Kids Birthdays in Dive Bars
The case for kids parties at authentic dive bars and accepting the love of others on an arbitrary day in May.
Each week, a menu of sorts, around a revolving theme. This week: childhood wonder, acceptance of grace, why we should stop going to kids’ parties, and the many states of my past birthdays.
Ingredient List
🎵 : Some of my favorite songs right now, for whatever reason: “Trouble” by Lindsey Buckingham, “Catacombs” by Krooked Kings, “Deeper Well” by Kacey Musgraves, “I Know Who Holds Tomorrow” by Alison Krauss, “The Next Best American Record,” by Lana Del Rey, “handgun” by Jake Minch, and more
Listen to the playlist on Spotify
📖 : Just finished “The Wager: A Tale of Shipwreck, Murder and Mutiny” by David Grann // Really solid and brutal semi-fictionalized account of a British expedition gone wrong in all the worst ways possible. It’s good to not be living in the early 1700s and I’m glad it’s now common knowledge that limes can cure scurvy.
Currently reading: “A Fever in the Heartland: The Ku Klux Klan's Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them” by Timothy Egan // This book is absolutely bonkers. Never underestimate the power of charlatans and con artists.
Course 1
A Word of Gratitude: Barrel-Aged Rye
This week, my oldest son Rye turned 8 years old. It was a special day to me, because it meant that I could buy him a Cal Ripken, Jr. jersey featuring his freshly hatched age on the back. It’s important to impart greatness from one generation to the next.
Aside from Christmas morning, there is nothing quite as magical as the anticipation and joy that comes from a kid wanting to be older. And as much as I want to go all Billy Madison on him, grabbing him by the shoulders and telling him “stay here, stay as long as you can,” I also love how much he loves his birthday. What’s weird is that, for him, it’s not about the presents or the party*, which I always thought was the point of birthdays. He just wanted to turn eight. That’s it.
That night as I was putting him to bed, I thought about how quickly the day went. How there was so much anticipation and longing and countdowning and yet there it went, just like all the other days. As I was closing his bedroom door, he said to me: “Hey daddy, when I grow up, I want to be an author and an illustrator and I want to go somewhere in the world where nobody has gone and write all about it.”
I told him I loved that, because I did, more than anything. If that’s growing up, I think I’ll allow it. Just promise you’ll take me with you.
And for that I am grateful.
*Okay he was pretty excited about his party this weekend, which we had to cancel because he was sick
Course 2
Appetizer: Maryland Blue Crabs
Birthdays just aren’t my thing. Specifically, my birthday. Partly, it’s because I’m bad at taking compliments; I just feel awkward when I’m given recognition for something. I enjoy the niceties of birthday wishes and Facebook acknowledgements, but I don’t understand why I deserve it.
Regarding my literal date of birth, I contributed nothing– absolutely not a thing!– in determining the day on which I was born. It was an arbitrary day where I mostly just complicated things for my mom, something I continued to do from then until at least the age of 18. Why are we celebrating this moment of randomness?
You can probably guess by now that I’m bad at receiving grace, that all things in life must be transactional in a one-to-one ratio. All debts must be settled evenly, if not immediately, then at some point in the future.
Which his why it’s annoying that the people in my life try and upend this balance, year after year. Who are they to impart such adulation on a day of chance? Yet they persist. They have done everything to celebrate my day of birth, and while I still don’t think I deserve it, I have come to accept it. Whether it was my mom’s dedication to the art of surprise parties, or my wife’s commitment to gather friends for food and drinks, I have always felt loved in those moments.
Do I still think I deserve it? Of course not. I’m always trying to figure out how to pay them back in equal measure. But let me tell you, birthdays and their celebrations creat some indelible toe holds on the wall of life. There is nothing better than a full table of friends at Clavel (Baltimore people know) or the sharp sting of seasoning salt from the first crabs of the season. I can get lost in those moments and forget it’s all about me.
Just don’t bring out a molten lava sundae with 42 candles on it and sing “Happy Birthday” to me in front of the whole restaurant. I can’t handle that kind of attention.
Course 3
The Main: Deep Fried and Second-Hand Smoked
There’s this weird thing that I don’t understand when it comes to kids’ birthday parties these days.
Growing up, whenever I went to a friend’s birthday party or they came to mine, the kids were dropped off, the parents left, the party happened, the parents came back two hours later. These parties were at houses, arcades, movie theaters, and parks.
Sometimes they were at dive bars, like my friend whose parents owned the Bow Creek Inn, an establishment that was neither an inn nor located on a creek. When hipsters talk about dive bars, they don’t mean these type of dive bars. It was the kind of bar that when you walk inside, the speed at which your pupils dilate to the darkness is like a whiplash for the eyes. Point being, the clientele didn’t go there for fun, they went there to drink and smoke their problems away. I know this because that’s where my grandpa went to do those things.
My friend and his parents lived in an apartment above the bar, and there wasn’t really enough room for a birthday party in those quarters. Instead, the party was held in the downstairs bar, in a side room with a weathered accordion door that separated the kids from the drunks. Of course, that didn’t stop my grandpa from coming over and harassing me in front of my friends, Miller High Life on his breath and Winston tar on his fingertips. All-in-all, the party was pretty low key– we got handfuls of quarters to keep the Ms. Pac-Man machine humming, we sang happy birthday to Matt, and we had cake. We probably played baseball outside and threw rocks in the algae-filled pond. When our parents came to pick us up, we reeked of second-hand smoke and deep fryer grease. And we survived. That was just life and it was fine.
But these days, there’s this thing where every parent goes to every party and just… stays there the whole time. It doesn’t matter where the party is held or how enclosed the space is– there are parents everywhere. It has the same vibes as playground parents who follow three steps behind their kid on every piece of equipment. Parents you feel forced to talk to, about the Ravens game last week or next week or where everyone is going for spring break. I’m assuming this behavior falls under the umbrella of the helicopter parenting trend, the rotors of which seem to only be spinning faster. Or maybe my kids are still too young to go solo at a birthday party? Not sure which, because I remember being left alone at parties since the age of five. Even now, I can’t remember any time my parents stayed somewhere after dropping me off.
Maybe it’s a good thing. If we know what’s happening so bad things can’t happen. Our kids aren’t sitting around in a smoke-filled barroom, right? And yet– instead of letting our kids go, we end up occupying the space with adult things that really don’t need to be mixed with kid things. Staying and drinking, because that’s now an expectation at kids’ parties. We’re disappointed if we show up and find it’s just pizza for the kids and no cooler full of Claws. Hell, we even intentionally have them at breweries, which is essentially just putting lipstick on the dive bar pig. At least my grandpa had an accordion door that separated the riff-raff from the kids. Now we just get drunk in front of the kids as they’re opening their presents, and slip out the backdoor to vape weed as the cake is being cut. Like old timers in a dive bar, trying to drink and smoke our problems away, just in broad daylight. I know, because I did those things.
We somehow think we’re so much better, that we’ve come so far.
Have we though?
Maybe once in awhile, it’d be good if our kids were dropped off at a bar filled with fresh second-hand smoke, pockets full of quarters for an old arcade machine, forgetting their parents ever existed.
Course 4
Dessert: Southern Pecan Pie
I had this great streak going on for awhile in my twenties, where it seemed like every year I was in a different state for my birthday. It was in no way intentional, it just happened that way. Minnesota when I was 19, visiting a friend at Carleton College as I headed west on a cross country road trip. Pennsylvania, of course. Florida when I turned 21, buying Smirnoff Ice at a gas station and not getting carded, two totally pointless things, one totally unforgivable. New Jersey, New York, Maryland, Virginia. South Carolina after a show at the New Brookland Tavern, followed by pecan pie and staying up until dawn. A few others that I’ve since forgotten.
I enjoy being home for a birthday, but there is something about a birthday spent somewhere new, strange, partially unknown. Like the year that lies ahead.
End of Menu
Thank you for dining with me this evening, I hope the service was acceptable. Tips (whether monetary or recommendations to others) are appreciated, but not expected.