Here is the "extended play" version of the Pub Metaphor .. from deep 
inside the Cunningham Email Archives (it helps when you do the search 
properly).

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10/14/1997 1:08 AM
The Records Management Listserv -- A Neighborhood Pub on the Internet

Every morning we wander into the pub, grabbing a cup of coffee and the 
latest news. It seems like the coffee isn't quite so fresh everyday, but 
the mugs fit our hands and the faces are mostly familiar (and every now 
and then the coffee is outstanding and the news right on target -- and 
that keeps us coming back). As the day wears on, more people join us. 
Some come and go throughout the day, and some only stop by late at 
night. We note that the pub has expanded again and the oldtimers seem to 
grumble more and more about the noise created by those newcomers.

Throughout it all, we talk shop with studied seriousness, swap tall 
tales on occasion and every now and then compare our perceived stature 
in the community. There's a bit of gossip being whispered over there and 
assorted complaints about the big fancy shop that opened down the street 
and ran ole' Doug out of business (or did they buy him out -- we can 
never tell). Hugh, the local insurance salesman, passes out business 
cards to the disdain of the regulars and Doc Patrick diagnoses illnesses 
for free from his very tall stool, suggesting that technology will cure 
most of what ails folks.

Some people come by and throw darts (now and then at folks along the bar 
rail), raising a ruckus that comes and goes. Some folks come and lurk 
along the back wall. Some people stutter and some repeat themselves and 
the conversations of the last three people who have spoken. Some shout 
to the room when the person they are speaking to is next to them. 
Recipes are swapped, and backs are slapped (along with the occasional 
face). Some people are loud, some bring their humor, some bring both. 
Some folks post messages on the bulletin board. Every now and then a 
voice rings out clearly and everyone stops to hear what they have to 
say. And almost every night, the pub features the vaudeville of Jerome 
and Marc, who perform behind a chicken wire screen. Word is, though, 
they're breaking up the act and taking the show on the road.

Every now and then Susan the bartender has to speak up to someone out of 
line and the entire room turns and glares at the troublemaker. Veiled 
threats pass from dark corners. Calming voices try to be heard. A number 
of people, sensing trouble, break for the door. The former bartender, 
Marilyn, keeps a hand near the shotgun when things really get out of 
hand. But the troublemakers usually either slink out of the room or 
shrug their shoulders, smile and buy the room a beer.

But if you step back and look around the pub, you see many different 
faces. Grizzled veterans of the wars, fresh newcomers looking for 
experiences to learn from and take home. Every now and then someone 
wanders in off the street and realizes that they are not in the pub they 
wanted. Some folks have chips on their shoulders, some only see chips in 
their computers. The room is filled with diversity, for this is a 
neighborhood of many different experiences and backgrounds.

At the end of the night, people make their way out of the pub -- 
although there seems to be another room to the pub down in the basement 
(at least from my perspective--I really can't tell) that keeps things 
going while we sleep (they all talk kinda funny, but then that's what 
they say about the rest of us). Most folks leave quietly, but some make 
exuberant shouts to the world, and several croak threats from across the 
street. The street quiets down and awaits a new day.

Hey gang, today's a new day. The beer will be cold, the coffee hot, and 
the conversation stimulating. Let's try to remember that.
-- 

Patrick Cunningham, CRM

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