Goodnight, Pourhouse Dinkytown. We hardly knew ye.
In point of fact, I did not know ye at all. Not once did I visit you in your ten short months of life, not at the gleeful moment your parents flung open your doors in November of 2017, nor at your final boozy gasp this morning. The news put me in the lamentable position of feeling badly about not visiting a chain bar in the heart of college town.
I'm 32 years old, Pourhouse Dinkytown! Think of me, cozying up to your bar, riding side-saddle and ordering one of your specials -- were they two-for-ones? God help us, three-for-ones? -- and trying to make chit-chat with the coeds.
Neither of us would have wanted that.
Still, you were there and now you're not. We must all come to grips with what that means about space and time and the brief existence of a real, physical entity. You were real! Even if I never set foot inside your threshold, you were there.
Where does energy go when something dies? Do you believe in reincarnation, Pourhouse Dinkytown?
Of course you must. You remember the Library Bar, that which came before you, a launchpad from which you soared into the stratosphere, bright and fast like a shooting star, before burning out just as quickly. Now the walls, once yours, are empty again, a husk of memories, an open slate of possibility. Fall is here. Leaves have begun to tumble from trees, sailing back to the earth from which they came, like so many golden ales poured out on the sticky floor.
Goodnight, Pourhouse Dinkytown. Goodnight.
[Ed. note: The Pourhouse Downtown and Pourhouse Uptown locations are still open for business.]