It seems that when the Prohibitionistas started running rampant through Canada in the 1920s, one of the philosophical underpinnings of their tedious movement was the notion that abstaining from intoxicating spirits would help people enjoy a higher degree of freedom, and assist them along the road toward more complete individuality.

Did your Bullshit Meter just go off like a midnight banshee? It should have.

The concept is, prima facie, idiotic and reckless. It turns any reasonable definition of “freedom” inside-out and back-asswards.

Simply put, people do not achieve an extra measure, or ascend to some higher level, of freedom by denying themselves access to life’s experiences. Sublimation is closure. Autonomy is born of acceptance. Life is just chock-full of experiences, after all. Our daily existence is defined by how we process and react to the second-by-second torrent of data that comes our way. A satisfying life is one that is lived in full engagement with variety; one that regularly enjoys a few shots with the unexpected and the uncommon; one that hoists its tankard and joins in a jolly toast with Life the Universe and Everything.

Qualifying events and occurances doesn’t broaden life at all. It truncates it. And that’s the polar opposite of freedom.

Yes, some behaviors, some actions and activities, are absolutely to be avoided. Rape, Murder, Child Abuse—come on. Who would advocate shit like that? But I’m not talking about getting your snuggle on with acts where one person damages—to any degree—another person. I’m talking about the things we do that effect us as individuals. And if there is anything more personal than one’s relationship with booze, I haven’t the foggiest what it might be.

Alcoholic intoxication provokes a wide range of responses in each of us, responses which are entirely dependent upon the psychological, sociological, and biological vagaries at-large in each of us, and which are as variable as our reactions to a movie, a sculpture, a Snicker’s bar, or a poke in the eye with a pointy stick. (And I’m not even going to get into the fact that the responses aroused by alcohol vary wildly from one type of alcohol to another—e.g., a tequila drunk differs quite a lot from a rum drunk.)

Cutting yourself off from something as illuminating, sociable, and complex as a booze-born high is the same as amputating a limbic limb; as puncturing your inner authority. It is the philosophical equivalent of performing dental work on yourself with a soldering iron and a Makita screw gun.

Temperance is low-rent fence-sitting. Abstinence is an exercise in delusional self-aggrandizement. And as far as revealing a triptych to freedom, neither does the job.

Anti-alcohol zealots are gaining strength in this country. Groups like M.A.D.D., and their lickspittles in government, will stop at nothing to take away your right to drink. And from the time such people first slithered from their soggy dens, one of their more repellant tactics has been to go after our language and change it around so that it fits with their topsy-turvy ideology.

So, go out and drink, friends. Get drunk. Raise your wrist with pride. And if some teetotaling douche-bag starts mouthing off about how “free” he is because he doesn’t drink, just flash him your best H.R. Drunkenstuff grin—and ignore the silly bastard.

Cheers.

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I won’t name bar in question (mostly because, for reasons that needn’t be rehashed here, I hate them and they hate me) other than to say it pretends to be an Irish pub, and this: it sponsors a running club.

Yes, a running club.

And not one of those cool sort of clubs where you stop every mile or two and shotgun a beer. No, this is an honest-to-Bruce-fucking-Jenner club for people who jog. Just jog; without shame, without fear, and, apparently, without so much as a jot or a tittle of booze. They pop inside the bar for water. Water! And on top of that, they have T-shirts. For real. T-shirts that say “The Blah-Blah Running Cub” or something equally daffy, with a little logo to round out the whole Up With People atmosphere.

What the hell is this? I mean it simply makes no sense. It’s non-Euclidian. It’s like AA sponsoring a shot luge, or the Southern Baptist Convention getting behind “Harvey Milk Day.” The words “running” and “bar” don’t even belong in the same sentence (other than this one, I guess). Bars sponsor darts leagues, pool tournaments, trivia contests, karaoke, motorcycle rallies, and that kind of thing. Gyms sponsor running clubs. I was bitching about this the other night and a guy said my thinking was too conventional. Maybe so, but look at it this way. Do you go to the zoo to see the critters, or to play golf? Do you visit a brothel to rent some rumble-tumble, or play Skeeball?

And another thing: jogging is just stupid all on its lonesome. Running just to run? That’s what hamsters do, and they have a brain roughly the size of a sunflower seed. You ever take a good look at a jogger? They look fucking miserable, man. Loping along, soaked in sweat, with this face like they just swallowed a maggoty turd. And the really serious runners, the marathoners, the 20-mile-a-day dingbats, they barely look like people anymore, with their ropey arms and legs, and their skin baked to that splendid shade of melanoma brown. They look like beef jerky in track shoes.

Who would do such a thing on purpose? I’m running, there had better be a pile of gold or a hot willing lady in front of me, or something with a gun and fangs and a snotty fucking attitude behind. Otherwise, let’s play basketball, or run from a herd of cranky bulls, or make it to the liquor store before it closes. Then, at least, you’re expending lots of energy for a demonstrable purpose.

Now, I realize that, with the economy the way it is, a bar has to address its attractions to stay in the long green, but damn. A bar sponsoring a running club is an affront against the gods. At least the ones who have taken any interest in my wobbly world. I plan to park my truck along one of their jogging routes with several cases of beer on ice. I dunno, just to fuck with ‘em, I guess.

Cheers.

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My favorite is the Sunrise Tavern. As to why it’s my darling among drinking dens, read on.

First off, I just like the way it looks. Walking through the front door, it takes a sec for your eyes to adjust. The lighting is simultaneously muted and illuminating—puddles, really, with delusions of grandeur—where you can see all the important stuff (stools, taps, the path to the head), while the inconsequential (notices of what might happen to anyone who walks on a tab, a white-board listing those poor souls who’ve been 86’d, that table full of corporate types, etc.) remains tastefully beshadowed.

Most of the left-hand wall is filled with bar. Vaguely “L” shaped, it is made of dark, soothing wood, and is fronted by just the right number of stools; by which I mean they aren’t packed so tightly together you are forced into a degree of friendliness with your neighbor that all but necessitates a DNA swap. And the stools themselves are triple-threats: they swivel, they have backs and they have arm rests. Might not sound like such a big whoop, but here’s the thing: backless stools encourage forward leaning—hunkering, to be perfectly blunt—while stools with backs allow for a fuller, more complex, and altogether freer range of motion; important factors if you regularly spend 10 or 12 hours atop one of the things.

As for the rest of the décor, it’s a mixed bag, with red brick behind the bar and painted sheet-rock everyplace else. The walls are dolled up with the usual in-bar advertising, tacked-up where tacking is possible—booze ads, neon, homemade posters pimping local bands, flyers calling your attention to all sorts of goods and services. There are also pieces of, well, let’s call it “real” art—paintings, collages and whatnot—that bear the tell-tale signs of having been created by someone with a learned sense of craft, and who has managed to overcome that sort of I-am-an-ARTIST! angst that seems to infect the minds of too many artists like so many synaptic STDs. In short, the art is sometimes pretty interesting. Even better after you’ve tipped a few. All in all, I would describe the atmosphere at the Sunrise as welcoming.

But, hell, you can say that about a department store. So, onto the serious stuff, the sets-it-apart stuff, the chassis, the mortar, the charred-oak cask, of any bar with designs beyond the ordinary and the mediocre. I’m talking about three things: the booze, the staff, and the crowd.

The sauce selection at the Sunrise has clearly been arrived at with an eye toward giving experienced drinkers a big fat happy. Sure, some of the mid-shelf space is tainted with those asinine flavored tipples that are so much the rage today (they even stock that rancid black-cherry swill Jim Beam has so recently inflicted upon the drinking public), but there is also a perfect storm of real adult liquors, old-school booze that is infused with nothing more or less than the deep affection of a professional distiller.

Now, it’s true that many bars offer a fine array of hooch, but too many of those have bartenders whose mixological skills peak at vodka-tonics and draft pints of PBR. There is a place for such “simple” drinks, of course (I have consumed thousands myself) but seasoned drinkers, we ne plus ultra non-temperates, more often than not pepper our tabs with honest-to-Bacchus cocktails, some of which call for 2, 3, or even—say it ain’t so, Joe!—5 different parts, the assembly of which, in their correct proportions, requires (unless one succumbs to the lamentable recourse of consulting a drinks guide) a pro, an alcohol architect, who possesses surpassing knowledge, mammoth self-confidence, and even a splash of improvisational chutzpa.

The shaker-savants at the Sunrise are uniformly of the upper echelon; every martini a Matisse; every ricky a Raphael; every collins a Cassatt. I’ve tried to stump ‘em a time or two and…yeah. Let’s put it this way: They’d take all of Ben Stein’s money, then, just for a giggle, go upside his head with a half-liter of Pernod.

But anyway… Moving on.

What do you value in a bar crowd? That’s an easy enough matter to tackle, yes? I mean, most of us appreciate the same general shit; general, I should clarify, within the parameters of our individual tribal affiliations. In other words, we tend to like our fellow regulars to share more of our interests than they reject. The folks who frequent the Sunrise are, in the main, clever, well-read, curious and easy going. They know stuff and enjoy learning new stuff, and are usually up for a free-wheeling conversation. Not every single one of them, of course. Like any public gathering place, the Sunrise has its share of troglodytes and fluffy-heads, but they are the exceptions. It’s like this: I look forward to seeing the Sunrise regulars. A few have become close friends.

One of the best things about the Sunrise is that the owners have an absolute grasp of the role entertainment plays in the health and harmony of a superior gin-mill. And not just live entertainment—which, as we’ll see shortly, they provide in spades—but in the full range of socializing diversions important to those patrons who need more than a comfy seat and a cool glass to round out the bar experience. The Sunrise sports 2 dart boards (of the classic cork variety), a pinball machine, a coin-op pool table, a clutch of TVs for football season, and, top of the list, a serious goddamn jukebox. Not one of those internet server jobbies where you can satisfy your every musical whim at the press of a button, but a proper juke, man, filled with music that a human being considered prior to its inclusion. The owners conferred with the staff, as well as a few chosen regulars, and kludged-up a machine that is eclectic, fun and right fucking excellent. You got the Ramones, Coltrane, Devo, Cash, Monk, Pink Floyd, TMBG, Forth Yeer, Stachmo, Lady Day, Social D., Mojo, etc., etc., etc.—a custom-designed musical menu, created by the bar, for the bar. Ever worn a tailored suit? Or tucked into a porterhouse steak that came off the fire tasting exactly like you’d imagined? Or stayed up all night reading a book cuz you can’t wait to find out what happens next? These are the feelings engendered by the Sunrise’s singular jukebox. And, at 4 plays for a buck, it’s a wallet-friendly deal to boot.

On the live side of the amusement coin, the Sunrise regularly presents top-shelf bands and is one of the better live venues in my town. They feature bands most Friday and Saturday nights, and on other random evenings depending on the vagaries of touring schedules and all that. Cooler yet, they are committed to supporting local musicians, providing a place where they can hone their performance skills. The Sunrise favors straight-up rock, gut-bucket electric blues, and punk bands with traditional ‘70s chops. Every so often they’ll bring in a rhythm-and-blues or funky jazz ensemble—skilled players who can cook up a wicked groove and get those toes a-tappin’. Bands always sound good at the Sunrise, too, since the owners dropped the oh-so-necessary dime on a high-end PA, and use sound techs who know their way around a mixing consol. I’m not kidding when I say that some of the best shows I’ve seen happened right there on the Sunrise’s little stage.

And that’s about it, really. My little ode to the Sunrise Tavern—a bar among bars. Sound like a good place to drink a few? I think so.

Which is why I must confess that the Sunrise Tavern is a figment of my imagination. There is no such place. I made it up. I stitched it together like some Dr. Drunkenstein, from the disparate parts of other bars.

I owe a thousand thank-yous to George Orwell for his classic essay “The Moon Under Water,” which appeared in the Evening Standard, February 9th, 1946, and was the inspiration for this little missive. If all you know of Mr. Orwell is 1984 and Animal Farm, do yourself a solid and check out his essays on British pub life. They kick ass.

In conclusion, I do wish there was a Sunrise Tavern in my neighborhood. My kind of place. I’d be a fixture there, like the damn bathroom faucets.

Cheers.

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As professional drinkers we are, of necessity, the arbiters, the village elders if you will, of intoxicated culture, and as such it is beholden upon us to provide guidance to such potentially lost souls, to send them into the world armed not with myths and superstitions, but with facts.

We might approach the problem from any number of directions, but I wish to focus upon the most unaware members of society—kids. Pre-teens. Young-uns. The ones that ain’t got tits and whose balls haven’t dropped. In short: Children.

Take them to the bar. Stand firm against the deluge of moral outrage that could come your way, and do it. Do it a bunch of times, in fact. We’ll get to some specifics in a sec, right after a few short, common-sense caveats.

Caveat One: Barring circumstances which might suggest otherwise, make sure you take your kids to the bar. Dragging random tykes in off the street is a Pandora’s Box waiting to spill its fetid contents all over your life. That, and it’s a little creepy, too.

Caveat Two: Don’t haul the little monsters along on specialty nights. “Implants Drink Free” night, and “Get a Lap-Dance from a Meth-Head” are really not the direction you want to head. Same with “Transsexual Sunday Brunch” and the ever-popular “50% Off to Whoever Can Puke the Most Colors.” Use a little sense. It rarely hurts.

Caveat Three: Other suspect activities include: Strip Beer-Pong, Keg Stands, Beer Bongs (unless the child is over 16), Mosh Pits, Shot Wheels, and any room where Silicone and Bo-Tox are more popular than un-doctored flesh and laugh lines. Avoid bars where the smell of dirty mop water is tolerable only because it masks odors of a far more horrifying sort, as well as those special dives where, when you touch the bar, your hands come back black. I mean really…

And those are my caveats. The MADD Mothers could probably rack up a bunch more, but I really don’t give a crap. I want the opinion of a Mad Mother, I’ll talk to my own, thank-you very much.

So, if you’re ready to schlep your offspring along to your local, here are a few suggestions as to how you can go about it.

Pop by your usual watering hole in the early afternoon. The sun is out, the place isn’t too packed with customers; altogether a more mellow atmosphere. Take a seat at the bar. Get your kid one beside you. Order your standard libation and whatever is appropriate for the child (which largely depends upon your and the bartender’s flexibility). Introduce your little one to the barkeep and to any of the regulars who might be on hand. Give em some quarters for the juke, or to play pinball or Golden Tee. Explain to them what the taps are and how they work, and about the position of the bottles behind the bar—top-shelf, bottom-shelf, etc. Offer a primer on shakers, strainers, garnish, bar mats and the other tools of the drinks trade they are likely to be unfamiliar with. Give em a sip of your beer.

Kids will learn that bars aren’t weird, scary places that adults disappear inside of to engage in mysterious acts. They will come to see that bars are companionable centers of community good cheer; places to have fun, goof around, shoot the shit with friends, and otherwise happily indulge oneself. Taverns have fulfilled this function for centuries, all over the globe.

We need to educate our children instead of shielding them. Prolonging adulthood for 18-21 years as we do in this country doesn’t keep kids from making dumb decisions. It only leaves them unprepared for life’s complexities.

Take your kid to the bar. Call it home-schooling with a real-life bent.

Cheers.

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OK. So I’ve been interested for a lengthy while now in a phenomenon at work in my town’s tavern culture. Over the years, I’ve come to rely on a smallish set of “rules” governing traditional, acceptable, bar behavior, and have attempted to conduct myself accordingly, as often as possible. The “rules” are several, but the one fouling my craw at the moment has to do with the notion of saving one’s seat.

Picture a bar. It is, let’s say, standing room only. The staff is waist-deep in the weeds. And you are sitting solo at the oak, or perhaps with a crony or two at a table, partaking of a tasty tipple, and generally getting jiggy wid it. At some point over the course of the evening, for one reason or another, you are going to vacate your perch—to feed the juke; play pinball; head outside to burn a gasser; enjoy a restorative piddle; whatever.

Now, according to my understanding (arrived at by way of both upbringing and habit), I am allowed to save my place at the table or bar via the simple expedient of placing a napkin or coaster atop my libation. This is, as far as I am concerned, a universal indication, to all and sundry, that I intend to return to my seat, albeit after some indeterminate (though acceptably shortish) few ticks of the ol’ Timex. Yes?

Am I mistaken? Or have I been operating under some sad delusion all this time? I think not, but the fact remains that the napkin/coaster place-saving device has recently failed to act as advertised, somewhere in the neighborhood of 60% of the time. And, as you will soon see, some of those failures are nothing but spectacular.

To whit: a week or ten days ago I was at large in one of my usual hangouts, seated at the bar, hunkering over book and note pad. The joint was, let us say, somewhat jumpin. Not exactly cheek-by-jowl, but also far from desolate. They were having a special on PBR tallboys and I was doing my best to run them shy of as many cans as I could. People continued drifting into the place (mostly for the immanent hold-em tourney), while I drifted the other direction, to enjoy a smoke on the patio.

Now, my space at the bar contained, in addition to a ¾-full can of beer, a note pad, a thick biography on the life of William Shakespeare, a hi-liter, and two pens, and still I paused to plop a coaster atop my PBR prior to vacating my stool.

I was gone for perhaps 5 minutes. Upon my return I discovered that my beer, note pad, thick biography on the life of Shakespeare, hi-liter and two pens, had been shoved 2 positions down the bar, apparently to make room for a brace of Avalanche fans, who seemed to take no immediate notice of my situational rights. And what was most annoying was that there was ample room for them (and their hockey sweaters and backwards-facing ball caps) at the bar without my needing to relocate even a millimeter.

I nodded at the Avs dudes. The one nearest said: “Sorry we moved your shit. But we really like to watch from these chairs.” He indicated his current position. In too good a mood to make a beef, I allowed that it was no biggie and stuffed my nose back inside the whys and wherefores of the Bard of Stratford, and all was bumps-a-daisy for a time.

Then, sometime later, the several cans of PBR sloshing about my interior announced that they required venting and, following the same procedure as before, I ambled off for a free-wheeling few minutes of micturation.

Now. Surely you can see where this is going? Yes, of course you can.

I returned from the men’s’ feeling altogether lighter and with a definite spring in my step, whereupon I found the Avs dudes throatily extolling their team to “play some fucking defense,” and next to them, where I had so previously been ensconced, a pair of small people (not midgets, just small) on the precipice of tucking into a pair of unappetizing red cocktails. Additionally, my stuff had been shoved a further couple of spaces along the oak.

Turning my way, the female member of the Lollipop Guild offered me a prolonged gander at her frighteningly white dentition, and apologized for “stealing” my seat. Again, and I mention this with less rancor than you might imagine, there were at least 3 unoccupied stool tandems those interlopers might’ve called home, without deporting a single occupant. True to my basic nature—and I am, let me assure you, positively awash in the milk of human kindness—I let their rudeness slide.

I mean, shit. I’m a tree, right? I can bend.

Time passed. I became aware of a growing lust for another coffin-nail. By now, the establishment was growing quite full, so I knew, based upon what the evening had revealed thus far, that I was running a risk by leaving my spot. But, one should never allow vague apprehensions to come between himself and an invigorating measure of nicotine, so, after coastering my new PBR, I aimed my feet toward the veranda.

Only to return some few minutes later to find EVERY stool occupied, and my stuff squatting precariously at the end of the bar, sort of wedged under the video-trivia machine. My coaster had vanished, too, which was just odd.

The thief could’ve been any 1 out of 6 or 7 newcomers, but I chose to close my speculations there. Instead, I merely grabbed my belongings and hoofed it to a nearby table, where after polishing off my beer, I packed up, settled my bill, and made like a homing-lush for a different bar.

That bar happened to be the aforementioned 3 Jacks Tavern.

Once through the doors, I deposited my ass on a stool and my research materials on the bar. I ordered a pint of Newcastle and a shot of chilled Beam. When they arrived, I spent a few companionable minutes chatting with the bartender about this and that, and with my neighbors on the current disposition of the Nuggets. Then, feeling restive, I realized the previous horse trough of PBR I’d put away now necessitated a trip to the head. So: coaster on pint, I bee-lined it for the WC.

And, yep (you guessed it, or certainly should have), I returned to find myself yet again dispossessed of a stool. Then again, I thought, searching for a philosophical perspective, how could it possibly have been otherwise?

And then something unexpected happened. My friend Brooke, whom I mentioned at the outset of this mild rant, arrived on the scene and asked if “those guys” had purloined my stool. After I nodded in the affirmative, Brooke approached the miscreants and enlightened them as to their rudeness. She explained the sitch, as only she can, with excessive niceness and professionalism. Her demeanor indicated that she was acquainted with them, which is probably why they immediately offered me an apology, vacated their stools, and bought me a shot of top-shelf whiskey.

And thus do we arrive at the moral of our story. It’s the little things that separate a bar from a fucking great bar. Etiquette, friends. Accept no substitute.

Cheers.

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50 megs of Buk laying down the law, raw and all lyrical-like. Just the thing for a Sunday Night drunk.

Link

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Condition: Lighting the Fuse

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Condition: Plastered

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Condition: Sloshed