In college, I loved a good dive bar.  I loved the unpretentiousness, the grit, the darts, the communal goal of kids getting drunk for cheap.  One of my favorite bars LaMula, appropriately named after the mules housed in the barn-turned-bar, was not the classiest of locales, being with the dirt floor and hay troughs, but the assortment of people that were able to appreciate its unique charm grew to be some of my favorite people in the world. 
This weekend, however, I learned the townie dive bar does not hold the same appeal as those found in a college town.   
It was similar to discovering that the local thrift store is actually comprised of leftovers from a nursing home; the treasure hunt for trendy turns into sifting through stinky trash.  I tried not to judge, tried to give it a shot, but regardless of my searching efforts, all I found was trash.  Broke my little heart.

Luckily, one of the fundamentals stayed constant, and the kids were still able to get drunk for cheap.  Thank God.  Nothing like drinking through awkwardness or ones’ problems.  Eventually, I was drunk enough to optimistically think, hey this isn’t SO bad.  That thought, however, was short-lived.  My fitting-in efforts were officially declared fruitless when we were walking through the parking lot and I was caught respectfully saying “Good Evening, Officer” to the cops patrolling in full riot gear.  Apparently, that is not quite the thing.  I have so much to learn.