In Praise of Dive Bars

So, I'm thinking of an episode in the Simpsons where Springfield's Wharf District gets gentrified; a run down part of town where lots of homeless people, criminals, and other outcasts spend their days and nights--which then catches on with the artistic, bohemian crowd, and finally graduates to mainstream acceptance, with overpriced bars, nightclubs, etc. and lots of money to be made on "nostalgia". "This isn't faux dive", exclaims a character (in disgust) in the show when exploring the neighborhood and discovering Moe's Tavern, "...this is a just a dive!" To which Moe replies, "You're a long way from home, yuppie boy. I'll start a tab."

The philosopher Herbert Marcuse commented on this phenomenon of gentrification; subversive (even truly revolutionary ideas and movements) become "cool" and profitable for the capitalist, thus negating the true revolutionary impact (or even truly subversive aspects) of any idea or movement. He was referring to the idea of "flower power" back in the 1960's and 70's, but the idea (of the insidious, viral power of capitalism to appropriate, assimilate and defuse any cultural phenomenon that might be a threat to the status quo) still holds remarkable weight today, even more so now--thanks to the internet.

Go to any decent sized U.S. city, and you can easily locate the officially designated "hip" part of town...with its coffee shops, health food stores, overpriced eateries, galleries and boutiques, etc. If you look into the histories of these neighborhoods you could find an eerily similar story between many of them.

At one point in time, many of these neighborhoods often actually were very cool... a veritable bubbling cultural brew outside of the mainstream. Then, at some point, mainly between 10 to 20 years ago, entrepeneurs saw a huge marketing opportunity within these diverse, artistic enclaves.


In addition to skyrocketing real estate values chasing away the original poor and lower middle class residents, one of the most obvious visible signs of the gentrification of these neighborhood is the establishment of overpriced bars, usually chain bars that sell exactly the same thing in at least a dozen other hipster joints across the country. There you can sip on the latest trendy luke warm "microbrew" for 8 bucks a pop (after waiting at the bar for 30 minutes because the bar is 5 people deep with a sea of sorority clones with piercings, trendy yuppies with tats, among all the other important, beautiful people cutting in front of you), and stand there staring at people flapping their lips because it's impossible to hear anything than the stereo system turned up to 11. Good times!

If you're into that sort of thing, and you actually enjoy the fascist Wal-Mart business model invading every conceivable physical and psychological aspect of your life... including your socializing and your inebriation, congratulations! You suck in more shallow, tragi-comic ways than you will ever know. Besides, I'm not writing about that kind of place. I am writing about the previous tenants of these establishments: who had a sense of originality, a real rough edge to them, cheap and priceless at the same time, and whose sole meaning of existence went beyond pandering to the lowest common denominator to make maximum dollars to satisfy the whims of it's greedy investors.

I am referring, of course, to the humble (and endangered) dive bar.

For those who would prefer to get a taste of the raw beauty of a classic dive from the comfort and safety of their three thousand dollar prefaded leather "thrift store retro-style" couch, I would recommend watching the film Barfly, in between pointless pseudo-intellectual conversations on your svelte supersleek cell phone and bites of macrobiotic tabouli while surfing the website of your local cookie-cutter, "alternative weekly" that has exactly the same format as 50 other cities' "alternative weeklies", naturally.

Indeed, the word for such an experience like getting drunk at a dive could best be described as "Bukowskiesque" (Charles Bukowski, incidentally, also wrote the screenplay to Barfly). But really, the poetry and beauty of a dive goes beyond mere words. Like fine art or a good fuck, it needs to be actually experienced in the real world to truly appreciate.

The facades of many dives are not exactly welcoming--they often have the appearance of not being remodeled since circa 1961. One should feel a slight sense of intimidation when entering a dive for the first time, an unsettling feeling that you might wind up spending the night in jail because of what happens here if you're not careful.

Inside, the air is heavy with ancient cigarette smoke and existential disillusionment. Cleanliness is not a priority here. Thin fake wood paneling, with mysterious stains is a recurring theme. Top shelf brews include Black Label, Schlitz, or the local version of such beverages. A dust-covered Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign might flicker stoically with an irregular rhythm on the wall or the front window (if there is a window--natural sunlight is not the norm in these spaces).

The clientele of these establishments closely reflects the decor. There is often a core of dedicated regulars who have been frequenting this spot longer than you have been alive. They are usually fairly soft spoken; no need for lots of idle chatter when the relic of a bartender has had their drinking preferences (along with the rest of their life story) hardwired into his or her brain decades ago. Karl Marx might have referred to these people as the lumpenproletariat.

Have a seat next to one of these regulars. Have a couple of beers, watch a little golf through the static on the 13 inch black and white TV strapped to the top of the bar. You may then realize that it takes a certain kind of individual with highly specialized skills to be a raging alcoholic for forty years and still be alive, let alone drinking and chain-smoking to boot. Rather than being a source of pity or scorn, I propose these individuals should be held up for admiration for their hard-earned years of wisdom. As Harry said in Barfly..."Anybody can be a non-drunk. It takes a special talent to be a drunk. It takes endurance. Endurance is more important than truth".

You can still find wonderful examples of such dives in many cities, though you have to look harder than you used to. One of the best towns to find great dives is New Orleans. Sure, the city is a cesspool of pollution, abject poverty, and violent crime...but one thing that it does have in abundance is character, especially if you venture outside the tourist traps of the French Quarter and Bourbon Street (this is all before the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, I haven't been there since then--though I have a feeling that the peculiar atmosphere of the city can't be wiped out by a mere natural disaster).

I was fortunate enough to live in the city early in my legal-age adult life, and experience the city on a deeper level. The are many classic dives here, but the one that molded my impression of a classic dive that still holds after all these years is the one-and-only Saturn Bar. Many of the aspects I describe above can be found here. In addition, there is (or was) a deserted upper section to the bar that you can visit and find various examples of Art Brut collecting dust among the aged outdated bar equipment scattered around, reflecting the disturbed, schizophrenic nature of the bar and the entire neighborhood. I miss places like that.

New Orleans, I despise you from the depths of my jaded, blackened soul. Don't ever change..."a drink for all my friends!"