The Boardwalk, Orangevale, CA
One Friday night back in ought one, my friend and I found ourselves in the arse of the Sacramento area, en route to a punk show. My friend wore shorts, sandals and a printed white t-shirt and I had my pony tail and work boots. Total physics nerds we were and we certainly had made no effort to portray ourselves as punks. As we approached the place from the street we noticed an unusual amount of activity surrounding the place: cars parked with their headlights on and packs of unruly punks strutting around, amped from horseplay. We parked, got out and a trail beer cans and cigarette butts led us to the entrance. A sign on the door proclaimed a two-dollar cover but the doorman was nowhere to be found so, after waiting a couple minutes, we timidly crept on in. The place was tiny and packed with moshing jack-assess dawning spiked jackets with homemade Dead Kennedys patches (truly punk rock). A steel pillar resided directly in front of the center of the stage. Every so often some careless mosher would forget and face plant into it. My friend and I didn’t bother with drinks. We knew we wouldn’t be staying there long enough to down them. A couple songs into the set, one punk and his gang confronted this other punk and hauled him outside. My friend and I turned and looked at each other and, without saying a word, quickly escaped back to the car. The next day I found an online review of the place that declared “bar fights are good for the soul.” I guess. Never been back there.
Chin Yen, Portland, OR
There we were, 2pm on a sunny Saturday afternoon, sitting in the back, among a cache of MegaTouch, Golden Tee and Big Game Hunter video entertainment machines, waiting for our friend Arc to join us. He insisted we meet him there because the place (allegedly) poured the stiffest drinks in town. If anti-charm exists, this place embodied it fully. Our eyes watered from all of the smoke that had collected during the hour or so the place had been open that day. Sitting at the counter, a long line of dregs (belonging to a long line of cigarettes) moaned about their lot in life. Finally, we see Arc approaching from outside. The bar keep quickly shut off the jukebox and scrambled over to the CD player. She cut off AC/DC (or whatever was playing that was stereotypically dive bar) and put on the Doobie Brothers’ cheerful What a Fool Believes. The dregs shook their heads as Michael McDonald bellowed. We were all heavy into Yacht Rock at the time so this particular selection could only have meant Arc had charmed the bar tender into carrying out this entrance ritual for him. He sauntered in, found his drink(s) waiting, and quickly asked us what we thought of the place. I said that I’ve been to worse (see above).
Earl’s on the Ave., Seattle, WA
Despite repeated invites from my friends and classmates, I’ve never gone to this bar. At some point, I made a pact with myself that I would never frequent a drinking establishment with goat wire over the windows. Anyway, one Friday night a few weeks ago I found myself walking up the Av at around 11pm or so. I had just gotten out of the lab all frazzled and out of sorts. I come up to a uniformed paramedic standing idle on the sidewalk. Not thinking much of it, I glimpse at his and his partner’s ambulance parked along the street. Dude nodded and said “what’s up” as I walked past. A few steps later it hits me. The paramedics had positioned themselves directly across the street from Earl’s. They hadn’t been called there. They were waiting for whatever bar induced injury and/or poisoning that would undoubtedly occur later that night. Now I’ve certainly been to my fair share of drinking establishments; I’ve never been to one with resident paramedics. That’s fucked.
Lake City Bar & Grill, Seattle (Lake City), WA
Late one dark and stormy Wednesday night I drove past my apartment in search of a quick drink. Still charged from band practice, I knew I couldn’t sleep for at least an hour or so. I had not yet frequented any bars in the area so I had only my intuition to guide me. Also, walking distance was on my mind, if me and the prospective place were to actually hit it off. Driving up about ten blocks I spot the above-mentioned. In comparison to other joints along Lake City Way, at least this place maintained its tall neon sign, so I reasoned it should be alright. I sat at the counter, ordered my drink and stared into space. “Not from around here are ya?” the bartender quipped. I said “well no, I just moved here from the U-district.” She outstretched her arms, waved them about and said “welcome.” She asked why I moved and I told her for many reasons, one being my old bedroom wall served as the urinal for U-district vagrants. She told me that the attic of her place was home to all of the neighborhood crows and pigeons. As we talked, the two other woman at the bar swapped stories about the domestic abuse they had each endured. It was good times for about twenty minutes or so. Then, in staggers Big Red and his solicited date for the night. The bartender suddenly cringed and yelled “You guys are shit-faced, I can’t serve you. Get the fuck out of here!” Turning back to me she said calmly “I’m sorry, he’s been thrown out by all the other bartenders. He only comes in tonight because he knows I’m a softy.” Big Red stumbled onto a stool and yelled “I want a Bud. Tell the owner that Big Red is here.” Then he pulled out of his pants pockets some wadded up lingerie and hollered “Look what I bought for ya’ honey.” My stomach churned. I asked for my check. As I made my escape, the bartender cried out to me “Hey wait! Come back! I work Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays.” I smiled, nodded and exited. Walking to my car I felt like I had just watched an episode of Cops.
