Once Knew a Guy Who Named His Dog Whiskey...

What is it about bars?

I haven't been to very many. The number can probably be counted on both hands and maybe a few toes, since I am lucky that my parents did not live close to Three Mile Island therefore do not possess mutated hands with irregular digits. Every time I walk through some busted wooden doors with dirty chamber of commerce stickers on them from decades past, bartenders and clientèle look at me I'm Wonder Years-era Fred Savage, completely out of my element with some sort of hyperbolic all-knowing monologue over my head; sadly the dramatic irony is lost on them. Maybe it's my "I swear to God I'm not 19 anymore" driver's license that I take out of my velcro wallet or the Starter jacket I wear in the winter. Look people, I know I'm green, and I like it. Why?

Chances are, you've been to bars too, and you've seen this guy. He was that drunk and put that much hair gel in his hair. Why is that? Why are dudes so concerned with putting gel in their hair before they go some place? Is gel a requisite accessory to the untucked dress shirt and really shiny shoes? I don't understand. Help me.
I prefer being Bambi to a barfly. Less chance of wearing a shirt that says something like "If It's a Race Issue, Settle It at the Track!" and thinking that it's funny. Less chance of taking or purchasing some sort of alcohol decor and putting it my home as a conscious decision...

Conversation about said decor:

Man, that neon inflatable Corona seaplane is fuckin' rad man, where'd you get it?

Oh, at the bar man. Terry was gonna get rid of it on Sunday but I told him I'd take it off his hands.

Man, that's so sweet.

Yeah, it hides the holes where I used to have the dart board.

Good thinkin', dude!

Less chance of appearing in pictures raising a glass/bottle/hands in stupid "Rock on!!!" sign. Less chance of the bartender not needing to card me. Less chance of hearing "Here Without You" by 3 Doors Down. You get it.

You have the wrong impression though, I think, from all of this. Bars are fine, unless we're talking about The Barrel, a watering hole's watering hole in Portsmouth, which looks like a 7-Eleven with bricks covering the front and must be like drinking in the trunk of a Cadillac that's been sitting at the bottom of a river for 30 years (finally put that wisecrack to print). Anyway, what makes these places worthwhile are the intangibles. They never stir during the day, and if they do, they always look like that scene from The Big Green when Jay O. Sanders says he's an auditor for the IRS. You know what I'm saying here. Bars are nocturnal. When the bad moon rises, the doors swing open and the stools and tables fill up. Soon, the Industrial Revolution is put to shame by the amount of cigarette smoke that pollutes the air and even the bricks in the wall start to wheeze. The same old barflies waft in and swap war stories with other domestic beer-fueled patrons. Eventually ashtrays start to look like Sodom and Gomorrah instead of an advanced fifth grade art project. Glass starts to crash like Stone Cold Steve Austin's theme music is skipping over the PA on Monday Night RAW. The booze-laden zombies walk the earth for a while before things get kaleidoscopic (a shameless purloining of a Bill Veeck phrase there) and fade to black. Rinse and repeat.

In the end, what matters are the stories, and the stories create history between people and culture. Yeah, here I go again with a point or something. Sitting around, tall tales and short stories start pouring out as everyone sips stutter milk and stun gravy. Blah blah blah about alcohol and losing inhibitions and blah blah blah. I don't think it has 100% to do with the old sauce. It is more of an environmental thing.

What?

People talk at bars. They discuss ideas (mostly bad ones) and people and gossip and the most meaningful and meaningless things in the world. They might not say a word in the car on the way there or the way back, but amidst the decay, they chit and chat and chatter and everything else. I think it's because it's expected. You can't get away with watching SportsCenter the whole time. The ticker moves fast enough for you to get what you need in a few minutes, pending ESPN not telling you how many times Barry Bonds put on pants. Contributions to conversation are expected, and that determines the flow of the evening. Ultimately it's a culture based on oral traditions and unwritten rules. No one tells you how to act or what to order. You basically follow the lead of those that came before you. (Sort of, I mean, easy on the hair gel) No one gets Jack Daniels' Big Book o'Cocktails two weeks before his or her 21st birthday to memorize and look like a pro. That's idiocy. You pick it up as you go along, and before you know it, you're not as green as you thought. Unless like me, you just can't bear to part with that Starter jacket...