The 5 Reads Of Christmas
No. 2 - "More Than Just Your Neighborhood Speakeasy"
By Bunny Stardust
It’s a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible mother fuck of a thing. But it’s OK. There’s a solution. Let’s start from the beginning, the carefree, happy, fun times. You’re 14 years old, coming out of your social shell for the first time. You’re making new friends, talking to new girls. And if it ends badly with a particular chick, fuck it, man. You’re 14. Schoolwork doesn’t matter, no one gives a shit about their 10-hour a week job. Videogames are cool. And, yea. You have that group of friends. That group of friends that soon want to do more on the weekends than just walk from Wawa to Wawa, smoking Black n’ Milds. You find yourself outside of a shitty, rundown, beer distributor in the middle of the city, either asking a black dude to get you a case, or going in and getting served yourself. It’s that easy. And now you have a new friend in your ensemble, only you can’t hang out with this guy out in the open public. You gotta go into the heat of the woods. Sound familiar? It should. If you were like me, you got to know who your real friends are in those woods. Drinking beers, making fires, maybe experimenting with drugs, touching the boobs of whatever girls were down with underage drinking next to poison ivy and various forest creatures. Those are the keepers, by the way. You do this throughout high school. Life is good. Life is great. Could it get any better? Yep. When you’re out of your parents’ house after graduation.
College is different. No longer do you have to sneak every sip of beer, every swig of whiskey. It’s freedom. And it’s damn good. House parties where you let your guests do whatever the fuck they please and you’re hailed as a king because you know exactly how to have fun. Girls love you. And you usually fuck up every romantic situation that you find yourself in, but that’s fine. At least you got a story out of it. Could it get any better? Yep. When you’re actually of legal age to do this shit.
21 is something else. If you remember it, you did it wrong. If your friends didn’t almost kill you, they did it wrong. Whatever, that’s for another issue altogether. Walk back from class, pass a 12-pack store—sure, I’ll go in and get a quick Cobra 40 oz. Make it 2. Make it 4. It’s beautiful. It’s like one day you weren’t “mature” enough to drink a beer, and the next, all you gotta do it show your driver’s license, which was probably taken when you were hung over, feeling like a bag of garbage—I know mine was—and you’re given the golden pass. Bars don’t only let you in, they actually make drink specials that entice you to come in. Get the fuck outta here. No way! Believe it. It’s great. You are the king of college. Yea, you wear the motherfucking crown. Then graduation hits. And those years are done. And you’re forced to work in a corporate office. The life is drained out of you. For most people, this only leaves 2 nights a week to be yourself.
It’s cool though. You know where your loyalties lie. You’re not one of those fancy, hipster bar dudes. But you’re pressured into trying them out. They’re fun—hey, I like dancing as much as the next guy, trust me—but they get old. And they get old pretty goddamn fast. You start realizing that these bars with 5 dollar beers need to only be a once in a very long while type thing. Over crowded, loud, filled with losers. Fuck that. Remember, you started this whole thing in the middle of the woods, with nothing but a pair of gloves and your friends. So, trust me when I say this. Those hole in the wall, dive bars that people shy away from because they think they’re too mature for them, they’re where you belong.
Got arrested last Saturday? That’s OK. The Manoa Tavern is up the street. The boss is breathing down your neck? Don’t sweat it. There’s the Bugalow Inn. Girlfriend dumped ya? There are bigger tragedies in life. Besides, you always have a friend in the Milmont. Your mom caught you masturbating? Chin up. Dolan’s is right around the corner. Shit your pants at your desk on Tuesday because you didn’t want to face the embarrassment of getting up to use the bathroom for the 7th time in 6 hours? Please, that’s all? Get yourself to the Secane Station Tavern.
It’s that simple. Don’t think that you’re too good for these places, because let me tell ya something that may put you on your ass: you’re not. Which is why, years down the line, after you’re finished with pretending that you love those bullshit popular bars, you’ll find yourself with 3 kids, a wife, and a mortgage, at the tender age of 45, sitting at that bar, drinking your bourbon whiskey, scotch, and beer, listening to the album Animals by Pink Floyd in its entirety on the jukebox. And your bartender won’t say a blessed thing. Because he was in your seat the night before.
These places aren't just your neighborhood speakeasies. They’re your friends. They’re who you are. Especially if you just spent the last few minutes reading this.
- Bunny Stardust.
21 is something else. If you remember it, you did it wrong. If your friends didn’t almost kill you, they did it wrong. Whatever, that’s for another issue altogether. Walk back from class, pass a 12-pack store—sure, I’ll go in and get a quick Cobra 40 oz. Make it 2. Make it 4. It’s beautiful. It’s like one day you weren’t “mature” enough to drink a beer, and the next, all you gotta do it show your driver’s license, which was probably taken when you were hung over, feeling like a bag of garbage—I know mine was—and you’re given the golden pass. Bars don’t only let you in, they actually make drink specials that entice you to come in. Get the fuck outta here. No way! Believe it. It’s great. You are the king of college. Yea, you wear the motherfucking crown. Then graduation hits. And those years are done. And you’re forced to work in a corporate office. The life is drained out of you. For most people, this only leaves 2 nights a week to be yourself.
It’s cool though. You know where your loyalties lie. You’re not one of those fancy, hipster bar dudes. But you’re pressured into trying them out. They’re fun—hey, I like dancing as much as the next guy, trust me—but they get old. And they get old pretty goddamn fast. You start realizing that these bars with 5 dollar beers need to only be a once in a very long while type thing. Over crowded, loud, filled with losers. Fuck that. Remember, you started this whole thing in the middle of the woods, with nothing but a pair of gloves and your friends. So, trust me when I say this. Those hole in the wall, dive bars that people shy away from because they think they’re too mature for them, they’re where you belong.
Got arrested last Saturday? That’s OK. The Manoa Tavern is up the street. The boss is breathing down your neck? Don’t sweat it. There’s the Bugalow Inn. Girlfriend dumped ya? There are bigger tragedies in life. Besides, you always have a friend in the Milmont. Your mom caught you masturbating? Chin up. Dolan’s is right around the corner. Shit your pants at your desk on Tuesday because you didn’t want to face the embarrassment of getting up to use the bathroom for the 7th time in 6 hours? Please, that’s all? Get yourself to the Secane Station Tavern.
It’s that simple. Don’t think that you’re too good for these places, because let me tell ya something that may put you on your ass: you’re not. Which is why, years down the line, after you’re finished with pretending that you love those bullshit popular bars, you’ll find yourself with 3 kids, a wife, and a mortgage, at the tender age of 45, sitting at that bar, drinking your bourbon whiskey, scotch, and beer, listening to the album Animals by Pink Floyd in its entirety on the jukebox. And your bartender won’t say a blessed thing. Because he was in your seat the night before.
These places aren't just your neighborhood speakeasies. They’re your friends. They’re who you are. Especially if you just spent the last few minutes reading this.
- Bunny Stardust.