I had a conversation tonight that reminded me why I started this blog- so I could keep a virtual record of some of the thousands of things that scurry across my mind daily. Not all of those things are important, and of those that are important, most are probably of little to no interest to most people. But I started this blog because I realize how cyclical life is... how (at least I) wander around in different incarnations of the same patterns. I constantly find myself lifting my palm to my forehead, ala Marc from Empire Records- "Wait a minute! Wait just one minute!" And in that moment of waiting I realize- I've been here before. No, not like I have been on this planet before in a past life (although I don't entirely dispute that idea), but more- I have been in the midst of this pattern, learning this lesson, at some point in my life, prior to the present moment. Those ah-ha moments I babble about- they dissipate, they fade into the routine of day to day if they are not nurtured and cultivated- and this blog is supposed to be a record of those very moments so that I do not completely loose them when I get distracted by the next bright shiny that comes my way.
ADD, it's been a buzz word for years, it's like the blanket diagnosis given to children whose parent's cannot or will not deal with the idiosyncrasies of their child. Or it's the excuse adults give when they don't want to expand the power and capacity of their thinking. Truth is, we all have a little ADD in us- we all get distracted from whatever the task at hand may be by the next bright shiny. And I am absolutely no fucking different.
Seems like the idea of permanence and attachment have come up in various conversations quite a bit lately. I am the first to proudly profess that I have little attachment to the 'things' in my life. If my house burned to the ground tomorrow, it would be sad- but not devastating. If my car was wrecked, or my wallet stolen, it would be a pain in the ass, but I would (as I have in the past) deal with it and move the fuck on. People are a different story- I have yet to be able to apply the principles of impermanence to the people in my life. I wouldn't say I have truck loads of super close people in my life- and I am good with that, it is by design really- but there are a few who mean the world to me- if/when something happens to them, it will be pretty fucking devastating. Along the same lines- I care very little about what MOST people think of me- but there are those few whose opinions mean much to me- more than they should really.
Ya see, by not grasping the impermenance of EVERYTHING in this universe, I have left myself wide open for certain struggle. The current struggle is this- because I have in the past cared so much about what those few think- I am stuck in this crazy pattern in the here and now. What I think about what other people think of me (follow me here, I am getting to a point!) has wrapped me up in this WARPED idea of reality. For example- these people want me to be happy, my brain's translation of that is that these people want me to be happy in the ways that they find happiness. Error! Alert! STOP. I cannot be happy in the ways that make them happy- I have thus far lived a 29+ year experiment, proving this hypothesis wrong to myself infinite times along the way. The meat of the matter is that I can continue on this pattern of-do what I think they want, be discontent, rearrange, lather, rinse, repeat- OR I could just figure out what in the flying fuck makes me happy, do that and be done with it. It's so god-damned simple a two year old could do it- and they do, before they open their mouths and swallow the shit that we are fed our entire lives. until one day when we decide that we are finished eating shit. Maybe we are 20 (not likely at that age). Maybe we are 30, maybe 40 or 64 or whatever. Point being- there are multitudes of chances for us to realize we are eating shit, it is up to me make the decision to stop eating it- So this blog is the birth of that realization, and the record I keep so that I do not forget that this particular struggle isn't without good cause. And as I was so graciously told tonight- it will get easier. For my PEACE of mind, I sure fuckin hope so!
Thanks L.P. for reminding me of what I have known all along, and occasionally forget...much love to you.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Magical 68 and the Hickory
It has been said that I am a snob about certain things. And, I suppose that it is true to a certain degree. I believe life is too short for shitty coffee, booze, and food. I also believe that there is much to be said about the nuance of experience in certain places. I'm not a complete snob- I will bend on somethings- well, except coffee. I won't drink shitty coffee, if there is no good coffee to be had I won't drink it at all. Whatever, we all have our quirks. Anyway, since I posted about my obsession with hole-in-the-wall bars, I thought I would take a minute to post about food joints as well.
I spent ten years waiting tables. For some, this may be a bit shocking, but I LOVED it. I loved interacting with people- going to the table, gauging the group, putting on whatever personality I thought fit and working it. In the little town I grew up in, there were only a few job options for 15-16 year olds, and most involved restaurants. For a lot of that period in my life, I worked at one chain restaurant- and we were like one crazy family. We hustled our asses off and had a pretty good time doing it for the most part. We were tight-knit, and there were a lot of us. When your shift was over you sat down in the smoking section, drank coffee and hung out. After closing we would all drive down the street to the other chain restaurant in town and hang out there. Ahh, small town amusement... Pots of coffee and packs of cigarettes.
One summer, I left the comfort of the chain restaurant and went to work at a truck stop about 15 miles out of town. This was a MUCH different environment, in so many ways. For one, the extent of the ALL employees at the truck stop would have rivaled the number of servers we ran on a slow afternoon at my old job. There were never more than two servers on at a time, there was no busser, no cashier, no hostess. There was a cook, a dishwasher and one or two servers. That was it. Oh, and did I mention that it was family owned and operated? I was one of two employees not from the same gene pool...(this later turned out to be the curse that sealed my fate there, but that's beside the point.)
People came in and sat at the nearest available table, clean or not, and you hustled from the moment you walked in the door. There was nothing fancy about this place, it was CHEAP home cooking at it's finest. Pearl, who was in her 90's at the time, came in at 4am every morning and baked all the pies from scratch. We made the coleslaw in 5 gallon buckets. The local beef farmer delivered the meet fresh every day, and Friday night all you can eat perch was the most popular occasion for 20 miles. These people had not reinvented the wheel, they had just been filling a need for decades and had built a HUGE loyal customer base.
So what, your asking... So, to this day, I remember that place, and that feeling when ya walked in the door. And I find myself seeking out that type of experience wherever I go. I like beautifully prepared, fresh, fancy, food as much as the next person- well, maybe more in some cases. But if I walk into an establishment and immediately feel out of place it matters little what the food is like. The wine list can be exceptional, the food elegant and delicious, but if the vibe ain't there, well... it kind of ruins it for me. In fact, I have realized that it sometimes the food has NOTHING to do with it at all...I love dumpy hole in the walls that have one badass bartender and one superior server. The bartender is know for one drink, which she makes better than anyone else in the world, and the server tells you what to order because she knows what's good that night.
There is a place that a few of my friends and I frequent in town- they have been loyal patrons for decades, and I have only recently stepped into the fold. The first time I went I was taken aback a bit by the 70's decor. It's dark and dingy in there, I would venture to say the original wall paper still hangs on the walls. As you walk in, all you see is a big horse shoe shaped bar and a bartender. Saddling up to the bar, I asked what was good and Faye, the bartender insisted I hadn't lived until I had had her cosmo. My friends eagerly agreed with Faye, and so I obliged and ordered what I considered to be a fru-fru drink. I could NOT have been more wrong. What Faye produced was the STRONGEST fru-fru drink I had ever had- problem was, she made that damned thing so well, I was not completely aware of how strong it was. And let me tell ya, they go down so smooth, it doesn't take long to get yourself in trouble.
After a cosmo or three, we are seated. Our server is a sweet woman- in her late 40's maybe, she has long hair pulled back in a pony tail and a very friendly face. From the conversation I take it that she's waited at this fine establishment for possibly as many years as I have been alive. I like her, she is spunky and quick witted, and she knows the menu backwards and forwards, and she will tell you EXACTLY what she thinks of everything on it. This particular place is known for their barbque, especially their ribs. The people I am with ALWAYS come for the ribs, they crave them. My snobbery is immediately apparent. I am not sold on the ribs. I am not a big fan of meat on the bone, especially the kind you have to really gnaw at- if it doesn't fall off, it's a no go. She kneels down beside me and gives me her honest opinion about this and other menu items and then composes an order for me.
Truth be told, if I had come on another day, with other people, had a different server and a different bartender, I don't think I would have ever given the place a second thought. But the people made ALL the difference. And, it is true, NO ONE makes a cosmo like Faye- no one. I like the Cheers atmosphere, walk in the door and everyone says hullo. And I like the dark, dingy, ambiance. I like that so long as Dawn is serving I don't have to make up my mind, she will bring me whatever is good on that particular night. I like that they have secret menu items like 'special potatoes' which are not really on the menu, you have to ask for them. I like that they serve the salad in the same plastic bowls we used at the truck stop, and that the bathroom is always inexplicably cold or hot, depending on the season. I like that I could go in on any given night and sit at the bar with a bunch of people my parent's age and have a far better time than in some stupid, trendy bar down the street from my house. So, yeah. Maybe I am a snob about certain things, and I like that too.
I spent ten years waiting tables. For some, this may be a bit shocking, but I LOVED it. I loved interacting with people- going to the table, gauging the group, putting on whatever personality I thought fit and working it. In the little town I grew up in, there were only a few job options for 15-16 year olds, and most involved restaurants. For a lot of that period in my life, I worked at one chain restaurant- and we were like one crazy family. We hustled our asses off and had a pretty good time doing it for the most part. We were tight-knit, and there were a lot of us. When your shift was over you sat down in the smoking section, drank coffee and hung out. After closing we would all drive down the street to the other chain restaurant in town and hang out there. Ahh, small town amusement... Pots of coffee and packs of cigarettes.
One summer, I left the comfort of the chain restaurant and went to work at a truck stop about 15 miles out of town. This was a MUCH different environment, in so many ways. For one, the extent of the ALL employees at the truck stop would have rivaled the number of servers we ran on a slow afternoon at my old job. There were never more than two servers on at a time, there was no busser, no cashier, no hostess. There was a cook, a dishwasher and one or two servers. That was it. Oh, and did I mention that it was family owned and operated? I was one of two employees not from the same gene pool...(this later turned out to be the curse that sealed my fate there, but that's beside the point.)
People came in and sat at the nearest available table, clean or not, and you hustled from the moment you walked in the door. There was nothing fancy about this place, it was CHEAP home cooking at it's finest. Pearl, who was in her 90's at the time, came in at 4am every morning and baked all the pies from scratch. We made the coleslaw in 5 gallon buckets. The local beef farmer delivered the meet fresh every day, and Friday night all you can eat perch was the most popular occasion for 20 miles. These people had not reinvented the wheel, they had just been filling a need for decades and had built a HUGE loyal customer base.
So what, your asking... So, to this day, I remember that place, and that feeling when ya walked in the door. And I find myself seeking out that type of experience wherever I go. I like beautifully prepared, fresh, fancy, food as much as the next person- well, maybe more in some cases. But if I walk into an establishment and immediately feel out of place it matters little what the food is like. The wine list can be exceptional, the food elegant and delicious, but if the vibe ain't there, well... it kind of ruins it for me. In fact, I have realized that it sometimes the food has NOTHING to do with it at all...I love dumpy hole in the walls that have one badass bartender and one superior server. The bartender is know for one drink, which she makes better than anyone else in the world, and the server tells you what to order because she knows what's good that night.
There is a place that a few of my friends and I frequent in town- they have been loyal patrons for decades, and I have only recently stepped into the fold. The first time I went I was taken aback a bit by the 70's decor. It's dark and dingy in there, I would venture to say the original wall paper still hangs on the walls. As you walk in, all you see is a big horse shoe shaped bar and a bartender. Saddling up to the bar, I asked what was good and Faye, the bartender insisted I hadn't lived until I had had her cosmo. My friends eagerly agreed with Faye, and so I obliged and ordered what I considered to be a fru-fru drink. I could NOT have been more wrong. What Faye produced was the STRONGEST fru-fru drink I had ever had- problem was, she made that damned thing so well, I was not completely aware of how strong it was. And let me tell ya, they go down so smooth, it doesn't take long to get yourself in trouble.
After a cosmo or three, we are seated. Our server is a sweet woman- in her late 40's maybe, she has long hair pulled back in a pony tail and a very friendly face. From the conversation I take it that she's waited at this fine establishment for possibly as many years as I have been alive. I like her, she is spunky and quick witted, and she knows the menu backwards and forwards, and she will tell you EXACTLY what she thinks of everything on it. This particular place is known for their barbque, especially their ribs. The people I am with ALWAYS come for the ribs, they crave them. My snobbery is immediately apparent. I am not sold on the ribs. I am not a big fan of meat on the bone, especially the kind you have to really gnaw at- if it doesn't fall off, it's a no go. She kneels down beside me and gives me her honest opinion about this and other menu items and then composes an order for me.
Truth be told, if I had come on another day, with other people, had a different server and a different bartender, I don't think I would have ever given the place a second thought. But the people made ALL the difference. And, it is true, NO ONE makes a cosmo like Faye- no one. I like the Cheers atmosphere, walk in the door and everyone says hullo. And I like the dark, dingy, ambiance. I like that so long as Dawn is serving I don't have to make up my mind, she will bring me whatever is good on that particular night. I like that they have secret menu items like 'special potatoes' which are not really on the menu, you have to ask for them. I like that they serve the salad in the same plastic bowls we used at the truck stop, and that the bathroom is always inexplicably cold or hot, depending on the season. I like that I could go in on any given night and sit at the bar with a bunch of people my parent's age and have a far better time than in some stupid, trendy bar down the street from my house. So, yeah. Maybe I am a snob about certain things, and I like that too.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
The House, the Box, and the Beginnings of the Solids
Ok, as promised, today, the experiences that go with the list. It all started a few years back. I had just moved to a new city from a super small town. Day after day I drove by this house, and never thought much about it- hell, I never noticed it really- until one night I went out with a friend, he chose the bar since I was still new to the area and didn't know much about where to go or what to do. We pulled in the parking lot (one of those classy, parking in rear joints), went to the door and he hit a buzzer. "What are you doing?" I asked, a bit confused. "They have to buzz you in." He said. No way! This couldn't be true! But, sure as shit, the door unlocked and we were let in...
Inside it was dark, and dingy, and small, really, really, small. There were two other patrons in the entire place, one sitting at the bar, dragging on a cigarette and making small chat with the bartender, and the other playing a one man game at the pool table. I gathered from the conversation my friend had with the bartender that the place used to be a residence and at some point was converted into a bar. That's right, it was a converted house. This explained why it was so small, and is also the reason it became known to me and my friends as the house bar. The house bar has a real name of course, but what name could beat "House Bar"? There really isn't much else to tell about the place, other than the drinks were strong and cheap, and the bartender was friendly and there was rarely more than 4 or five people in there at one time. How the place stays open is a mystery to me, while I still pass it often, I have not stopped in in years.
Something about the House Bar peaked my interest in the 'off the beaten path' watering holes. I like going to places (be it a bar or a restaurant) that are small and quirky, especially the kind that have not yet found their way onto the 'favorites' list of the masses. The next dive encounter wasn't for a couple of years, but it was, in different ways, just as fulfilling as the House Bar experience. As I said in my previous post, many of these places have their own reputation, based on the neighborhood in which they are situated, so this particular place, nestled deep in the east side of town, was known to be a red neck hang out. The word box is in the name, and how fitting the name is, this place is SMALL, I mean teeny tiny, and it's just one box shaped room. If I remember correctly, there were maybe 4 or 5 tables in the whole joint, and maybe 10 seats around the bar. Walking in, I immediately got the feeling like I had just walked into a crowded house party... it's wall to wall people, and there is a sign listing what's on the menu for supper. No, it's not a restaurant, supper is prepared by the bartender, generally in a crock pot, and offered up to the patrons-for free- on any given night, weird right? Upon saddling up to the bar, ordering a drink, watching the bartender free pour what may be the strongest rum-with-a-splash-of-coke I have ever had, and then paying her the bargain price of $2.50, I now understand. They have to feed their customers, if any of them are expected to walk out on their own accord...
The walls are covered in pictures, literally wallpapered. Upon closer inspection, I can see that many of the photos have the same man posing with different, topless women. A sweet, middle aged man, with a permed mullet and very few teeth notices me sorting through the visual cacophony on the walls and informs me that the man in the photographs is the esteemed owner of the establishment and that the women are all past or present patrons. Mr. Mullet and I strike up a conversation, he's a construction worker, a veteran, and has some serious opinions about 'Nam. I skirt the war talk, even though it is not yet 7 o'clock on a Wednesday evening, he is already very much intoxicated and I don't feel as though I have much to add to the 'Nam conversation. I cash out, worried that Mr. Mullet might have driven to the bar and would hence be driving himself home. "Don't worry about him sweetheart." The bartender says, as if she reached in my brain and plucked out my thoughts. "He lives next door, comes in every night after work, and leaves after happy hour. Come on back and see us again sometime." She says with such a thick hillbilly twang it's impossible not to like her. I accept the invitation and assure her I'll be back as I walk out the door.
And, I did go back; several times in fact. The little Box was my favorite hole in the wall for a while. Cheap drinks, friendly people and ALWAYS interesting people watching and conversation... and, I can say that some of the redneck, white trash stereotypes were true. There are many east side-isms going on at the place. Most of the people who go there are working class Americans who work hard and play hard- the average age in that place is probably somewhere between 45-55 and the juke box is jam packed with country and classic rock. Mullet is for sure the hairstyle of choice, and sweat pants and acid wash jeans seem to be the preferred fashion. Nope, not your typical hipster joint indeed, but a good time nonetheless.
Eventually, the novelty wore off I suppose, and I set my sites on discovering a new hole in the wall to experience, and then another and then another. I usually set my mental sites on a place and stew about it a while. I wonder if what people say about the place is true, what's it look like inside, who holds the bar stools down night after night? The next place I infiltrated was a bit of a cheat, it's a hole in the wall from the standpoint that it's a small town bar... most of the people who go there are from said small town, and it's patrons indeed fall into their own particular stereotype. Many people from around town wouldn't be caught dead in there, and yet, others go every weekend or even every night. I wanted to check this place out more because I had grown up with the idea that this was not a place I needed to go... WHY NOT? I asked, and the answers were always vague and unsatisfying... and well, when I am told I should not go somewhere my curiosity about the place becomes almost insatiable. For weeks, months really, I pined to see the inside of the place. I begged people to go with me... I bribed them even! But to no avail. Until one night...The night the Solids were born. There are tales to tell about this night and those that followed and the making of my small town list, but alas, these are stories for another day and another post....
Inside it was dark, and dingy, and small, really, really, small. There were two other patrons in the entire place, one sitting at the bar, dragging on a cigarette and making small chat with the bartender, and the other playing a one man game at the pool table. I gathered from the conversation my friend had with the bartender that the place used to be a residence and at some point was converted into a bar. That's right, it was a converted house. This explained why it was so small, and is also the reason it became known to me and my friends as the house bar. The house bar has a real name of course, but what name could beat "House Bar"? There really isn't much else to tell about the place, other than the drinks were strong and cheap, and the bartender was friendly and there was rarely more than 4 or five people in there at one time. How the place stays open is a mystery to me, while I still pass it often, I have not stopped in in years.
Something about the House Bar peaked my interest in the 'off the beaten path' watering holes. I like going to places (be it a bar or a restaurant) that are small and quirky, especially the kind that have not yet found their way onto the 'favorites' list of the masses. The next dive encounter wasn't for a couple of years, but it was, in different ways, just as fulfilling as the House Bar experience. As I said in my previous post, many of these places have their own reputation, based on the neighborhood in which they are situated, so this particular place, nestled deep in the east side of town, was known to be a red neck hang out. The word box is in the name, and how fitting the name is, this place is SMALL, I mean teeny tiny, and it's just one box shaped room. If I remember correctly, there were maybe 4 or 5 tables in the whole joint, and maybe 10 seats around the bar. Walking in, I immediately got the feeling like I had just walked into a crowded house party... it's wall to wall people, and there is a sign listing what's on the menu for supper. No, it's not a restaurant, supper is prepared by the bartender, generally in a crock pot, and offered up to the patrons-for free- on any given night, weird right? Upon saddling up to the bar, ordering a drink, watching the bartender free pour what may be the strongest rum-with-a-splash-of-coke I have ever had, and then paying her the bargain price of $2.50, I now understand. They have to feed their customers, if any of them are expected to walk out on their own accord...
The walls are covered in pictures, literally wallpapered. Upon closer inspection, I can see that many of the photos have the same man posing with different, topless women. A sweet, middle aged man, with a permed mullet and very few teeth notices me sorting through the visual cacophony on the walls and informs me that the man in the photographs is the esteemed owner of the establishment and that the women are all past or present patrons. Mr. Mullet and I strike up a conversation, he's a construction worker, a veteran, and has some serious opinions about 'Nam. I skirt the war talk, even though it is not yet 7 o'clock on a Wednesday evening, he is already very much intoxicated and I don't feel as though I have much to add to the 'Nam conversation. I cash out, worried that Mr. Mullet might have driven to the bar and would hence be driving himself home. "Don't worry about him sweetheart." The bartender says, as if she reached in my brain and plucked out my thoughts. "He lives next door, comes in every night after work, and leaves after happy hour. Come on back and see us again sometime." She says with such a thick hillbilly twang it's impossible not to like her. I accept the invitation and assure her I'll be back as I walk out the door.
And, I did go back; several times in fact. The little Box was my favorite hole in the wall for a while. Cheap drinks, friendly people and ALWAYS interesting people watching and conversation... and, I can say that some of the redneck, white trash stereotypes were true. There are many east side-isms going on at the place. Most of the people who go there are working class Americans who work hard and play hard- the average age in that place is probably somewhere between 45-55 and the juke box is jam packed with country and classic rock. Mullet is for sure the hairstyle of choice, and sweat pants and acid wash jeans seem to be the preferred fashion. Nope, not your typical hipster joint indeed, but a good time nonetheless.
Eventually, the novelty wore off I suppose, and I set my sites on discovering a new hole in the wall to experience, and then another and then another. I usually set my mental sites on a place and stew about it a while. I wonder if what people say about the place is true, what's it look like inside, who holds the bar stools down night after night? The next place I infiltrated was a bit of a cheat, it's a hole in the wall from the standpoint that it's a small town bar... most of the people who go there are from said small town, and it's patrons indeed fall into their own particular stereotype. Many people from around town wouldn't be caught dead in there, and yet, others go every weekend or even every night. I wanted to check this place out more because I had grown up with the idea that this was not a place I needed to go... WHY NOT? I asked, and the answers were always vague and unsatisfying... and well, when I am told I should not go somewhere my curiosity about the place becomes almost insatiable. For weeks, months really, I pined to see the inside of the place. I begged people to go with me... I bribed them even! But to no avail. Until one night...The night the Solids were born. There are tales to tell about this night and those that followed and the making of my small town list, but alas, these are stories for another day and another post....
Monday, November 7, 2011
A Different Type of Culture
Anyone who knows me knows I have a thing for the dive bar. I live in a city where most of the "it" places are concentrated on one, very short, street. All the cool kids hang out there, on the weekends most of the bars are crowded with 20 somethings, parading around in a hipster haze, drinking over priced PBR, and barely breathing in their skinny jeans. It exhausts me to think about it really... my days of dressing with whatever fashion is in went out the window with the popularity of 32 inch bottom JNCO's, and I refuse to drink something that reminds me of what a skunk smells like. Similarly, while I do own a few pairs of stilts disguised as shoes, I refer to them as my 'dinner shoes' for a reason- they are bearable just long enough to go to dinner, come home, and take them off. So needless to say, while I will still occasionally grab a drink with a friend in one of those "it" places, it is most often at happy hour on a weekday, before all the hip kids come out for the night.
The dive bar is different... each has it's own subculture, they are generally small, neighborhood watering holes, the same people go to the same place, day in and day out. The unspoken rules have been established for years, decades in most cases, and for the most part, everyone follows them. These are not the places you go for a fancy-pants martini or a scotch on the rocks. You won't find a craft beer in sight, and most of them offer only cans of beer for reasons that vary- bottles are more expensive, they can be used as weapons, etc. Anyone who knows me also knows I am a beer snob, life is too short for shitty beer, and if I can't afford a good one, I prefer not to drink at all- same goes for booze... with all that said, you'd wonder why the hell I would venture into these seedy joints, where the premier beer offering is Budweiser, malt liquor is a mainstay, and I am fairly certain they refill their top shelf liquor selections with well.
Truth is, there is SO much to learn about human nature in these places... well, in bars in general... they are great places to people watch... and, since I have already exhausted what the masses do at the hip little joints down town, I find it intriguing to venture out and observe other little veins of the bar culture. It's tough to do, since most of the people I know would rather stay in the comfort of familiarity than venture into the places I'd like to experience. I can't blame them really, none of the places have a 'good reputation', (although, I have determined that much of the bad wrap these places have, helps to keep them small and unadulterated). It's just another piece of what fascinates me about the whole thing. To me, these are the things that male the dive bar so evocative. I guess I should say that I do not go into these places looking to fit in, it is never my intention to stay in any one bar for more than a drink or two. All I need is enough time to sniff out the vibe of the place and then I am happy to saunter out in much the same fashion I sauntered in.
What can you learn in the span of one or two drinks you ask? Well, a lot really, in fact much of what I learn, I learn before I ever walk through the door. Often times when I see a place, I will ask around about it... has anyone ever been there? What's it like? The answers to these simple questions are often quite amusing, especially after I go in and experience the place for myself... many a tall tale have been told about these places "Don't go in there, you will get shot", "You will start a fight as soon as you walk in the door", I could go on, but you get the picture. It's interesting to note that when it comes to small, hole in the wall bars, racism and classism are alive and in full effect. That's a black bar, that's a biker bar, that's a white trash bar... all I could think was, really people?? It's like that? Unfortunately, to some extent, it's true. But ALL of us feed the stereotypes.
So, you can see how getting into these places is a bit of a task. I don't go alone, because I don't go to any bar alone, no matter how trendy or divey it is. And who I go with to these types of places is an important decision, not because it matters so much who I am seen with, but it matters a lot who can go in and be respectful. People are very protective of 'their' bars... especially when said bar is small, with predictable clientele. When I started getting into the whole dive bar thing a few years back, a very wise friend offered some sage advice- I was frustrated that no one would ever go with me and that the main excuse was that I, being a girl, would start a fight just by walking in- my friend said... "First, it is rarely a woman who starts a fight in a bar. Most often it is a man who feels as though his ego has some how been accosted... if you go into a place and recognize that you are on someone else's turf, being polite and respectful, everything will be fine." And ya know what? She was right. So even if I could get an adventuresome friend to agree to go along, it won't work if they are hot tempered or ego driven.
But, every so often, the stars align, I am in the right place at the right time, and I get to check a couple more places off my list... yes, there is a list, it is a mental list, but a list all the same. It is categorized into geographic locations and is amended frequently. The town I grew up in has the most for such a small area- 5 to be exact. Before this weekend, I had two of the five checked off. After this weekend, I am happy to report, that only one remains. Both of the bars I went to this weekend have been labeled 'east end' bars, which means something altogether different where I am from versus where I live now. In the small town I grew up in, the east end is another way to say black... nobody ever explains it that way, it's just assumed; whereas in the city I currently reside, I live on whats referred to as the "east side" which is inferred to be the 'white trash' side of town. You can imagine that these two places have entirely different kinds of dive bars, each with their own nuances, cultures, and clientele.
I hadn't intended to ramble on with such a long background about the list or the ideas behind the list, so I will save the bits about my actual experiences for another post... perhaps later today or tomorrow... but do come back, these are interesting topics if you are at all interested in the way we humans interact; we are certainly one of the most amusing species I can think of, and you never know, maybe one of you will change your mind about what you think of the dive bar... This life is after all, all about experience right? So, why not try to broaden your horizons every once in a while eh?
The dive bar is different... each has it's own subculture, they are generally small, neighborhood watering holes, the same people go to the same place, day in and day out. The unspoken rules have been established for years, decades in most cases, and for the most part, everyone follows them. These are not the places you go for a fancy-pants martini or a scotch on the rocks. You won't find a craft beer in sight, and most of them offer only cans of beer for reasons that vary- bottles are more expensive, they can be used as weapons, etc. Anyone who knows me also knows I am a beer snob, life is too short for shitty beer, and if I can't afford a good one, I prefer not to drink at all- same goes for booze... with all that said, you'd wonder why the hell I would venture into these seedy joints, where the premier beer offering is Budweiser, malt liquor is a mainstay, and I am fairly certain they refill their top shelf liquor selections with well.
Truth is, there is SO much to learn about human nature in these places... well, in bars in general... they are great places to people watch... and, since I have already exhausted what the masses do at the hip little joints down town, I find it intriguing to venture out and observe other little veins of the bar culture. It's tough to do, since most of the people I know would rather stay in the comfort of familiarity than venture into the places I'd like to experience. I can't blame them really, none of the places have a 'good reputation', (although, I have determined that much of the bad wrap these places have, helps to keep them small and unadulterated). It's just another piece of what fascinates me about the whole thing. To me, these are the things that male the dive bar so evocative. I guess I should say that I do not go into these places looking to fit in, it is never my intention to stay in any one bar for more than a drink or two. All I need is enough time to sniff out the vibe of the place and then I am happy to saunter out in much the same fashion I sauntered in.
What can you learn in the span of one or two drinks you ask? Well, a lot really, in fact much of what I learn, I learn before I ever walk through the door. Often times when I see a place, I will ask around about it... has anyone ever been there? What's it like? The answers to these simple questions are often quite amusing, especially after I go in and experience the place for myself... many a tall tale have been told about these places "Don't go in there, you will get shot", "You will start a fight as soon as you walk in the door", I could go on, but you get the picture. It's interesting to note that when it comes to small, hole in the wall bars, racism and classism are alive and in full effect. That's a black bar, that's a biker bar, that's a white trash bar... all I could think was, really people?? It's like that? Unfortunately, to some extent, it's true. But ALL of us feed the stereotypes.
So, you can see how getting into these places is a bit of a task. I don't go alone, because I don't go to any bar alone, no matter how trendy or divey it is. And who I go with to these types of places is an important decision, not because it matters so much who I am seen with, but it matters a lot who can go in and be respectful. People are very protective of 'their' bars... especially when said bar is small, with predictable clientele. When I started getting into the whole dive bar thing a few years back, a very wise friend offered some sage advice- I was frustrated that no one would ever go with me and that the main excuse was that I, being a girl, would start a fight just by walking in- my friend said... "First, it is rarely a woman who starts a fight in a bar. Most often it is a man who feels as though his ego has some how been accosted... if you go into a place and recognize that you are on someone else's turf, being polite and respectful, everything will be fine." And ya know what? She was right. So even if I could get an adventuresome friend to agree to go along, it won't work if they are hot tempered or ego driven.
But, every so often, the stars align, I am in the right place at the right time, and I get to check a couple more places off my list... yes, there is a list, it is a mental list, but a list all the same. It is categorized into geographic locations and is amended frequently. The town I grew up in has the most for such a small area- 5 to be exact. Before this weekend, I had two of the five checked off. After this weekend, I am happy to report, that only one remains. Both of the bars I went to this weekend have been labeled 'east end' bars, which means something altogether different where I am from versus where I live now. In the small town I grew up in, the east end is another way to say black... nobody ever explains it that way, it's just assumed; whereas in the city I currently reside, I live on whats referred to as the "east side" which is inferred to be the 'white trash' side of town. You can imagine that these two places have entirely different kinds of dive bars, each with their own nuances, cultures, and clientele.
I hadn't intended to ramble on with such a long background about the list or the ideas behind the list, so I will save the bits about my actual experiences for another post... perhaps later today or tomorrow... but do come back, these are interesting topics if you are at all interested in the way we humans interact; we are certainly one of the most amusing species I can think of, and you never know, maybe one of you will change your mind about what you think of the dive bar... This life is after all, all about experience right? So, why not try to broaden your horizons every once in a while eh?
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