This is a love story about urine.

And broken bar stools. And tits. And Germans.

On the exact minute the above picture (see album) was taken — at 4:00 a.m. on Saturday, Oct. 5 — the dirtiest, smelliest, cheapest, loudest, rowdiest, most diverse and GREATEST bar on the Upper West Side officially closed.

Yogi's was my favorite neighborhood haunt not just for what it had (sassy bar maids, $2.75 Miller Lites, a liberal buyback policy) but for what it lacked ... a ceiling. Yeah, it had a roof and all that, but there wasn't a limit to the crazy shit that could happen there at any time on any day.

The place bred stories. And that was fucking cool.

It was where I drank with a porn star, a dishwasher, and a trust-fund millionaire. And I don't mean like over the years. I mean at one time. It was where I met tourists from countless countries, got flashed by bartenders as incentive to not leave (it worked), belted out the words to redneck country tunes, and drank way too much on a too-regular basis with suits, skanks, hippies, degenerates, alkies, perverts, Columbia students, mothers, and the occasional dumb shit who'd order wine.

Like other local businesses, Yogi's will be replaced by luxury condos that'll probably start at $1M for a one-bedroom pad. And one day I hope to meet one of the new residents, to ask if he can feel the ghosts of Yogi's, if he can hear the echoes of Johnny Cash and David Allan Coe and, most importantly, if he can smell the constant film of piss that coated the floor of the most disgusting bathroom I've ever entered (about 2,000 times).

Yogi's Links:

• Yogi's Reviews on Yelp

• Photos: Tuesday Night at Yogi's — These were taken by my friend Kevin while testing out my new camera lens.

• NYCBP.com News — This NYC dive-bar blog will certainly recap the closing-night festivities. (Also check out forums and photos.)