Well, here we are again. Another night come and gone at the Belmont Inn and thus I recap the glory that was.

It seemed extra smoky in the ol’ BI tonight and EA Renee and I wondered if maybe the filters were off or a window closed. Or maybe the heat control switch had been accidentally flipped from AC to NICOTINE. Anyway, I’m certainly not one to bitch about the sweet aroma of secondhand lung-excrement, but I did get to thinking: What happens come January 2009, when the new law kicks in and bars must go smoke-free? What will the Belmont Inn be like without that heavenly haze wafting over the proceedings? Fortunately the Pub Quiz itself has built-in smoke breaks thanks to the task of grading, but it’s still hard to imagine certain institutions like the Belmont Inn as smokeless. The BI and cigarettes are like peanut butter and jelly, or Tommy Lee and Pamela, or coffee and, well, cigarettes. Though I see all the benefits of enforcing a smoke-free work environment, the traditionalist in me can’t help but feel a certain sadness as we enter the final months of the Era of Smoke. I don’t know why I’m sad, since I don’t really smoke anymore (but you know, if you waved a cigarette in front of me I certainly wouldn’t resist, hint hint), but I am. Nostalgia is a powerful thing.

…Which segues nicely into a blog about commercials, since few things are more powerfully emblazoned into our collective consciousness than the memorable ads of our youth and beyond. I couldn’t tell you a single joke from the final Seinfeld episode (to list a similarly memorable TV moment among many) but I could sing dozens of commercial jingles in their entirety. I bet I could vividly remember at least one commercial for almost any “mainstream” product you could name (and there have to be hundreds, right?) and yet I’ve forgotten the names of certain pets that I’ve loved, raised and watched die. I’m testing myself right now. Insurance? Yup, there’s Sam Watterston. There’s that stupid Aflack duck. Soda? Too many to comprehend. Frozen vegetables? Potato chips? Cars? Pet food? Paint? Laundry detergent? Furniture? I look around my apartment and I can’t see a single object that doesn’t have a mental connection to a commercial. Polish? Cameras? Books? Televisions? Backpacks? Aggh! My consciousness is built from the bricks of advertising and product placement. There’s no escape.

Thought I was building to a point there, but it turns out no. I can’t focus on anything longer than the 30 seconds it takes to watch a commercial. Phew! That’s a relief. How nice not to dwell on anything potentially depressing and/or cynical. Is that a pretty butterfly!? No, it’s just the glint of a reflection on my mute TV screen, calling me… calling me…

But first, I’m happy to write the words Ow! My Balls! in reference to something happy and painless. In fact, this was one of our team’s names tonight and turns out they took the first place prize with a smart bet of just 2 points on a tough final round question: What product was Orson Welles endorsing when he famously walked out on the filming of a commercial, a shoot that found him drunk, crazed and breaking down on a level that can only be called fitting of a man whose epic genius could not have existed without the accompaniment of bat-shit insanity (sounds like my life, really, except without the ingeniousness). But while the infamous Welles-Frozen Peas segment is pretty “sweet,” I actually think the outtakes of his drunken attempts to hawk Paul Masson Champagne make for some of the finest footage ever caught on film. His “MAAA-haaas” at the start of each cut are profoundly sad and hilarious, adjectives which also, when you think about it, also define the end of smoking in bars, the death of my nameless pets, commercial jingles, and everything else forever pinned under the beautiful, coal-black paperweight of nostalgia.

JWS