But his greatest accomplishment

was driving the junkyard dog batshit insane with his scoops. 

The medium

is almost as good as the message. I also like that moths flew out of his DI/DO, too. 

Either it changed, or I did

because this place was pretty bad last time I went. Still sad to see it go; where else did the bartenders always greet me every few years as if I came in every night? (Note to the misty-eyed, though: In the mid-80s Columbus was anything but "a rough stretch." Can you say Silver Palate? We fled north in '86 because it was too trendy to navigate anymore.) 

(Filched from Eater)