Take advice from fuckups.they're the only ones that can tell you about the bottom & how to avoid it


Friday, April 16, 2010

My Days As A Barfly

Lately I've been looking back on the time I was a bar rag. I've come to realize that those were desperate, lonely days, but sometimes I miss it. I didn't have any friends then, but I could always count on the few old drunks that would frequent my bar to be there, waiting with a draft mug, to talk about love, life, sex, kids, disappointment, and regret. They always seemed to appreciate my love for music, and were more than happy to loan me a few bucks for the jukebox to play the old songs that they could never remember either the artists or titles of. We'd always snarl at the groups of young people, even though I myself was young. I very rarely went home with any of the men or women that breezed through the place, but I was always called a tramp or a slut for hanging around old men. Those non-professionals just didn't get it. They couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that I was more welcome by the old crowd since I had been through more than most of them probably ever will experience within their entire lives. If I didn't have a dime, either the bartender or my fellows would pay my way to a buzz. That old hellhole was my asylum.
After a few years, the bartenders changed, the dope dealers moved, the payday crowd stopped cashing their checks there (probably because the dope dealers moved), the kids took over the jukebox, the mugs were replaced with disposable plastic cups, a couple of my drinking partners died, and I had since joined a clique of attractive women my own age to drink with on the weekends. Now that I have once again grown complacent with the meaning of friendship and everything that goes along with it, I kind of wish that I still had that place within walking distance of me. Every once in a while when I'm in town, I'll spend the evening in there with the fixtures. They're always happy to see me, but never hesitate to tell me how happy they are that I've found a way out of the scene. No one understands how I need a dive bar to call home in times like these. If anyone goes there with me they complain of how boring it is because there's no bands and barely any young people. They don't understand that's what I'm trying to escape. The lousy cover bands, the gaggles of cologne/perfume doused young to middle aged working crowd, the weekend warriors...they nauseate me. I'd rather be with the people like me that are biding their time for death. The ones that aren't picky about the beer they're drinking or the fact that it doesn't come in a longkneck bottle. Sometimes I need those funny-smelling places with the filthy concrete floors.



  1. I always liked hole-in-the-wall dive bars, too. I'd prefer that any damn day to a yuppy bar.

  2. I've never done much drinking. What I like is a small group of people who can have real conversations. I'm happy to sit with someone drinking and nurse one drink. Unfortunately my pals eventually become incoherient and I get to drive them all back home. Better than the alternative though.

  3. I had a similar thing going when I was younger. It was like a separate reality for me. I could walk in and sit in the same chair I did the day before, listen to great music and talk with people. Or just sit there, nursing a domestic beer from a glass and meld with my surroundings.
    The floor was sticky with spilt booze, had cigarette burns all over it and smelt of broken hearts, lost dreams, tears and memories, both good and bad.
    Those days are gone it appears worldwide and we are now faced with sterile, boutique brasseries and bars that are oh-so-uber cool and filled with sterile, vacuous and empty people who fear silence.
    Great post, great observation