Clearly I Have No Idea What A Dive Bar Is

You know you’ve said some dumb shit when your tweet racks up 2.3 million views, 160 replies, and only 300 likes. That’s not engagement it’s a public shaming. Last week, I wrote a blog about how I prefer a good dive bar over a club. Seemed harmless enough. But apparently, according to the responses to the “Top 3 Dive Bars in Chicago” list I posted, I have absolutely no idea what a dive bar actually is.

In my mind, a dive bar is simple, the kind of place where the interior is mostly wood, the main bar takes up half the room, and there’s a TouchTunes machine playing whatever song that brings everyone back to the good ole days. That’s the vibe I grew up with. But based on the responses, I couldn't be more wrong if I tried. Everyone is ripping me a new asshole. I’ve been ratioed by almost every reply. It's like I insulted their mother and their favorite bartender in the same breath.

Maybe it’s how I was raised. I’m from South Florida, where if something isn’t a nightclub, it basically counts as a dive bar. My metric has always been if you can hear the person next to you talk without shouting, that’s a dive bar. If the bartender’s got time to chat for more than 30 seconds? Dive bar. And if you can still smoke cigarettes inside? That’s not just a dive bar, that’s the Holy Grail. But according to Twitter, I might as well have listed a Chili’s.

Apparently, a real dive bar is a borderline health code violation. It’s supposed to be dimly lit, with sticky floors, drinks priced like it's 1987, and a jukebox that hasn’t been updated since World War II. If the place has more than one functioning TV or God forbid has windows, you can’t even think about calling it a dive.

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I mean, am I crazy for thinking this place qualified? Look at the vibe, it’s old-school, all wood paneling, a massive bar that dominates the space, and the drinks are cheap enough that you don’t feel like you’re blowing through all your money. But apparently, that just makes it an Irish pub. A nice one, sure, but not a dive.

The list was apparently so bad that Eddie texted me saying it’s the most disappointed he’s been in someone since they moved to Chicago. That’s when you know you fucked up. But to be fair, I’m owning up to it, I clearly don’t know what a Chicago dive bar is. So really, isn’t that on the locals for not showing me the ropes? Instead of roasting the dumbass from South Florida, maybe take him on a proper tour. Show me the sticky-floored, windowless, cash-only shrines to cheap beer and bad decisions. That’s all I’m asking.