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Cherry Tavern is so
dark and integrated into the fabric of the surrounding buildings that
it feels more like an annex of the huge complex of projects across
the street than the dive bar that it is. Perhaps because it's cast
in the shadow of one of the monstrosities that fronts 1st Ave and
abuts E 6th, that the Cherry Tavern had a palpable feeling of underdog
about it. It's like the broken down shack sitting on the craggy hill
overlooking the shining city of gold, a remnant of a time gone by,
and an honest to goodness dive. Playing pool by the failing light
of the murky jukebox and imbibing domestic pilsner by the schooner
full (as if this joint would be classy enough to pitch in for anything
beyond a crate of cut-rate pint glasses) is at once depressing and
exhilarating all at the same time. The red vinyl-topped stools, wood
paneling and vague stink of rotting somethingorother may seem like
it would pair well with a sprinkling of shotgunned brains and a lilting
note stained with quick tears, but instead they invite the free spirit
within that shouts "now this is a place in which I wouldn't mind puking!"
My evening here didn't end in any gory self-loathing (or even projectile
retribution) but I can certainly say that I left with a newfound respect
for my own tolerance for a good time. [MF]
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