new people or see acquaintances in a different light. For example, on Wednesday I unexpectedly ran into someone who I know professionally there, and we agreed that what happens at the Raven stays at the Raven. And time slows down while you're there. Somehow, we ended up closing down the bar, even though everyone (except for me) had to work the next day. You just can't say no to the Raven.