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Few have the fortitude to weather the dive bar long enough to be considered a veteran, fewer have the desire to do so. I can’t say that I have, and if I were to tell you that I had inclinations to posses it, then I would be professing an intention to create something that can’t be chosen if it's to be at all genuine. Rawhide does not simply will itself into well worn leather, it has to be broken in and beaten till its rigidity loses the backbone to stand up and simply lays down for the wearer. Such is the dichotomy of the dive bar drunk, except that they scuttle themselves until they’ve sunk into the muck of the scene. Still, they take on an almost legendary status to some, especially among the wanna-be gritty sorts, you know the ones, sporting they’re Pabst Blue Ribbon adornment and their sleeve of tattoos that no true ne’re-do-well could really afford. To aspire to be a bar room novelty, to hope for scars and crave a personae that steeps itself around you like the dirt from an early grave- it’s strange, such fascination with what most accept as simply sad. Maybe they read too much Bukowski, or perhaps on some latent level they’re just emulating a granddad (that spent one too many days in the tap room of the Dew-Drop-Inn), over a case of unrequited, familial love. Check box one if you’ve ever drank alcohol out of anger. Check box two if you’ve ever missed work because of a hangover. Check box three if you’ve ever consumed whiskey just for fun. If you checked all of the above then you may just have what it takes and you are already well on your way to becoming a stumblebum, barfly, dive bar veteran. Now just cross your fingers it stays trendy Post a comment in response: |
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