... that less deserving neighboring bars would continue to operate the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, pumping out shitty drinks to shitty patrons to the same-same thump of shitty, shitty music. Their Bieber drowned out my bar’s Buzzcocks; their junior analyst hordes provided infusions of dumb cash that my spot’s motley but dwindling regulars could never match. Screw those bars for being good at business and lousy at life.
... knowing that while those bars might last ‘til a few days past tomorrow, they sure as hell wouldn’t be around two decades from now. Knowing the generically DJ’d newcomers that helped seal this veteran establishment’s doom would be relatively short-lived and quickly forgotten is a small consolation, but small consolations are better than no consolations.
... that it’s not necessarily those bars’ fault. They opened up after the neighborhood had already transitioned into everything my bygone bar was fighting against, and it’s overly judgmental to call their owners malevolent rather than just realistic. My abiding faith in humanity tells me that soundtracking their Fridays with “Love Yourself” makes them hate themselves, but singalongs mean rounds of shots, and rounds of shots make rent.