November 18, 2002

           I am rereading “Access for Dummies”. Deborah is back from her honeymoon. I stopped in for a nightcap at the church just in time to see Rob get cut off. Good he'd already made my day* yesterday.
           This MS book is not my favorite. Last March, I bought a 1300 page “expert” manual and got 1200 pages of how to change screen colors and fonts, but not one practical example. Typical MS mindset. My conclusion is that to get access to do anything requires programming, which was not part of the deal. Especially not programming in that utterly ridiculous V-Basic.

           For clarity, I'm saying all databases should perform certain processes beyond establishing a few links and a few integrity rules. They should do it right out of the box, but access does not, rather it complicates what should be. My contention is that all databases should, when they detect an ordered list and a child table, automatically go to the last record and stay there. It's the most recent in most cases. And no, the “LAST” function is not the answer.

           *that reads funny, but since I am not homo in the least, there is no hidden meaning. Rob, if I recall, was an idiot who scammed disability when quite young, so has never had a job. He sits in the pub all day being obnoxious. He’s been to dozens of psychologists and psychiatrists, none of whom can figure out what is wrong with him. I can, he is a lazy drunk who has learned to play the system. Next thing you know, he’ll run for Governor.
           He made my day by getting thrown out of the place for the umpteenth time. But they won’t bar him. He spends $60 - $70 a day there. Churchills was walking distance from my apartment 2000 – 2002. It is also where I met JZ, who reminded me of a barber I know in Seattle. The pub also had the cheapest laundromat machines in town.

           [Author’s note: Deborah Curtis, around 25, is a waitress at the local tavern. She screens my mail at times, and she's the only woman I've asked out since 1989. The others, I never had to ask. She's also only the sixth woman in my entire life that said no. The corner tavern is called Churchill's, “A Sort of English Pub”, on NE. 2nd Ave and 55th St. in Little Haiti, Miami. It's been for sale for over 10 years. It's close, cheap, and the only Anglo pub anywhere in the northern suburbs until you get halfway to Fort Lauderdale.]

           [Author’s note: Access for Windows 95 for Dummies, IDG books worldwide, Foster City, California, 1995. John Kanfield. The book has some entertainment value.]

           [Author’s note 2021: I’ve upgraded this post and put in a representative picture. Further, I’ve added an addendum dedicated to Churchill’s. That’s the place I met the Hippie and first put I played in Florida,]

ADDENDUM
           Here is a link to Churchill’s Eulogy, and for those without time to read that lengthy article, here are the highlights relevant to me.

           Churchill’s has hosted more live individual acts than any pub in the USA.
           Real pubs have a landlord who lives on the premises.
           It’s on the edge of crime-infested little Haiti, but an all-white bar.
           The new owners will not give their names or be interviewed.

           The business sold for $1.8 million, it isn’t the same anymore. Here is a typical weirdo act, as Churchill’s allowed any type of music show that happened along. The waitresses were usually top-notch, since they probably cleared $350 per shift even on a slow night. The city of Miami has been unsuccessful trying to close the place down since forever.

           One truly odd feature of Churchill’s is the number of great women who show up there. It makes more sense once you realize they are most in their early 20s and disillusioned with the men they meet other places. At least at Chuchills, there is a clear dividing line between the nice guys and the total write-offs. The women are spared having to decide which is which.
           On the flip side, the pub did attract a lot of women for whom companionship was an elusive concept. Anyone who says you cannot tell a woman’s personality by her looks should have spent a month at Churchill’s. No method is perfect, but by far appearances are the best indicator—once you know what to look for.
           The pub personified the woman who never married young, but yet were not old. They could sit in a room full of men they said acted rejected, forgetting that it was themselves less than ten years before that did all the rejecting.