It’s Just Not the Same…

by Lauren Camhe

As many of you are already aware, my heart sank into an indescribable funk last September when I heard that the Pale Dog Tavern had closed. With no guarantees of re-opening, I still held on tight to the memories of a place where sophistication was a 4-letter word, and where dirty townies checked me out and boosted my self-esteem no matter what maximum-security prison they had just escaped. Even if I lost my cell phone in a sea of cheap vodka and hepatitis, it wouldn’t matter. No one judged at the Pale Dog, because the odds of recollection the next morning were slim to none, and the only proof of existence were the end results of embarrassing text messages, bruises, broken bones, and hideous walks of shame- not to mention the extremely tasteful photo documentation.

Just last Monday, it seemed like someone had finally responded to all of my wishing and hoping. The owners of the Pale Dog were back in town and had relocated to a new spot in Maryland. After convincing my of-age friends to attend what I had assumed would be the underage fiesta of the century, I was pumped for a night of mayhem that, fingers crossed, would top the Pale Dog. When I stumbled off the bus this time, however, things just weren’t the same.

Primarily, the line to get into this imposter of a bar, “O’Kelly’s Irish Pub,” was painful, at best. Never have I felt so violated in front of so many people. I waited 15 minutes in freezing weather as I was assaulted by underclassmen in a crowd that was at an indefinite stalemate. Finally, a bouncer clad head-to-toe in Penn State attire stamped the letters “OK” into my hand, and things were looking up. Little did I know, the night ahead of me would fall volumes short of an OK experience.

I knew it wasn’t just me when I trotted onto the unusually clean floors. What happened to the island-placed bar where bartenders would give you free shots if you made out with the girl next to you? Where was the pinball machine that the slutty girls used as a way to “discretely” perform oral on her pick of the night? Why were 8-foot-tall bouncers manhandling females like chairs on Jerry Springer if they were deemed “too wasted?” Once there was no hope of getting my drunk back, I sulked on my walk to the neighboring McDonald’s in sorrow that paradise had been lost, and the delightfully grimy ways of the Pale Dog Tavern would never recover.

Pale Dog still reins as an unforgettable era of debauchery, good times, and great stories. Despite my undying faith in the Pale Dog Tavern, I still cannot escape the inevitable: All bars that serve alcohol to minors must close, all memories must eventually fade, and all good things must come to an end.

The End of an Era: Pale Dog Tavern (2006-2008)

By Lauren Camhe

It was just your average, run-of-the-mill Saturday night when I heard the news. It is seemingly impossible to fathom that in my three and some-odd years here, I have yet to hear anything quite as devastating. Pale Dog, a Newark superstar, had shut down, and this was no temporary leave of absence; this was permanent. The news hit me the way I would frequently hit the ground when I fell off the stage at the Pale Dog – hard and unannounced.

Many people can say they are a loving, adoring fan of the late, great Pale Dog. But I know I am one of few who can say they are a Pale Dog warrior. From the spring semester of freshman year to the spring semester of junior year, Pale Dog wasn’t just an event – it was top priority for minors everywhere who were eager for a night of unadulterated mayhem, and for those courageous enough to take on and survive a Pale Dog bus trip. Pale Dog was a safe zone for laminated pieces of computer paper chalked with a sharpie and some cleavage; and for many, it was paradise. Now that I am an official Pale Dog veteran, a tear comes to my eye every time I reminisce.

It has been a few days since I found out, and a picture of what looks like it could be an unfinished basement still lingers in my memory. Pale Dog defined much of college for me, and by that, I of course am referring to the generous amount of life-changing events that took place there. This, among many other reasons, was why I needed to be notified of a bus trip at least three weeks in advance. My schedule had to be clear. I would find myself studying days before a test just to witness a night where 17 couples break up, 25 more unexpected couples start hooking up, and everyone, yes, EVERYONE gets ass. And for two years, even if Pale Dog was held on a Tuesday before a huge midterm, you bet I would be there. I never missed a beat.

Everyone lucky enough to experience the Pale Dog Tavern will never forget the smiles on their faces as $2 SoCo-Lime shots flooded the dirty concrete floors while adolescents partied to a master mix of music from “Rent,” and 40 year old Newark natives roamed in search of the easiest teenager to get their blood flowing again. So as I bid farewell to my island of dreams, I only hope that the incoming classes of this academic institution experience something even close to the euphoria and sheer embarrassment that existed and occurred within the muddy walls of the Pale Dog Tavern. Now when I look back, I smile knowing that two of the finest years of my youth were spent there. I laughed, I cried, I was even escorted out unconscious. But no matter how badly my face was scarred, bruised, and imprinted with the official “Pale Dog” hand stamp the morning after, it will always hold a special place in my heart. Rest in peace, Pale Dog – it is truly the end of an era that I wish I remembered in detail.