Illiterary

I went to a bar last night in Hollywood that is named Hemingway's. There are books on shelves that are stitched together so they cannot be removed or read. There are beautiful old type writers scattered around its assorted rooms with no paper available and most likely the typewriters aren't in functional condition anyhow. They also play really banal, vacuous pop music. If Ernest Hemingway were alive to see this place he would urinate all over the bar and the pretty apothecaryesque white tile floors. Or he would burn it to the foundation. Or both... not necessarily in that order.

However, I did have a gentlemen to my left lean over to me at one point in the evening and ask me if I thought any of the people there knew how to read.

I think Hemingway would have liked him.

Cheers.