Unlubricated, Thus Anxiety Ridden

As published at SubStack, 8/14/22:

[Philadelphia, 6/15/09]

We can’t decide which bar to enter, that is, for there are millions of them. American dives are not terribly inviting from the outside. Few have windows to give you a peep of what’s inside. Usually, there’s just a darkened entrance, if the door is even open.

Walk in and you might find your dead grandma, sitting alone looking bitter, or your ex wife with her new boyfriend, way more handsome and buffer than you. How the fuck did she manage that, the bitch?! Maybe it’s a fag bar without the rainbow flag.

[Philadelphia, 5/23/14]

Quinn’s Irish Pub has a broken sign they can’t be bothered to fix, so their prices are probably bum friendly, so let’s just go in, but wait, why is that tall guy flexing wrinkled abs outside Cheers?

Stupid name, I agree, but that’s Bob Herdelin, an all-American b-baller for La Salle, like, a century ago. Herky would have made the NBA, he claims, if not for his fear of flying. Let’s go inside his pub to bullshit with the legend.

[Philadelphia, 6/1/09]

At 69-years-old, Herky tackled a 23-year-old mugger and head locked the asshole before cops could arrive, so you better behave.

Well, at least we didn’t barge into the Black Man in America Social Club so you could deliver your tirade, “What the fuck, man?! This is clearly racism! My Jewish professor at the community college told me in no uncertain terms race is just a social construct, so there ain't no race. We're all the same, motherfuckers! We're all the same except white people, who are all Nazis, if only latently so. Sorry to use a big word on y'all. I learnt it from my Jewish professor at the community college. He so smart."

I just don’t feel like tussling today.

[Philadelphia, 8/17/11]

If you dig black bars, we can try Scotty’s tomorrow. Be prepared to marvel at its Obama shrine. Best to sit there in the afternoon, when there’s no mind mashing beats. To sop the suds, there’s some jivy Chinese and good enough fried chicken nearby.

Cheap, dives can’t spend hardly anything on decors. Junk knick-knacks, photos of patrons, flags and goofy signs suffice. At Fishtown’s Old Philadelphia Bar, “If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport.” Plus, being mostly neighborhood pubs, they don’t need to be flashy to attract outsiders.

Give my people an oasis to socialize over drinks, command all the humane gods, for they need to swap stories and be sappy, pissy or garrulous after another day’s hard labor, and turn off the canned tunes, will you, so each soul could be heard most clearly. Laughter is the best music.

Only Satanists demand social distancing.

[Philadelphia, 12/15/14]