Coffee Daydreams and Bourbon Reality

trying to make it into the erotica/romance literary scene
(excuse me, the last piece of my good intestine demands to exit the body…I’m back)
 
drinking coffee to help with giving the stories a pleasanter
feel, happily ever after endings, and pleasant characters instead of
barflies and prostitutes.
 
trying to write about “normal” people, their happy little routines, how they
fall in love, finding family and safety.
 
the coffee engenders daydreams of
my life, of getting gainful employment, a girlfriend, eventually
family, a house, some kids galloping about…I shiver and shake as
if DT has come back, I need
to run.
 
I disappear into the nearest dive, its
dank, smoky atmosphere designed to kill lesser men.
 
a neat and triple Jim Beam lands in front of me. after
a long swig, the dreadful thoughts are dead;
 
two exotic dancers from a nearby strip joint nip on
Bloody Maries and in different corner booths two robust men
engulfed by a poisonous mist guzzle green beer.
 
I’m home; money’s not an issue anymore,
a job’s not needed. love’s fucking overrated.
 
one of the dancers comes up to the bar, orders another
round—recognizes me from a night
long lost in the tequila fog.
 
she buys me another drink; it’s as if I’ve gone
back home, to the long years spent
in underground joints and sleeping
with the star stripper.
 
I sit with them, listen to their stories.
 
I drink, smoke, and listen. Hank comes up in the speakers,
I draw a deep breath of the dense, stale
air. it won’t kill me, despite the inner hope.
 
the dancer gives me a beaming smile and my heart skips a fucking beat.

Whiskey Debt

After pig stickin a man I enjoy a shot of whiskey. Doesn't need to be good whiskey, a five dollar backdoor brand will do fine. See it's payin what's owed that's important. Without it a pig stickin just isn't the same.

Leonard is drawin my beers tonight. He tends bar on the nights Ellie is off. I prefer Ellie. She's fine in a way that makes my young man’s tent pole squirm like a worm in hot ashes. I'd never tell her that. Good girl like her go runnin for the hills a dirty old codger like me come sniffin around her respectability. Doesn't mean I let anyone else have a go. I haven't had a whiskey since last week. Thinking about it makes me surly up inside.

Not much goin on here, can't see one of interest tonight. No interest no whiskey. Last week keeps at me, makin me smile. I can still taste those two shots. Was a good night for drinkin for sure.

First Monday of last week two young guys come in the bar. Looked nice enough to those not lookin too close. They were transparent to eyes like mine. They had an unhealthy way about them. Came in drinkin top shelf and knockin back beer after beer till they was nice and liquored up. Tossin round money like it's a thing. It isn't a thing. Everyone's got some money, having more don't make you special. We all bleed the same.

Guys washed it down with a few games of billiards all the while talkin up Ellie in on the sly. They were real careful too, tryin not to let on what they wanted. There was a big one and a little one. I say that due to the size difference which was considerable. I stand somewhere in between. The little one schmoozed up to the bar each time they needed a round. Spoutin nice words in Ellie's ear making her feel she was handier than a pocket on a shirt. She seemed to take to him real nice. I don't hold blame against her, in that line of work a woman's got to spread a smile and show some interest she want to make any money. Problem was she didn't realize what was standing across the mahogany. Had she known her hair would've turned white. The bigger one he stayed at the table pushing balls around the felt. He stayed there alright but his eyes watched close the progress his smaller friend was making with their mark.

Saw the whole thing sitting here on this very stool. I was nestling a beer myself. It was a slow night till that point. I hadn't had anything but a couple beers. I desperately wanted some whiskey so when I saw Ellie diggin herself a hole she might not climb out of I decided it was time to give those gentlemen my attentions. The little one was making his way back to the table a couple more beers in hand. Figurin the fight might be less even we walk out to the auto lot I decided to keep things inside for a time. Wouldn’t wanna let on I mean to school those two sons a bitches.

When I approached they seemed genuinely surprised at my presence. Asked me to leave. Even used polite words. I was so taken back I smiled at the sons a bitches. They didn't seem to keen on my reaction, wanted to know if I was taking a piss. Not like urinating. They meant messin. Playing a joke. Fuckin with them. I assured them I wasn't taking a piss. Even pointed to the water closet in case they didn't understand my meaning. But they understood. Of course they did.

The little one struck at me first. A balled fist is all he came with, bringing it round in a haymaker. Fool mistake. Haymaker will leave you too exposed, too open to someone quicker and smarter. I may be old as fuck but I ain't slow, and smarts? Well you don't need to be too smart to be smarter than a man throwing a haymaker.

Before his fist was halfway through the arc I pulled my steel and lit him up. I keep it close to my chest. Near my heart. Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you in words. Something about cold steel and a heartbeat gets my motor runnin. Makes it easy to pig stick as well.

The little guy was on the floor right quick. Judging by his screamin and the guts hangin out his belly he was a bit surprised. So was the rest of the establishment. Ellie included. Little guy screamed awful and you'd have thought he kicked a gaggle of geese. Everyone lit up instantly makin for the door. Maybe the sight of his innards did more for that. I don't know. I do know it was funny as hell, watching him struggle to put himself back together.

I nearly giggled myself into a beatdown cause the bigger guy was on me quick as spit. Gnarly strong hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back. My boots lifted right off the ground. The weight of my body threatenin to stretch my neck I didn’t figure a way down. Felt like a gorilla tryin to tear my head off. Made me think of the zoo. Those apes always fight over the tire swing as if it's the only play toy they have is worth a damn. I was now a tire swing at the zoo with an ape fightin over me. Didn't make much sense then still doesn't make much sense now.

The big guy kept pulling me back trying to keep me off my feet. I still had my steel in hand and he knew it. Probably tryin to choke me out. Couldn't really tell. For a big ass man he didn't know shit about fightin. Probably fuckin either. Didn't take him long to screw the pooch.

Problem was he pulled me back toward the billiard table, bringing me round as he did. When we got close I planted my feet on the edge of the slate and shoved hard as I was able. For a strong fella he didn't have much resolve. I sent us flyin ass over tea kettle. Big guy first, me second. I must have appeared as a gymnast to anyone watchin because it was some goddamn Mary Lou Retton shit I pulled. My form needed work but my landing couldn't have been more perfect. My steel bit hard on the way down leaving him with a second mouth. See him try to slow talk any young women from here on out. Sometimes I picture him drinkin a glass. Makes me laugh harder than shit watchin water dibble out his second smile. Wasn't planned, just worked well.

All said and done I walked away none the worse for wear. Ellie wasn't pleased.  After I told her what they were up too and Sheriff confirmed they was up to no good she simmered down. Seems those two gentlemen had been making rounds in the circuit leaving several ladies in bad ways. I was just happy she came to no harm. I may be old as fuck and quick with the steel but a man's got to protect at least one thing in his life. But no good deed goes unpunished.

Sheriff tore my ass from here to sunder. Berating me for startin it. Yellin at me for keepin the steel. Threaten to lock me up as well. Almost had me goin at one point. Problem was Sheriff was in my debt seeing as how Ellie is his kin. Blood is stronger, trumps everything else. Always has. In the end he bought me two shots of whiskey I was owed. Debt paid in full.

Hangover Sundays

lying down as the world spins around you; your
barfs smell and taste as gin and bourbon.

failing to recall most of the previous night(s), the lost
conversations, the buried mishaps and embarrassments meant never
to resurface. burned bridges, new connections,

an ugly bruise on the forehead or
a nasty cut under the eye; no clue about the how and the wherefore.

waking up, coffee and a burning hammer to calm the aching head,
the twirling stomach. a cigarette; hastily depositing your stomach
in the toilet.

lost weekends, dissipated weeks—no epiphanies,
either. just fragments, brief moments sinking in the sea of darkness.

for an hour, as the headache worsens, you
think, ‘that’s it, I’m done’. when you contemplate
the potential embarrassments, dreading the answers to
‘what the hell did I do?’, you say enough’s enough,
time to quit.

afternoon comes, the top of a tallboy is popped, a gin and tonic mixed.
you pass out a few hours later on the couch and only
a burning hammer will allow you to get up come noon.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

bar games (and survival)

he has a circle around him

at one end of the bar
i have one around me
here where i stand
at the other end

we’re not a bad team
him and i

our circles have formed
for different reasons
his because they are all old
and probably like him
and mine also old
even older than me
because several of them
recognized me
from my poetry performance
outside the train station
my words were liked
by most of them
and here and now
i’ve become
a minor front bar celebrity

and one shouldn’t ever look
a gift-horse in the mouth
and the gift-horse now
is free double vodkas
coming on strong

i start another story
about performing
in a theatre in brisbane (true)
which drifts into a yarn
about a kangaroo
getting into the theatre
that no-one could catch (not true)
and they all lean in fascinated
and me after ten or more drinks
can tell a dam good yarn

i break for a minute
and wave and call to him
and he does the same
back to me
and everyone in here
cheers and laughs
at our odd friendship
and what a couple of crazy guys
we are

i’m getting restless here
so i leave my lot
wander down to him and his lot
and ask him
if he wants to stay with them
or head upstairs
and dance with me

he wants to dance
but has found well-heeled trade
so he nips out
into the back lane
with an excited old trick
on a walking frame
i get bought another vodka
and tell another (untrue) story
and when he’s back
we go upstairs

and in an all-night club
full of all-night people
we forget
about bar games (and survival)
and dance

Another Practical Degree

My boyfriend and I

graduated from

Evergreen State College

in 2000, when we were

 

both 41. We had a toddler,

a beat-up minivan,

and a hundred-year-old

house in Tacoma.

 

Matt Groening was our

graduation speaker, and

some of the grads brought

Simpson dolls. Only half

 

of them wore gowns. One

barefoot man was quoted

in the local paper:

 

“I want to celebrate

my new, non-college life

by wearing my non-shoes.”

 

My boyfriend and I drank

shots of coffee liqueur

from a bottle that was being

passed around. Our futures

 

were half-gone, with

our livers mostly intact.

The same could not be said

for our romance, and we

 

broke up six months later.

Neither of us did anything

useful with our degrees.

 

I check the box that reads,

“college graduate”

whenever I fill out forms,

 

but I don’t think that thrill

will ever be worth the

money I didn’t pay for it:

fifty grand in student loans,

and a man who still

blames me for everything.

Waiting for a Liver

 “So you want to hear something weird?”

“If I wasn’t willing to, I wouldn’t be here with you,” my friend Jim said.

“What’s the longest lag time you’ve ever gone between seeing a woman and getting in touch with her?”

He looked off into the distance, his head cocked to one side.  “I guess—like twenty years.”

"Who was that?”

“This girl I was in high school with,” he said.  “Her dad was in the Air Force, and he got transferred right after we had sex for the first time.”

“How old were you?”

“She was sixteen, I was fifteen.”

“How’d she find you?”

“One of those high school reunion websites.  She actually upgraded to a platinum membership for a month so she could contact me directly.”

“I’m impressed,” I said, then tried to catch the bartender’s eye.  “Did you get back together?”

“Naw, but it was pretty flattering to my ego.  She said it was a cliché, but the first love really was the best, just like she’d heard.”

“That was nice of her.”

“Yeah,” he said, a smile crossing his face slowly, like a low cloud being pushed by the wind.  “Especially since I didn’t know jack about pleasing a woman.  I was so excited it probably took less than a minute.  Why do you ask?”

“Because I got a strange email out of the blue a few months ago.”

“From an old girlfriend?”

“We weren’t even that close.”

“And how long ago were you in touch with her?”

“Seventh grade.”

“So what—when you were thirteen?”

“Twelve.  I had a late birthday, so I was the youngest in my class.”

“So it’s been . . .”

“Fifty years.”

“Wow.  So what did she say?”

I stopped the story because it was our turn with the bartender.  We ordered another round and started up again.  “She said she’d always had a crush on me—kind of a nerd crush.  We were both at the top of our class all through grade school, but I never noticed her.”

“Why not?”

“She was quiet, and Carolyn Mitzel was the first girl to develop breasts, so I tended to . . . uh . . . focus my attention on her.”

“So she’s had this secret longing for you for half a century.  Why’s she getting in touch now?”

“She’s in the hospital, waiting for a liver.”

“Because you ignored her she turned to the bottle and ruined her life?”

“I wouldn’t flatter myself by thinking that, but yeah—she had a drinking problem.”  The bartender arrived with our drinks and, with that looming note of caution dispelled, we each took a sip.

“Huh,” Jim said.  “So she’s at the end of her life and she tells you she’s been carrying a torch for you the whole time?”

“It wasn’t entirely one-way,” I said.  “It’s funny the things one person remembers and the other forgets.  I told her I was glad she got in touch, and did she remember that we had in fact agreed to be boyfriend-girlfriend in the spring of seventh grade?”

“Did she remember?”

“She didn’t remember it the way I did.  I remember it pretty clearly.  I’d just about given up on Carolyn, and I was sitting on a tennis court with this other girl, our backs to the net.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  All of a sudden everyone had gotten into tennis, but nobody was any good at it because it was just a little town and nobody’d had any lessons.  So we sat down while the other kids were playing on the next court and were getting along really well.”

“And . . .”

“She asked me if I was still going with Carolyn, or something like that.”

“What did you say?”

“I was kind of bitter, because Carolyn had been paying attention to other guys, playing the field.  So I said ‘You should probably ask Scott or Tommy about that.’”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She said ‘Who should I ask you about?’”

“Whoa.  Doesn’t sound like a wallflower to me!”

“Yeah—she kinda surprised me.  So there we are, sitting next to each other, our backs to the cold spring wind, kind of huddled together.  And I said ‘I don’t know—I guess you could ask me about you.’”

Jim started to laugh, loudly enough so that the woman sitting next to him turned to look.  “You debonair son-of-a-bitch,” he said, and clapped me on the shoulder.  “It’s not often a guy can get off a line like that.”

“It’s not often you get the opportunity—it was a perfect set-up.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, we couldn’t just kiss right there.  And when you’re twelve you can’t drive, so I could hardly ask her out.  Summer vacation was a week away, and so I wouldn’t see her again for a while.  Plus, in the . . . uh . . . passion of the moment I’d forgotten that I was transferring to another school the next year.”

Jim started to shake his head.  “Okay, I take back what I said about you being debonair.  You were the same loser then that you are now.”

“I was twelve for Christ sake, gimme a break.”

“So the romance ended there?”

“Yep, but it’s not like there was anything I could have done about it.  Her family moved away the next year anyway, so we couldn’t have kept it up even if we’d tried.”

Jim took a sip from his bottle of beer.  “Well, you got me beat for casting a spell of romance.  So are you gonna follow up with her now?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You cad—you bounder!  She needs a liver and you’re going to ignore her?”

I gave him a look that I hoped would convey my pity for his ignorance.  “It’s not like a kidney--you only get one liver.  I don’t have a spare.”

“Oh, right.  So where would she get one?”

I think you have to wait for somebody who’s an organ donor to die.”

“Huh.  Are you still in touch?”

“We traded a few emails, and it was clear she had thought about what might have been if she hadn’t moved away--she’s been married twice and is divorced now.  But then she stopped replying.”

“Do you . . . think she’s dead?”

“No, but I thought for a while she was when I didn’t hear from her.  Then I got a reply from a woman who said she was her daughter, who had access to her email account.  She said they’d found a liver for her, and that she’d be out of touch for a while for the operation and the recovery.”

Jim was silent for a moment.  “This could be . . . monumental.”

What do you mean?”

“If she gets better it’s going to be like a miracle.  She’ll think getting in touch with you saved her.  She’s going to want to see you in person.”

“I suppose that’s a possibility.”

“Are you going to tell your wife about all this?”

I looked up at the television.  It was a Sunday night, and the Red Sox were playing the Yankees.  It had been a cold April, like the one fifty years before.

“I don’t think so.”

Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer, author of "Rabbit's Blues: The Life and Music of Johnny Hodges," and "Kansas City Jazz: A Little Evil Will Do You Good."

Our Last Tango

I feel so lonely

In this room for two

Smoking your thoughts

And drinking your dreams.

We're still in that Paris,

Our Paris,

Though we didn't dance, yet,

Our last tango.

You're my sitting stone

I was your throne.

Just open your petrified heart

Only for a second

To understand

That stupid metaphor

Of being together,

Which means

Occasionally

Love.

Strange Tequila

At the border crossing

from Mexico to the US,

 

I stood with my filthy backpack

in front of a customs guard

and tried to force a smile.

 

He scrutinized my face

without expression.

 

“Please take that off

and place it on the table

in front of me.”

 

Instead of terror,

I felt a Yoda-like calm,

though I knew my

two tequila bottles

 

filled with psilocybin honey

would soon emerge

into the harsh desert light.

 

The guard extracted my first bottle

from the damp underbelly

of dirty underwear.

 

He squinted at the grainy bits

of mushroom heads and stems

floating in viscous soup.

 

“This is strange tequila,” he said.

 

“Yes. It was a gift.”

 

Technically, my words were true.

A man had given me the bottles

at a Palenque campground,

because he liked my energy.

 

I left before I had the chance

to prove him wrong.

My energy was like a

toddler’s crayon drawing.

 

The border guard shoved

the bottle back inside my pack

and pulled out my cannabis pipe.

 

“I suppose this is also a gift.

I hope you haven’t used it.”

 

“Of course not. I just

like the way it looks.”

 

He nodded, thrust the pipe

into my pack and smiled.

 

“You can go now.”

 

I hoisted the load across my shoulders,

gave him a jovial wave,

and strolled into the United States.

 

The overhead sign read,

“WELCOME TO TEXAS.”

So many miles from Wisconsin.

Good thing I still had my strange tequila.

The AA Chip Exchange

 "Hey Moe! Whadaya give me for an AA chip?”

"Uh, Barney this is a five-minute chip-...meh, it's worth a Pabst."

- The Simpsons

The history of Alcoholics Anonymous is a twisted tale of desperation and determination. It's a story that can't be told without diving headfirst into the wild and wooly world of addiction and recovery.

The birth of AA can be traced back to the 1930s, a time when the country was in the grips of the Great Depression and alcoholism was rampant. Two men, Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith, had hit rock bottom with their drinking and were on the brink of disaster. They came together, sharing their stories of addiction and despair, and found that talking to someone who understood was a powerful force.

These two renegades were determined to find a way out of the abyss, and they did just that. They developed a 12-step program that was revolutionary in its simplicity and effectiveness. The program was based on a spiritual foundation, and it called for members to surrender their addiction to a higher power.

The unnamed members of this powerful club typically carry little mementos in their pockets which serve as a constant reminder of the importance of sobriety. It's a small token imprinted with a milestone anniversary such as "One Month," "Three Months," "One Year," or longer and a slogan such as "the day my new life began,” or "God grant me the strength..." You get it. It's like a merit badge for NOT doing something.

For many years, I've heard stories about bartenders accepting those chips in exchange for a drink. The stories go on to include tales of particular bartenders who actually make it their hobby to collect the tokens and yet other stories that describe a friendly competition among several bartenders to see who can collect the most. I've always thought it makes sense that the shepherd would welcome his wayward sheep back into the fold.

I want to believe that these are more than just stories; I don't like the idea that it's just an urban legend that can be lumped in with "The Mouse in the Coke Bottle," and the one about the kid from Life Cereal commercials dying from ingesting a whole pack of Pop Rocks. There are just too many unrelated tales of this practice for it to not be true.

Over the past couple of years, I've discussed this premise with several people of all ages, backgrounds and geographic locations. Each provided their own theories, stories, and thoughts. Modern Drunkard Magazine's Editor in Chief, Frank Kelly Rich shared a "factual" story about The Lion's Lair, a Colfax Avenue dive in Denver that routinely follows the practice of accepting AA tokens as cash. But he admitted that he had never seen it first hand and thinks maybe everyone is becoming too "politically correct" to continue this tradition.

That’s when I decided to make it a mission to prove or disprove this notion.

A quick Google search led me to a few potential answers.

There are a few websites and discussion boards that address this question. Some contain first-hand accounts from bartenders who claim to have personally accepted sobriety chips as “payment” for drinks.

David Mikkelson founded snopes.com in 1994 as a way to address urban legends and folklore. In 2009 he personally addressed questions from two separate queriers:

[Collected via e-mail, January 2007]

Is it true that if you bring a one year sober AA chip to a bar and give it to them they will give you a free drink?

[Collected via e-mail, August 2009]

I’ve often heard about bars that offer free drinks in exchange for Alcoholics Anonymous X-days sober medallions.

Mikkelson’s answer was a sobering discourse on addiction, and the evils of those who view alcoholics as people who have “created the hell he inhabits via his poor personal choices and lousy impulse control rather than by the addiction that drove him.”

At the end of his six hundred and ten word sermon, the gas-filled Snopes chief finally stated “Are there such bars where chips and medallions can regularly be traded for free hooch? If there are, we’ve yet to encounter any credible reports of them.”

For a brand name like Snopes to produce such a non-answer was a disappointment. I prefer to take my facts without a heaping helping of personal opinion.

It became clear that there was no clear answer to be found. I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I found an online store which sells AA paraphernalia and ordered two dozen chips. They were surprisingly inexpensive. If this worked, I'd be drinking cheap.

To put my experiment in motion, I decided it was best to work on it far away from my regular drinking territory. If I kept it local, too many people would recognize me and call me out on my ruse. I decided to go to Las Vegas.

With a pocket full of my new tokens, my first stop was at the Double Down Saloon. It worked like a charm. The bartender exchanged one three-month chip for an “Ass Juice” shooter. I used a back story about a ninety-day court-ordered program stint, boring meetings, bad coffee, and hilarious stories from the other members. But all of that was unnecessary. There were no questions asked. She simply took the chip.

An hour and a half later, as I was leaving, everyone at the bar congratulated me on finishing "sobriety."

Fantastic! It worked. But maybe that bar wasn’t the right place to test my theory. Anyone who’s been to the off-strip punk rock bar knows that suspect behavior is the norm within its filthy, graffitied walls; it’s one of the most famous dives on the planet.

I made my way to Dino’s Lounge, another no-nonsense bar located between the Strip and Downtown. The bar was packed, so I had to settle for a table. The cocktail waitress took my token, but charged me full price. I think she just wanted it as a souvenir.

The next stop was Frankie's Tiki Lounge, a dark, smoke-filled polynesian-themed bar. The bartender knows who I am and got a kick out of it. She didn’t bite. I called a cab and headed to the Velveteen Rabbit.

The bartender was a twenty-something-year-old who didn't know what the chip was. I explained what Alcoholics Anonymous is, what the token represents, and told him it's a rule that he take it. He believed me, accepted the chip, and gave me a cocktail. I didn’t stick around for another drink. Instead, I got an Uber and moved on.

Huntridge Tavern is a local’s bar located in a 1970’s era shopping center. It's right there mixed in with a grocery store, drug store, hair salon, and a couple of locally-owned restaurants.

I walked through the door and straight up to the bar. There were three men sitting within six or seven feet from me. The bartender was a very nice girl who had a black eye. I didn't ask how she got the shiner because I'm sure the answer would have been "I ran into a door."

"I've decided to end my sobriety here with you," I told her as I placed the token on the bar in front of me. “I’ll have a rum and coke.”

She had a puzzled look on her face.

"I'm going to trade my three-month chip for a drink," I explained.

"I don't want that responsibility. Really, I don't want to do it," she said. But that didn't stop her from picking up the chip and giving it a thorough examination.

I continued, "I'm done with my mandated classes and am ready for a drink." I looked at one of the guys at the bar and he was nodding his head in approval. One of the other guys was shaking his head in disapproval. The third guy had a look of disgust on his face.

"Don't worry, I'm not a bad drunk, I'm just a really bad drunk driver." All three men began nodding as if to say "Yeah, we get it."

I got my drink and the bartender got my chip. Fair trade.

After a long weekend of peddling my coins on a mission to prove a point, was pretty proud of myself.

But I began reflecting on each interaction with each bartender and realized that without the spinning of a plausible story to add depth and intrigue to the experience, it probably wouldn’t have ever worked on a wide scale.

Sure, it makes since that the Double Down Saloon would follow through on the trade. It wouldn’t surprise me if the management has installed a policy that AA chips can be used as cash, no questions asked. This practice fits in well with the theme of the bar which advertises “Shut Up and Drink” as their motto.

And that poor bastard at the Velveteen Rabbit was probably intimidated by me. I was pretty drunk and most likely sounded threatening as I explained that he had to respect the tradition of trading my chip for a drink.

In the end, this little experiment only served as a vehicle to create a story to tell. And when I think about the journey I took each bartender on, I can’t help but believe that they are telling their side of the story to their friends too.

Yes, I proved that it CAN be done, but not that it is common practice. If this was ever a thing, it clearly is a thing of the past. I guess the world is changing. Maybe my buddy Frank is right. People are getting too “politically correct.”

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter here. 

Dr. Suess' Dive Bars

Oh, the dive bars, they’re a wonderful sight,

A place to go when the day turns to night.

With their neon signs and their faded charm,

They’ll keep you warm and out of harm.

 

These bars are not fancy, they’re not for show,

But they’ll give you memories you’ll never let go.

They’ve got their quirks and their crooked lines,

And they’ll fill you up with cheap, cold wines.

 

You’ll find old friends and new faces too,

At the dive bar, there’s always something to do.

From pool tables to jukeboxes to karaoke nights,

There’s never a dull moment, just good old delights.

 

The drinks may not be fancy, but they sure are strong,

And the bartenders, they’ve been there all along.

They’ll listen to your stories, they’ll lend a hand,

And they’ll make sure you leave feeling grand.

 

The walls are adorned with photos and stickers,

And the floors are sticky, but no one’s a kicker.

The dive bar is a place where you can be you,

And nobody cares if you’re rich or if you’re blue.

 

You’ll hear tales of adventure, of love and loss,

And you’ll make new friends, no matter the cost.

At the dive bar, it’s not about status or fame,

It’s about the people and the memories you’ll claim.

 

So, don’t be afraid to step inside,

The dive bar is a place where you can’t hide.

It’s a place where you’ll find your second home,

And you’ll never feel like you’re all alone.

 

The dive bar is a place where dreams come true,

And you’ll leave with a heart full of gratitude.

It’s a place where you’ll find joy and laughter,

And memories that will stay with you forever after.

So, raise a glass to the dive bars tonight,

And to the people who make them shine so bright.

For they are a treasure, a true delight,

And they’ll always be there, in the darkest of night.

 

Oh, the dive bars, they’re a place to belong,

Where the drinks are strong and the nights are long.

So, let’s all raise a glass to the dive bars we know,

And to the memories we’ll always hold close.