If the rest of my life doesn't pan out, my backup plan is to open a dive bar. Not an ironically divey bar, where plaid-shirted types of a certain name - rhymes with tipster - can find their own kind. Nope, the decor will strictly be wagon wheels and promotional beer coasters. There shall be no bourbon cocktails. Actually, if you ask for anything but a rum and coke - even a gin and tonic - you'll be shit out of luck, son. Beer options will include some good ones (Tankhouse) and Molson Export, as a tribute to the bar near one of my Montreal apartments that seemed to only serve Ex. In bottles. With the decor and drinks taken care of, only the question of music and food remains. The food: I may be prevailed upon to offer you pickled eggs, or even stale nachos made in a toaster oven, but only if I like your face. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy sneaking in rotis from down the street when I'm not looking. Music will be a medley of Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn songs, because it isn't a dive bar until you can cry at the bar, shamelessly.
Look forward to Protagitron's, opening in 2014 at a questionable street corner near you!
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