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The Dig has been running outtakes and b-sides from my book. Here's another one today. Go check it out over there.
The Dig presents another outtake from our former A&E editor Luke O’Neil’s tribute to the city’s outstanding shit-holes in the wall, . This time around we visit Corrib Pub in the otherwise civilized neighborhood of Brookline.
Unlike the previously discussed bars Razzy’s and Guido’s, the Corrib is still hanging around, like a bum who even after twenty years on the same street corner mysteriously never seems to age.
As usual Luke looks for details within the bar at hand that also say something about dive bars in general. While these things might not always be pretty–the Corrib’s denim jackets and mustaches, for example– there’s always a sense of fondness and amusement behind Luke’s prose. For better or for worse, the ghost of the dive runs intractably in his blood, and while this may be a threat to Luke’s health, social life, and overall place in society, it makes for some great writing that’ll surely inspire you to take your place among the peeling barstools and cheap pigswill pitchers that litter this famed old town.
Pick up a copy of Luke’s book , or visit your local Newbury comics.
Corrib Pub 201 Harvard St., Brookline. .
The Corrib is part of a chain of three Irish pubs, each with a varying level of “authenticity.” The has been a meeting spot for fresh off the boat types since 1969. Today you’ll see punters kitted up for the match mingling there with the young Brighton population. One great thing about transatlantic soccer times is that it gives people an excuse to drink during the morning in the States. At the Brookline locale, the biggest dive of the bunch (the third is in West Roxbury) the crowd looks like they might have been sitting in these same seats since the late sixties. Read the rest.
Dive bars by their very nature are structural anachronisms, so it’s no coincidence that you’ll usually find an older crowd drinking in them. Old drunks are anachronisms too, sort of like dive bars on two legs. They move around in this world, but they’re not of this time. That’s a pretty good description of the souls you might find haunting this bar and blue plate special restaurant on any given night.
Dives also generally bring about one of two results. Either their lack of pretension helps you to let your guard down just enough so you can get good and hammered, or they just generally make you depressed about the idea of drinking at all. I’m not going to say it was the latter here, but on my way in the ghost of drinking future pulled me aside and gave me a bone-rattling vision of my potential years to come. I’d better change my ways.
I found a friendly Irish barman working the crowd who made me feel a little bit better about drinking here. After years of being served alcohol by legions of moonlighting liberal arts majors with ill-advised tattoos and thimble-deep troves of wisdom it’s nice to be taken into the worn, boozy hands of a grandfatherly type from time to time. A group of old ladies were gossiping over a plate of nachos at one of the bar tables.
The room seems to be making some sort of slouching effort toward charm. There’s a relatively bright sheen to the dark stained wooden bar and walls, and the ornate brass tap fixtures are a nice touch. Shamrock kitsch spruces up the bar mirrors and windows, which is nice I suppose, in case you forgot you were supposed to be in an Irish bar. But any question about the level of sophistication at work here is put to rest by the rogues gallery of woozy types ripping back pints and staring into the unblinking eye of the TV screens lined up behind the bar beaming the soulless bleating of Access Hollywood into our faces. (Volume on the TV on a random network program? Dive 101.)
A sign above the old fashioned cash register announces the date you must have been born on to drink legally. Probably doesn’t get much use here I’m guessing. Denim jackets and mustaches older than I am abound, as do men with the type of deep winter tan that only comes from getting cooked from the inside out rather than the other way around. But the complete absence of anyone under 50 could probably serve as encouragement for kids looking to find their next adopted dives venture. What fresh ironies await! Consider this untapped territory.
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3 comments:
http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/if-we-could-be-boring/
I'm sure you've probably torn shit down like this before....but please go in on this chick
sorry for the randomness of that comment, I hadn't yet read "Stop talking about politics on the internet". I guess talking about persons like this chick is just as bad.
Talking about people like that is what the internet is made for. I could only read a few graphs before I hit the ejector seat. Yeeeeesh.
Young people. Ptsotl
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