The Punk, the Bartender, and the World
The punk slammed his beer down.
“Aristotle, Plato, Kant: same crap, different cuts.”
The bartender smiled. He’d heard worse. Werner Erhard once called him a guy in a diner.
“Plato,” he said, wiping the counter, “was a dreamer. Thought the world was just a cheap copy of some perfect idea floating up in the clouds. The guy couldn’t walk down the street without tripping over his own theory.”
“Exactly. Plato thought we’re all stuck in the screensaver.”
The punk nodded, half bored. “And Aristotle?”
The bartender leaned in. “Aristotle looked around and said, screw that. Truth’s not in the clouds, it’s in the things themselves. The cat, the glass, the cigarette burn on your jacket, they all carry their own idea inside them. The world isn’t an imitation. It’s real, and it thinks through us.”
The punk blinked. “So the universe is like a self-playing piano?”
The bartender poured another beer. “Something like that. Aristotle said form and matter dance together. You can’t have one without the other. The mind doesn’t make the world; it just tunes in.”
The punk lit an American Spirit. “And Kant?”
The bartender laughed. “Ah, Kant. He flipped the board. Said it’s not the world that’s smart - it’s you. Your head’s got categories, filters. The world only makes sense because you shape it that way. Like wearing glasses you can’t take off.”
The punk exhaled toward the ceiling fan. “So Plato looks up, Aristotle looks around, and Kant looks in.”
“Pretty much.”
They sat in silence awhile.
The jukebox hummed Calexico. Outside, a siren wailed.
The bartender topped off the glass.
“Me, I’m with Aristotle,” he said. “The world’s got soul. You just have to shut up long enough to hear it.”
The punk raised his beer. Hoegaarden.
“To the world.”
“To the world,” said the bartender. “And to the few who still bother to show up to see it.”