Jack and I went to a real dive of a spot in Barre last night. We’ve been looking for a place between us that’d work, and this is it. The drinks are cheap, and it looks like some combination of a sci-fi dystopia on the outskirts of a mining town, and just a regular ol’ bar on the outskirts of a mining town, you know, in reality. 

There was a lady named Carol who told us about her 6’7” son’s drug problems and her job as a highschool teacher. She also told us a number of dirty Disney jokes. She talked a lot. 

She asked what I did for work, and I explained “marketing,” she was surprised based on how I was dressed. I was wearing high-waisted corduroy trousers from France and my denim Jacket from Japan. Very much hipster-ware. Hipster enough that I thought it was quite obvious. Hipster enough that to not be thought of as hipster, that bar must not see any hipsters at all. 

So I think there are two sorts of bars. Sorts of bars where dweebs like me are rightfully called out as hipster losers who spend too much money on clothes, and bars where dweebs like me are mistaken for decent, hardworking fellows. 

I think we’ll be going back to the Summer Street pub next week.