An Ode to the Local Pub

My family can count themselves among the multitude of the merchants of death; they represent those of the alcohol battalion. My grandfather owns a pub that my mother, my uncle, my late-aunt, and myself work at, and it's a source of pride (and sometimes irritation) for me. My grandfather built his pub with the help of his friend Leo, a businessman who knew everyone in Detroit and was an owner of bars and seedy establishments himself. My grandfather really just wanted a place to drink with his bar buddies of the day, and for more than thirty-five years it has been doing just that.

Alas, all good things must come to pass, and this year will be the last year it will see its doors opened, at least under our banner. After my grandfather's own health problems and the untimely death of my aunt, we've all decided it would be best if it would go so that it's no longer the sinkhole it has become for us. It's not all woes though, because I have so many good memories of that bar. I've met Santa Claus there more times than anywhere else. I practically grew up in that bar. I bonded with my grandfather there. Those with an aversion to drinking or to bars won't really understand, but this is part of my culture. My brother and I caused enough calls from concerned parents about why our mother was taking us to a bar (though in its defense, its legally a restaurant and should be called, and is, a pub).

I got to know a lot of wonderful people through the place, and there were times when it was the only place I could really find any stimulating conversation. There truly is nothing like the local pub. When I was in Ireland, I checked out some of the trendier bars, but they couldn't compare to the local pubs I frequented up and down the land. I'm not the only one who feels this way about the spirit of the local pubs. Bruce Burrows of Modern Drunkard Magazine explored this spirit and wrote a wonderful article about it back in 2004.

Some gems:

"With the possible exception of the right to bear arms, the philosophies and rights laid out by the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence are best represented here. Under low light and neon signs, in the mumbled conversations during the one-hand lean at the urinal, what America was and should be is preserved

[...]

A good local bar tolerates nearly everything except intolerance of intolerance, as it were. Who killed Kennedy, why you should never see a doctor, the oil company’s conspiracy against hemp, what to drink for your sour stomach from the night before, why it’s better to smoke menthols instead of regular cigarettes. Go ahead, rant and pontificate; demagogues, revolutionaries, politicians, philosophers, welcome one and all.

[...]

Most important and peculiar to your neighborhood tavern is this fundamental precept of our history. Your past, your income, your social standing does not pass these doors. This is where janitors talk comfortably with vice presidents, where a District Attorney and the man he put away buy each other drinks. A man condemned to insignificance outside these walls can demonstrate Socratic wisdom in this sanctuary. If you plan to make a million dollars by the time you’re 25, great. If you work just enough to buy the next day’s drinks, we don’t care. In here our collective achievements and failures merge into a single shared understanding of why we are here."

It's true, and if you want to see a pluralistic America where people of all backgrounds come together, it can often be found in a local pub. It's the only place where I've seen businessmen, labor activists, church-goers, atheists, liberals, conservatives, libertarians, socialists, native-born citizens, immigrants, whites, blacks, Asians, Hispanics, and name whatever group you like, have come and all been tolerated. You can't say the same for college, business, or politics, at least not in my experience.