A Bar Called Heaven
Where I earned and lost my wings
I drank in a Grateful Dead Bar. I was only a casual fan of the Grateful Dead, but a big fan of neighborhood bars.
The bar was decorated with Grateful Dead iconography and played the easy rock music that made the Dead so beloved by stoners. A person could shoot pool, throw darts, play pinball, and eat bar food. I did all of those things. I met my friends there. And while doing all that, I drank beer.
Lots and lots of beer.
My bar may have been a Dead bar, but it was best described by the Talking Heads:
Everyone is trying to get to the bar
The name of the bar, the bar is called Heaven
For me and the others in my bar family, that Grateful Dead bar was heaven. The gates to that Heaven were not pearly, but when I walked through the door, my earthly burdens fell away. I grew wings.
For a few hours.
My friends and I were on the journey to late-stage alcoholism, leaving lost jobs and broken families in our wake. The more serious those losses became, the more I needed heaven. In Heaven, I was forgiven for what I had done. My friends assured me I hadn’t been a good fit for that job anyway. My divorce was a…
