Dive Bars and Door Handles

A hundred years ago, I dated a guy who worked at my favorite dive bar.

I met him on Easter Sunday, in the afternoon. I was with M and F, we'd come from brunch to kill time before a movie. Or maybe to stretch out the day. I don't really remember. We just wanted someplace dark and cheap.

Inside it was empty, save a scatter of professional drinkers who'd been there so long you took them in like the wallpaper, or the pool table, all part of the whole. This place opens at 8:00 in the morning; aside from vending machine snacks sporting last-generation packaging, it never serves food.

The Wire was playing on the television behind the bar. I can talk about The Wire all day, and that's what I did, or would have done, if it wasn't time for the movie before I knew it*. He told me to come back for trivia night and I did. Sometimes it doesn't take much.

He was smart and funny and weird and probably not quite as outstandingly handsome as I remember. And best of all: he was wholly, resoundingly, viscerally damaged. The first night we hung out, he told me, on the way to buy papers, about his terrible adoption, concluding with "so I really can't trust anyone". At 31, I'm yelling 'Oh, honey, NO' at the computer. At 25...you might as well draw in cartoon hearts for my eyes in whatever mental picture you're painting.

Our schedules were entirely incompatible. We'd meet for breakfast dates in the middle of the week, lovely suspended early mornings in fancy restaurants, playing pretend, baby grown-ups in leather booths surrounded by people on real business.

On weekend nights I went over to his place after the bar closed. We'd lie in bed smoking, watching the clouds float silvery across a navy ceiling. I'd think about the ocean at night, trace the outlines of tattoos on his arm while he told me things that made me sad, made me feel bad that inside my head all I saw was a glorious sleeping ocean. We could do this for a very, very long time. He'd talk over the movie playing as background noise, some 80s romantic comedy he'd act offended I hadn't seen, before putting it on purely for pretense. I've seen Lover Boy half a dozen times; I have no idea what that movie's about**.

In the mornings, I'd walk him to the bar, where there'd already be at least one greasy-haired man in a rough cloth army jacket leaning against the wall outside. It felt weird to kiss goodbye in front of them, we'd both laugh and he'd get his keys. I'd walk home, across the Common, picking my way over the loose bricks in City Hall Plaza. I'd go home to get Bay and we'd wander North End side streets, and I wouldn't feel happy, exactly, but like I'd helped someone else be less sad, and maybe that was important.

There were some red flags. I mean, in addition to the four paragraphs of red flags preceding this one. I didn't even notice. It's almost charming, in a nostalgic, Horror Home Movies sort of way. In the end, I learned some important things about myself, about life. I learned that any conversation beginning with the words "Baby, I have a third job I haven't told you about" is not ending any place good.

It really didn't last long. One weird thing happened, then another. We both acted like children. Like I said, it was a hundred years ago - we practically were. It was over by the summer, and I never saw him again.

The job I started a few months later involved a new commute, one that required me to walk by that bar. (Of course, it wasn't a requirement, just the simplest way to get from the T to the office.) It was three months before I took the direct route in the morning, six months before I'd walk by at night. I'd duck my head, scurry by the green door, try to steal a peek through the window. It was almost a full year before I worked up the courage to go inside. Of course, once I finally did, he wasn't there.

It's been a long time. I still go back to that bar when I'm in town, it's still one of my favorites. The same woman owns it, and she's always behind the bar. Every time I'm there, at least a little part of me wants to ask 'whatever happened to...' I'll never ask, though. He's vanished, essentially, the kind of person you can't even find on the internet. Who's nowhere on the internet? It doesn't seem like a great sign. I've made up my own ending to that story, and I hope it's close enough to the truth.

I don't have a lot of regrets, but I do think about that green door sometimes. The one I skittered past in the evenings. I think about what would have happened if I'd opened the door earlier, if he'd still been there. I've had the conversation in my head a hundred times, a hundred different ways, but the core is still the same. Nothing changes - there was nothing to fix, and no way to fix it, it was just the end. But we both say 'I'm sorry' and we hug. Then we laugh about something, and he makes fun of me and I swat at his arm, and then we're both quiet for a second, and then we smile. And then I say 'I have to go', and I go. And it's better than it is now, and it's better than the other way it ended.

Q: Wherever you are, I hope it's wonderful.

Everyone else: Open those green doors.


*I remember now, it was before the movie. We saw 'No Country for Old Men'.
**Patrick Dempsey's a teenage gigilo, right? I'm pretty sure that's what it's about.

A Shot and a Beer, Delores

It probably goes without saying: I'm delighted by the outcome of the election. Obama is my jam, and I want to have a beer with Biden so much, I own a cozy with a picture of his face on it. There are more lady senators than ever, and check it: burgeoning religious diversity! A Buddhist lady! A Hindu lady! (Which made me think, if I were ever to take office - it's a hypothetical, roll with me - would they allow me to swear in on The Ballad of the Sad Cafe? Carson McCullers is as close as I get to religion.) We're four states closer to universalizing the right to marry whoever the hell you're crazy enough to want to do that with. And I have yet another reason to visit the baby brother in Boulder. America 2012: now with more weed!

But, hey, stoner! Pay attention.We're not done yet. This is just another good step. There's still so much to fix. Like - there is still a ton of racist garbage going on. Case in point: The Washington Redskins.

One cool thing about DC is that most of  the sports teams are in different divisions than Boston teams, so I can be a fan without betraying loyalties. But I realized this fall: I cannot root for the Redskins. Because...what...how...this the name of the capital city's football team? Guys, that word is a fucking slur. It's disgusting. It is not celebratory. It is a hateful, hateful thing. Because it's a tradition, because everyone's used to it: these are not reasons to continue the practice in perpetuity. Do you really need examples of 'traditional' practices where, in hindsight, it's just 'Holy shit, what the hell was WRONG with everyone?' I brought this up with Kyle the other day, and he was like 'Okay, but is the Cleveland Indians mascot not more racist than Washington's team name?' And he has a point, that bullshit is also terrible, but we don't need to involve a scale of racism. It is all vile. Like, HOW IS ANYONE OKAY WITH ANY OF THIS?

Why isn't everyone talking about this all the time? Every game? Why haven't the Commissioners of ALL THE SPORTS just gotten together for lunch one day and been like 'Guys, none of this is alright. Let's fix it right now. Let's just split some calamari and - what, okay you want the mussels? Bud, you don't like mussels? Of course you don't. Hmm. Beef carpaccio? What? No. We aren't getting the spinach-artichoke dip. This isn't TGIFridays. Okay FINE, get it, just can we please talk about changing all these abhorrent team names and mascots? Fans would be so into this! It'd be like the time M&M's had people vote on the new color! Remember? Okay, sure some people miss tan, but that's not a super valid comparison, because tan M&Ms weren't COMPLETELY FUCKING RACIST. I mean, we changed the Bullets. To the Wizards, I know, entirely stupid name, we'll need to brand-manage better this time, but really. DC didn't want to be the Bullets anymore because of the negative associations with violence and being the murder capitol and all. What about the negative associations of, oh, I don't know, murdering millions of people with smallpox blankets and forcing them out of their homes just because some white people wanted to raise their stupid cows there? That's not negative enough? I'm just saying - OH MY GOD, DAVID, NOBODY WANTS THE APPETIZER SAMPLER, THAT IS ALWAYS THE WORST DEAL ON THE MENU.'

Because kids, we're better than this. You know? Just today I was bitching about how we haven't changed Columbus Day to American Holocaust Remembrance Day, and the discussion turned to getting credit for 'finding' something you stumbled across while looking for something else. Like when I 'find' an ill dive bar in a weird neighborhood after wandering around in search of a subway station. People have been drinking there for mad long. It was merely a personal discovery. Later my friend compared America, at it's best, to a great dive bar, and we were both like 'Oh shit, that is the best way to think about it.' And there's no place I'd rather be than a great dive bar. You know?

Tuesday night, I left Kyle's still nervous about what kind of country I'd wake up to on Wednesday (the Metro should totally run late on election night). I was walking down the street listening to Rihanna on my giant headphones, in an outfit that involved no pants and a lot of scarves, eating a cookie with TWO KINDS of chocolate chips, and I was like 'Dude, I love America! Romney can't win.' Then I didn't feel like eating the rest of the cookie, so I threw it in the street. Obama's America: Where the streets are paved with chocolate chip cookies! Half-eaten chocolate chip cookies, though. We've still got a lot of work to do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go help those old white men get through their lunch meeting so I can feel okay cheering for RG III. Because he's dope. And before Goodell starts pegging waitresses with dinner rolls. He's a mess when he doesn't get his way on the first course.

I love this bar.


a) Despite the lighthearted end note, we still need to fix all the mascots, and Columbus Day. 
b) I wasn't like, naked and wrapped up in scarves or anything, it was my typical unbalanced ratio of leggings-to-layers-on-top.
c) I figured throwing the cookie in the street wasn't littering because there are animals, but now I feel bad about luring them into the street, and what if chocolate is bad for raccoons like it is for dogs? I feel bad about this now. See? LOT OF WORK TO DO. 

Mascot Challenge 2011!!!

It's not that I don't know anything about college basketball. It's more like: The NCAA tournament is such a wonderfully bizarre, unpredictable sporting event, I don't know how a person could enjoy themselves if they actually sat down and tried to predict what 'should' happen. So I just try to figure out what mascots would win in a fight. I've been doing this for years - and fully committed to it the year the Wichita State Shockers pulled exactly as many upsets as I'd predicted, based on the awesomeness of their mascot.

And also: yeah, I pay almost zero attention to college basketball during the regular season. Currently, I'm 8th out of 71. But I have no shot unless the Gators take the whole thing. I really, really counted on the angry drunken Irish mob mentality to show up and defeat the Seminoles. So close to St. Patrick's Day! Damn my sentimentality towards my heritage. I should have known those bastards would be too hungover on Sunday to get much of anything done.

An American Obsession?

An alternative title for this posting could have been 'Mechanical Bulls and the Drunk People Who Love Them'. Or: 'Ways in Which to Publically Rock Your Crotch'. Whatever heading you prefer, we're talking about Mechanical Bulls. Specifically, why we feel compelled to ride one the moment we’re in a 50 foot radius of one. Quite puzzling.

If you’re not familiar with the Mechanical Bull in a Bar experience, I’m not sure you’re going to relate to this post. Or to anything I have to say, ever. But no matter. The concept is this: A mechanized bull is placed in the center of an enclosure similar to a boxing ring. The ring is filled with mats which, in concept, should make it hurt less when you fall. The Bull is operated by a trained technician of some sort (usually their training is in the areas of ‘Bartending’ or ‘The Security Arts’). You get on the Bull, the technician presses some buttons and cranks a lever, and the Bull spins and bucks accordingly. Eventually, the technician gets sick of your moves, (which you think are exemplary of your superior coordination, because you are drunk) and speeds up the Bull. You will hang on and look stupid, and then you will be thrown to the mats. Which doesn’t hurt at all (because you are drunk) but for some inexplicable reason, you will not be able to walk or move your arms the next day.

My question is this: why the hell are we compelled to ride a fake bull until our crotches throb and our fingers bleed? Where does this desire come from? Is it a completely American thing? We have to tame and master every wild and out-of-place element in our environment, even if it’s a man-made mechanized object? Sure, it’s a ridiculous amount of fun. But you’re in a bar. A crowd will gather. You will not look cool. And someone is going to take pictures. Go ahead, Google Image ‘Mechanical Bull’. 900,000 drunken action shots.

Which brings me to my second point: why do we want to watch this? Before I had experience with the Bulls – when I only knew about it through movies and television – I thought it had to be a sexual component. I assumed people crowded around to gawk at the gyrating female riders. But that really can’t be it. In person, there is no sexy jiggling. There’s just your inebriated friend, or the kid celebrating his 21st birthday who can barely hold himself upright. So it can’t be that. Then…what? Our universal impulse to judge people? Our morbid universal delight in witnessing a train wreck in action?

I can’t judge anyone on this – the riders, or the gawkers. But just think about it, people. Mechanical Bullriding, like drunk go-karting, can be a very poor decision. And in both cases, you will have whiplash the next day.

Oh, and my final point – who washes those mats down at the end of the night? Anyone? The technician? If you do ride, at least bring disinfectant.