A little while back I was all kinds of happy because I’d found out that a former favorite bar of mine was reopened. Don’t believe that I could be that happy?
Well this past week, my best friend was in town and we were all kinds of excited to check out this new, improved version of our little slice of burned out and destitute heaven.
So, on Thursday night we sauntered over to first and sixth expecting the good times to come roaring back like nausea after seeing Mama Mia. There was plenty of nausea, let me assure you.
There were people there! Like, a ton of them. None of them looked like the mid sixties alcoholics that we’d come to know and love. The bartender didn’t look anything like a militant lesbian. The bar itself was made out of real wood, not chipped and peeling particle board. The once quiet cement courtyard with its drainage gutter clogged with decades of stray cat hair was closed off. I’m assuming the bathroom could now accommodate a seated position. It actually looked like we had zero risk of contracting any type of hepatitis.
There was even a door guy.
It’s sad, this constant need for people to make things “better” or “less of a health risk.”
Fortunately there happens to be about six hundred bars that fit our required levels of shabbiness… but I will miss that place in all of its remembered lack of quality.
I also think it’s appropriate to use this here: 😦