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December
27, 2005. The bar right across the street is ramshackle and firmly rooted in this neighborhood. It's got brick, and high small windows through which light from inside dimly shines. There is diamond-patterned meshing over the lower windows, which are dressed modestly with neon beer signs. The bar doesn't appear to have a name. It's just got the requisite hanging beer plaque right over the door on the corner, beckoning people in for a cheap drink. I've never been inside. There's a Christmas tree in the window on the busy street side of the joint, and maybe it was just the air of the early evening and a sense of settling deep in my chest, right behind my sternum, but those lights never seemed so tackily comforting as they did tonight. Bright neon of beer, little round sparkly of string bulbs. Red and blue and yellow, thickly slathered paint daubs of brightness against this canvas. The door is usually propped open, even on a chilly night like tonight. They must get free heat. Those blue collar guys perched at the bar and the few booths along the wall can't be generating too many calories of heat. None of them seem twitchy enough. Everything in there seems cluttered and ordered and dusty and just good enough for a pint or two after a really long day. The bar is a beacon of normal and comfort. It is imperfect and square and warmly-lit from within. go
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