A pound of flesh and an ounce of heart.

The most difficult thing I find when I attempt to write here is the repetitive subject matter and the beating of the same old dead horse.   So here I sit in a bar, with a computer, being that guy.  It’s that same old haunt that this ghost has frequented so many times I can tell you which booth has the lumpiest cushions and which bar stool has the least wobbly feet.  It’s a testament to the amount of time your author has pickled up his insides with alcohol in the pursuit of one sin or another.   The story is nothing unique or special…I’ve seen my doppelgangers here over and over as the years pass.  I’ve seen the young 21 year old me, the lost soul me,  the broken hearted me…and oh yes…the asshole me.   All of them wearing different faces but at their core the essence of me at that time.  There is a part of you that wants to grab them and say ” Hey—no seriously listen—this shit is gonna happen and you are gonna need to be ready for it– cause I’ve been there and I know.  I’ve literally been in your shoes and it doesn’t go right–she leaves and you go crazy for awhile–but you come out better for it”  or  ”   No—  just no— leave your pants on….”.   These are the things that live in my gray matter.  So I consider it sort of my bar room super power—the ability to see versions of people.  This power allows me to see that young person who walks through the bar door for the first time and realize how magical it is. How the blend of alcohol, bad HVAC systems, cheap cigarettes and a band can change your life forever.  That is exactly how it starts—the hook.  I’ve watched people come in as these timid little things and within a year become the biggest raging alcoholic party freaks you ever knew. But its not always the alcohol….sometimes its the drugs….or a combination of the two.  For many it’s the girls…for others the boys…and for some–both.   The bar doesn’t judge–it only demands respect.  Don’t puke in a booth, flush the toilets,  TIP YOUR  BARTENDER, and don’t start a fight.  God knows I’ve seen and been in enough of those over the years.  Stupid examples of peoples inability to plot revenge.  I’ve got a few scars on my face as my sacrificial ” pound of flesh” to the mighty bar god.  To tell you the truth I’ve always thought they improved my features rather than detract- a little life experience topography.  I was a bouncer off and on for 10 years…so I know the game well.   Nowadays I am more a patron then a protector ( but I can still spring into action like a god damn ninja if the situation demands it — I just need a heating pad and some flexerall afterword)

I think the bar scene is a different place socially than it was say, 4 or 5 years ago.  The fights and brawls are less  ( due to the camera phone)…and if they do happen they last no more than a few seconds.  Rarely do you see someone truly duke it out…the main street Muhammad Ali’s have all gone the way of the dinosaur.  They have been corralled into a octagon and turned into a Spike TV series to sell protein power and underarmor .  I’m not saying I miss the swinging fists in the slightest…but it does take a little bit of the adventure away from venturing into a bar of ill repute to see a band.  The mystique of that was always a draw to me — even though most of the places I ventured to when I was younger had highly inflated reputations of being bad ( even the one I worked in) .   I wouldn’t say that the bar has lost it’s heart–but perhaps it’s shrunk a little bit over the years.   Matter of fact the ratio of  bars that are sole proprietor ( not that chain Buffalo wild wing crap) has dropped considerably over the past 10 years.  You could say it’s  because of the smoking ban,  operational cost, or vegans but I sincerely believe that people believe they are entitled to be entertained.  They want 75 different TV’s, 100 different beers, 20 different meal selections from foreign lands,  vip sections and bottle services.   The want kid friendly atmosphere with free wifi and cell phone chargers in the booth.  They want apple pay, android pay, we accept paypal and uber service to the front door.  Everything that a dive bar is not—and so— the dive bar slowly slips into some backdrop.   But!  Not for me— I will sit here—and grow roots— I will borrow another glass of Yukon Jack and return it to the wild via the urinal in about 45 min. ( My liver hardening all the while)   So come visit me–drink to excess— take off your pants. Stay awhile.