The Last Night at Pinkie Masters

Our recent trip to Savannah gave me the chance to visit, and maybe for the last time, the greatest dive bar of all time: Pinkie Masters.  Brenda and I first discovered Pinkie Masters years ago, and then introduced our great friend Dave Kelley to it (or maybe it's the other way around, I'm not certain any more).  Anyway, it is an amazing dive bar, and I dragooned my son and my sister Beth's friend Alex into paying it a visit.  We managed to show up on the last night before they were going to move to a more central location downtown.  I'm at the point in my life when I talk about things like "my last car" or "my last dog" or the "last time I go to Jordan."  Maybe this is my last dive bar, and, if that's the case, what a dive bar.  It's a little sad that they are moving, although maybe they'll beat the odds and maintain their odd charm.  Of course, I'm not the one who had to deal with those terrible benches in the booths that doubtless send countless customers crashing to the floor every year.  I guess it relates to my general Proustian discussion this year because we always want to maintain certain memories in amber, even if that limits someone else's life. Of course, I shouldn't romanticize it to much.  I was up front at the bar grabbing three Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys, and reflecting on Frank from Blue Velvet, when this guy in front of me says, "I wish there were some Muslims here tonight so I could cut off their heads." Despite my legendary temper I've never hit anyone in my entire life.  However, at that moment I was so tempted to haul off and cold cock him, and then drop the mike and walk out.  Now, that would have been a legendary way to close down the bar (although I suspect that would just be a random Tuesday at Pinkie Masters).

What I wouldn't give for that street sign.  They used to have an autographed picture of George Wallace on the college boxing team at the University of Alabama; I'm sure that was nicked years ago.

My sister Beth's friend Alex and my son Gary.  I was so happy to introduce Gary to Pinkie Masters. Nothing like PBR tall boys and good friends.

And, truthfully, what could be better than a bar with an autographed picture of Huntz Hall.  I can so clearly remember watching Bowery Boys movies while growing up, which were "moider."

Yes, the genuine inappropriateness of the true dive bar.

The crowd scene on the last night, including the painting of the nude woman which has been hanging on for who knows how many years.

And this picture says it all.  Somehow I feel that it will sadly not be the same bar when it's located over next to the tourist hub, although doubtless they'll sell a lot more t-shirts (and, by the way, I do wear an XL if you're considering my Christmas gift).