What makes a dive bar? Some say pulltabs. Or waitresses over 50. Or grizzled regulars bellied up at the bar, who've been there since the doors creaked open for the day. Cheap wood paneling. Meat raffles. A lack of palatable foodstuffs, hipsters, a dance floor or a stage. A moniker that involves the possessive of some old dude's name.

I say it's all of these, and none of these. Like so many things, a dive bar is a place with a certain kind of feeling. Sure, the staff might be cranky, but you feel at home. When you order your Grain Belt Premium or Seven and 7, it doesn't cost you more than four bucks, and often you wind up with two for that price.

No one expects to be entertained by you, and you sure don't expect to be entertained. That's what your liquor is for. All you need is that PBR, Powers and water, or Beam and Coke -- and maybe a friend or two. It doesn't matter where one goes, in any city, village, suburb or township, a dive is a dive and you know it when you walk in and pull up to your own little chunk of Heaven -- a hallowed bar stool or a cracked vinyl booth.

Some have told me I'm nutty for considering this the cream of the crop of Twin Cities dive bars. They say it's not a dive at all, it's just a bar. Psh. Forgive my eye roll and dismissive wave at your foolishness. The CC Club could not represent Twin Cities dive bars any better. This is a city that wholly embraces its punky, hipstery denizens, and the best of our dives should reflect that with aplomb. The CC is a place where the most mod, most metal, most geeky, most crusty and most laissez-faire of us can sit back and enjoy a simple cocktail while in the company of a couple middle-agers at the bar. It's not a fashion show. It's not pretentious. It sure as hell ain't a yacht party. It's the best of our neighborhood bars. It's a Minneapolis stalwart, like First Avenue and the Grain Belt sign. It's hearty, greasy food, good people and a great jukebox. It's just the CC Club, the best dive in town, and it's perfect.

A friend told me that the last time he was at Palmer's, there was nearly a fracas involving a man, a two-by-four and another man's head. This potential incident of major danger was averted, but that doesn't change the fact that Palmer's is the sort of place where a two-by-four-wielding whack job might end up. Located in the venue-rich West Bank area, it's a great place to have a couple before heading over to the Cedar Cultural Center, 400 Bar, Triple Rock or Nomad for their worthwhile shows. The bar at Palmer's is pretty tiny, but they've got a great little patio nestled behind the joint with lots of bench space to squeeze in a big, raucous group of you and your extended.

There is no venue more divey than Big V's. All the employees are your parents' age, the decor is sparse, and they've got a few stale candy bars and some chips to quell your whiskey munchies. The bands that play here are rarely star quality. Throat-searing metal, grungy punk, novelty two- or three-pieces and crunchy jam bands are the nightly draw -- a "draw" that one friend calls "the other bands and grandma" since it is rare that there are more folks than that witnessing on a given night. Because of this, the shows are hit-and-miss, but if you see Mouth Babies, Missile Dick or the Marshall Fucker Band on the bill, head on over for a unique, aurally esoteric treat.

The chandeliers are made of antlers and at least three different taxidermied beasts adorn the walls. The wings are the only ones in town I'm liable to get excited about. The staff is simple, sweet and happy to chat while serving your cold one -- and it's durned cold, too, which can make up for the lack of thrust from the air conditioner on hard-core summer days. Their karaoke nights are always a hoot, with folks drunkenly warbling their way through rock, country and hip-hop hits. The Country Bar is even rumored to be one of the Cities' most popular lesbian destinations.

Something about this place just brings out the crazy in people. The last time I was there, three cops came in to bust up a fight between a flailing skinny white lad and a huge, very laid-back black dude. While the former sputtered and squealed, the latter just shrugged. This was after a physical melee had transpired out front. Once tempers were soothed and the police took off, we left, only to find the sidewalk evenly splattered with blood, five feet in each direction.

Those Greenies don't mess around. The Red Dragon is too Uptown for a cheap drink that tastes like candy, but Tony Jaro's Greenie (and its foofier counterpart, the Pinkie) provides the economical liquor-crack fix patrons are looking for.

Grab a round of N.E. Punch shots (with ice) and play some shuffleboard. Or head out to the big, dark patio and join the fun. Either way, you're going to make friends with someone. The jukebox has an eclectic mix with something for everyone. Friday and Saturday night karaoke is worth a stop, as well.

Mayslack's is a proper saloon, which makes it hard to call it a dive. The bar goes on for miles; long and lean is the establishment. The blood-red pressed tin ceiling hovers gorgeously far above your head, and booths with high backs offer drinking comfort. It's also a place known for its food and its drink specials; the $2.50-for-any-tap-beer deal on Mondays is a crazy good steal since they offer Guinness, Fat Tire, Harp and a couple of Schell's varieties in addition to the more common taps.

St. Paul dives have to meet different criteria than do Minneapolis ones. St. Paul is a little simpler, a little leaner, a little older and a lot more Irish. With its bare-bones bar and handful of high-top tables, Keenan's is the perfect place for a man to unwind after work and grab a drink and a game of pool before heading home to the wife and kids.

Dusty's signature Dago is a stick-to-your-ribs bit of amazing on a cheap little bun. Italian sausage, sweet red peppers, caramelized onions and mozzarella cheese mingle to bring your mouth and belly joy. Their other food is equally crafted with homemade love, and you just might be lucky enough to get to chat with Dawn, the sweetest no-bull barmaid I ever did meet.

This dive is as "neighborhood" as it gets. Just down the road from Mayslack's, it's cozy and comfy and the sort of place where you'll probably end up on a first-name basis with the staff and regulars after just a couple visits. And, no lie, if you're hungry, you can order a TV dinner in either chicken or beef varieties.

They like a little bingo here with their wood paneling and pulltabs. Before 10 p.m., this crowd is mostly white-haired or dangerously close to it. It's the sort of dive I'm just about sure my grandma did some country line dancing in while wearing a daring red number in the early '90s. In fact, I saw one lady who could have been her: silvered hair up in a French twist with a white flower in it, a perfect match for her sexy white summer dress.