I like bars.

Please see introductory post here.

No, really. I do. I love the ambiance of a cozy Irish pub, or a low-key sports bar. The romance of hunkering down with the newspaper or a magazine and reading, alone, with a beer and a sandwich, is a beautiful thing -- or it can be.

I could go on and on about this subject.

One thing I didn't like about rehab was that I was discouraged from speaking about bars in this wistful manner. I felt like I could not properly mourn the passing of my friend.

Toward the end of my drinking career, I was drinking hard liquor -- usually vodka, but sometimes Jim Beam -- alone, at home, late in the afternoons or early evenings. Bars were sort of in my past, for the most part.

Still, they beckon on occasion. And I have no problem going into bar-restaurants with family or friends for a meal and not drinking, even if they are. No, it's my alone time with my former mistress that I miss. Even if a pub was full of patrons, or if there was a band playing, or half-tanked football fans were screaming at the TV, I could still be alone and awash in the bath of seeming good will and warm lighting that was afforded me by my favorite bars.

I miss them, yes, but it helps a lot to have the education behind me that reminds me that they do not miss me.