ode to dive bars

This weekend was a weekend of dive bars, which are wonderful in so many ways. When you walk into a dive and the man checking your id wishes you a Merry Christmas by your name, as if you've been friends for a long time, you can't help but feel at home. The middle-aged woman behind the bar filling your glass is wearing a sweatshirt and looks a little too tired to be there. I say to my friend, "It's like we're in St. Paul, but a small northern town in St. Paul." A dive bar is an escape, for instance, being in uppity uptown and finding a place without a dash of pretense, where skins of unknown animals hang on the walls, and younger boys make out with seemingly much older women in the corner. Everyone is welcome and the beer is cheap. And if the guy talking to you claims he is the son of Richard Pryor, that only makes it all the better.

originally written december 2004