Ode to the Dive Bar
I’ll start by saying I’m not an expert on dive bars. I’m more like a teenage girl who has a crush on her teacher, but just doesn't know when to let it go. The dive bars are like, “Enough already, move on to an establishment with Edison light bulbs dangling from the ceiling and mixologists adorned with suspenders and waxed mustaches.”
Incidentally, aren't all light bulbs Edison light bulbs since he developed the, you know, light bulb? It doesn't matter. This is not a commentary about the proper nomenclature for light bulbs. My response to the dive bar is, “I love you and always will!” Admittedly this analogy is getting a little creepy and I’m not sure why I made myself a teenage girl in this scenario since I’m a boy, but you get the idea. I heart dive bars.
I've been an admirer of the dive bar ever since I bought a pint of Rolling Rock and a shot of Wild Turkey for $2 at a beautiful hole in the wall in Philadelphia. I was 18, my fake ID said 23 (not 21 because I thought that was too obvious that it was fake), and I looked 15. The beefy bouncer glanced at the ID, then at me, and waved me inside. I like to think that he was rewarding my courage for claiming to be over 21 when I obviously wasn't. More likely it’s because the philosophy of the dive bar is if you want to drink, then come on in.
Even more impressive than the cheap drinks were the regulars who were perched on the rickety stools and slouched among the cracked leather booths. Men wore raggedy blazers and two-day old beards while the women spilled out of blouses a size too small with their eye lids drooping under the weight of heavy make up. They were a gang of brutish poets with a blue collar charm that I knew would lose its attraction outside the smoke stained walls.
For now, inside this tiny and dirty bar, these Bukowski-like groupies were glorious.
I listened to them rant about the Phillies, the unwanted changes to the neighborhood, and call each other loving names like motherfucker and cocksucker. I watched them as if they were animals in the wild, never getting to close and avoiding eye contact. It was a better education than 4 years of high school.
When I moved to New York City in 1999, one of the first things I did was seek out dive bars so I could party like Prince had commanded. At that time, finding a dive bar was as easy as tripping over a homeless person.
Dive bars like Siberia, Mars Bar, and The Holiday Cocktail Lounge were waiting to embrace me like a warm, beer-scented blanket. While these places had subtle differences, mostly in the condition of their bathrooms that ranged from putrid to toxic, they were all similar; the weathered signs out front were an indication of the customers inside, the discreetness of the dim lighting, a stench that singed my nose hairs, a jukebox of classic rock and punk, and a bartender who treated me like an old friend that he didn't like very much.
I've always been intimidated by the bartenders at dive bars. They've got the cold stares of someone who was in the shit in Vietnam. Usually they look at me like I don’t belong there. I don’t have the weary, battered face of the regulars. I would probably be described as a cross between Carson Daly and Jimmy Fallon.
Going to a dive bar is like when I did something out of character and bad as a kid. I remember being dared by the town rebel to fire a golf ball with a sling shot when I was 12. I did it and broke the second floor window of a neighbor’s house. The rush of running through the woods afterwards was absolutely thrilling. For a brief moment, I was dangerous. Then I got caught. I blubbered an apology and had to do yard work for the neighbor all summer.
One of the things I really love about dive bars is that they are a confidence booster. When I look around I know I’m doing better than at least one of the other patrons and that makes me appreciate my life more. I know this sounds judgmental, but the fact is that the barely conscious guy slurping spilled beer off the top of the bar is not doing too good. It’s hard to see my dad like that, but what can I do. The opposite feeling happens for me when I go to a fancy cocktail lounge. Everybody seems to be doing better than me, or at least acts like it.
Dive bars are dying quickly here in New York City. The places I mentioned earlier are gone. You can still find tattered gems among the polished buildings of the new Manhattan, spots like Johnny’s in the West Village, Blue & Gold in the East Village, and Jimmy’s Corner in Times Square to name a few. I fear that the dive bar as I know it will disappear forever.
Perhaps dive bars will undergo a similar treatment as the abundant amount of bars that have been refurbished to look “industrial?”
Owners may buy spaces and attempt to replicate the look of the dive bars of yesteryear, complete with vintage beer signs and fake puke in the corner. I’ll go in out of curiosity and belly up to the bar. I’ll take in the smell as my eyes adjust to the dark room. An assortment of canned beers like Shmidt’s, Rheingold, and Genesee sit on the shelf. A Led Zeppelin song plays in the back ground. I’ll look up at the tattooed, hardened bartender and for a moment feel like nothing has changed.
Then I’ll sigh when he screams after seeing a cockroach.
A sample of some of the dive bars still alive:
- Johnny’s Bar, 90 Greenwich Avenue, New York, NY 10011
- Blue & Gold, 79 East 7th Street, New York, NY 10003
- Milano’s Bar, 51 East Houston Street, New York, NY 10012
- 169 Bar, 169 East Broadway, New York, NY 10002
- Jimmy’s Corner, 140 West 44th Street, New York, NY 10036
- Racoon Lodge, 59 Warren Street, New York, NY 10007 (submitted by Paul Scott)
- Dirty Frank’s, 347 South 13th Street, Philadelphia, PA 19107 (I don’t live in Philly so I don’t know a lot about the dive bars there. I mention this spot because it was my first dive bar experience and it has a special place in my heart.)
