Free I'm Only Here for the WiFi by Chelsea Fagan Page B

Springsteen, as if by divine mandate), to the women who crowd the ½-square-inch of bathroom mirror that’s not yet covered with graffiti to fix their clown makeup, to every surface being dirty, wet, or some unsettling combination of the two—I just don’t like it. Add to this the fact that I consistently feel the need to “dress up” when I go out—for myself more than anyone else—and I’m usually left wearing a cardigan and knee-length dress in the middle of a sweaty dance floor at midnight, and it’s just really not my scene.
    That being said, I am also profoundly cheap, as are many of my friends. Because of this—our near-allergic aversion to payingmore than $5 a cocktail—I often find myself in such environments every single week. And I must say that, in all seriousness, the honesty and affordability of said bars are much appreciated, even if the aesthetic isn’t exactly mine. Especially for a group of friends who are, shall we say, diverse on the income spectrum, it presents the best combination of being able to get vomit-y drunk and still not feel as if you’re putting anyone out. Provided, of course, that you manage to grab a table early, watch over your belongings like a hawk, and stab your way to the front of the line at the bar/bathrooms, you can have yourself an incredible night.
    Unfortunately, though, the entire concept of a dive bar has started to change its form in big cities, notably in cultural hot spots. What was once charming because of the owner’s complete lack of care for the upkeep of the establishment has now become a symbol of cool disaffection. It used to be kind of fun reading the various graffiti argue with each other in the bathroom stall as you pitied the girl next to you heaving what was clearly three days’ worth of food into her toilet, given that the drinks you would get when you left the bathroom would be a third the price of anywhere else. Now, “cool” bars that strive for some kind of “youthful, carefree”—let’s be honest, “hipster”—appeal leave their building in the same state of disarray, but continue to charge $10 for a gin and tonic. The dive bar aesthetic—or rather, its distinct lack of one—has been co-opted and transformed into just another strain of douche.
    It’s arguable that the faux-dive is the worst choice you can make when hitting the town. It generally turns out to be the worst of all worlds between the outrageous prices, the crowd of twenty-five-year-old guys named Noah who are DJ/graphic designers, and the ambience that, even though this place isn’t actually supposed to be cool, you’re still not cool enough for it. The faux-dive is the bastion of the false, affected hipster aesthetic and—despite this word being generally overused into meaninglessness—represents all that is terrible about the idea.
    While a genuine dive bar is not that hard to find if you really scour a city or a smaller town—and the prices will still be more than reasonable—it’s getting to be a much rarer find. Neighborhoods are gentrified into oblivion if you leave them alone for more than ten minutes, and what was once a cool place to get stepped on while you screamed over $2 well drinks is now a place that you still have to walk through an underground cave to get to, but will now be filled with all the people you try to avoid when you’re working at the coffee shop.
    It seems that the dive bar is a quickly fading option.
The Club/Lounge: Hey, Girl, Wanna Sit at Our Table?
    Has there ever been a double-edged sword quite as sharp as a hot lounge on a Friday night? It’s this sort of ethereal place where the people are good-looking, the drinks have sentence-long names, and the lights are ice blue or brothel red—never in between. And yet, despite all its attention to aesthetic and cool, there are few places that make you feel like more of a