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Thursday
February 14, 2019 |
![site index [Picture of
the Day logo]](../cammicro.gif)
| i found some stale
cigarettes in overcoat pocket left over from a
wild night with andy
singer in december. i needed a light and
figured i could bum some matches at a bar and the
Locust looked promising, the kind of place bukowski
might have frequented when he
lived here in the 1940's and the inside looked and
smelled as if it hadn't been upgraded since. i
ordered a yuengling, the local swill,
and asked for matches. the 'tender gave me a plain
white book with six left in it. good enough. i'd
step outside for a smoke after a few more sips,
meantime i looked around, asking myself what are the
signs of a good dive bar? the yellowed drop ceiling,
for sure, and… ashtrays? they were empty but
looked used. i surmised they were props to give the joint atmosphere, or
maybe a protest of sorts? "can i… smoke in
here?" the bartender gave me a look, like maybe i
was simple. "of course!" turns out philly has a few dozen smoking bars,
exceptions to the general rule, and i just
happened to stumble into one. i texted excitedly to
my
smoker friends back in Seattle. i
could have stayed longer but wanted to wander,
so i set out again with nowhere to go and all day to
get there, a sensation i haven't felt in a city
since forever. i turned off my phone so i wouldn't
get distracted or peek at a map, soaked
up the sights, meandered
intuitively, and down by the river randomly
stepped into another
smokin' old school establishment... |
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