September 25, 2003

Editors' Note

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Last Call. Lights flicker, a bell rings, already buzzed bar patrons rush for one final fix before the window of opportunity closes forever. For however long as we try to stretch out that last drink — “better make it a double” — the night irrevocably loses something once the floodgates of booze have been closed. Nevertheless, these last minutes of sheer excitement, drunken banter, and warm laughs are the best part of a night spent at the bars. Now why in the world would someone want to curtail such elation? Apparently, the town of Ithaca. With an utterly crippling last call of 1 a.m., Ithaca puts the kabash on our late night fun. 1 a.m? For crying out loud! In any other enlightened city where we’ve bellyed up to the bar, last call doesn’t loom over our head until well into the night. Need we mention NYC, D.C., Philly, N’awlins? On a weekday I’m never in bed by 1 a.m., can’t they let us have our fun on a weekend? After all, once last call hits and people start dispersing into the streets, the only places left to congregate in our drug-induced state (be it in bliss or misery), are the pizza joints, where we all too quickly suck-up grease-loaded slices in large wolf-like packs. Granted, although each time it seems like we’ve never had better pizza, we would be happier riding out our drinks at the bar — reveling in our wondrous shared condition. We beg the city of Ithaca from the bottom of our fun-loving hearts to at least make last call 2 a.m.

Archived article by Erica Stein

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