This month I've sampled some of Pittsburgh's sleaziest bars, like an Entemann's chocolate box. In today's gold doily is Rigg's, where all three of the other patrons are over fifty. The wallpaper's flocked and intricately patterned in a style ironically appropriated by more self-conscious bars. The lampshades are red and the macabre nightly news is loud, presumably to accommodate middle aged ears.
Last time I came in here to buy a six pack the soundtrack was "In my Room" by the Beach Boys and the patrons stared in a way that loudly declared me an Outsider.
You've gotta go inside to check this stuff out. The place could have a creme de menthe or cherry filling.
Offputtingly high prices ($3 a Yuengling) for how crappy Rigg's shapes up to be. I've been told there are neighborhood laws that preclude the sale of dollar beers to keep an unsavory element out of the area. This is the kind of jurisprudence that drives me into the arms of anarchist ideology, or worse, supporting my local militia. Let the invisible hand regulate the market; Let it unscrew the cap from the cold bottle of life at its leisure.
Half way into the trip my fellow drinkers start flinging change across the bar into glass receptacles. The weather's on now, calling for snow today and Saturday. One woman recounts the fun they had last year going on a snowmobile bar crawl. A lady in a puffy coat buying a pair of pounders asks if the bar will be open on Christmas. The barkeeper, an ancient woman with a beak-like nose, confirms that indeed, it will.