Bukowski lives (in Inman Square)

(post in progress)

Strolling up River Street in Cambridge. Thoughts as frozen as exposed hands.

I gaze up at the monotone gray sky. I would have had no idea what time it was, were it not for my freakish biological clock ticking away. Headed to meet a friend at River Gods. He's a recovering alcoholic. I'm a bad influence.

My eye catches the AT&T billboard.

"More bars in more places."

I wonder: a slogan for Boston or a cell-phone company? I filed it away for later contemplation and focus on trying to manipulate a lighter with useless digits.

Arrived at the bar, and as usual it's packed with kitschy bits and pieces that promote a further sense of claustrophobia. I warm up in the light of a battery-operated candle and sit in a vaguely throne-like chair.

My friend arrives and we order silly vegetarian dishes (it's not yet the weekend, my license to be a carnivore is not yet valid; in fact, it's a Wednesday afternoon). Dirty martinis appear. We complain about the service betwixt ourselves, especially considering the low patron-server ratio. He claims we could get better service in another dive bar. I argue that the bar wasn't a dive at all. Several drinks later (with enough brine in our guts to qualify us as sailors), our argument draws attention from other bar-goers. Words are used irresponsibly. Venezuela is called the South American Iraq. Grasps of the English language are challenged. Martini glasses topple, olives rolling across the floor like guillotine leftovers. We are politely asked to close up and exit the premises forthwith.

Anyway, a dive bar. The term, referring to a "disreputable bar" purportedly first appears in publication in America circa 1871. They were so named for the fact bars of ill repute were typically in established in basements.

If the lights are dimmed for a reason other than mood enhancement, consider yourself in a dive.