Stopped by the Saloon in San Francisco

Dive bar. So important to the underside of our culture. Not the polished pressed wood and Marshall’s art of modern America corporate bar. The Applewood esthetic you see in every conformed American town.

The Saloon is none of that. I went there on a chilly San Francisco night. I went to same place all the poets and singers and writers went, because this place hasn’t changed. Ever.

I ordered a Budweiser because that’s what you order in a place like this. Or a whiskey. Neat. No ice.

I’m looking up at the stage, two mics, SM-58s, a drum kit. Janis Joplin sang up there.

Everybody sang up there.

I walked up Grant Street. Wandering. The chill wraps your bones in San Francisco. This ain't no lalaland.

There's a Harley parked in the street. The Saloon sucks me in.

It’s Tuesday night. Plenty of seats. The bartender mostly ignores me. It’s cold. The door is open. I keep my wool cap pulled down over my ears.

Dive bar perfect. Nothing special. That’s the whole point.

Except the ghosts. They’re painted on the walls. They’re scrubbed into the floor. I place my hands on the bar and feel them.