Memoirs of a Geezer!
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: The Drinking Culture!... or, maybe... "Pickles" at the Gate!
The tavern’s name was a small mystery that, long before, may have had something to do with its location or address (but of no relevance at the time!), perhaps the number of drunkards thrown out and banned for life?! No one really knew, and there was no one in the place who had the answer, nor was there an obvious clue to provide one on its walls or from those wobbling on its vinyl-padded stools.
“Hey,” said Arnold, at some point coming round to the patrons' side of the bar to prop up a drunkard, then turning his quizzical gaze to me, “Why’s there a puddle under your foot?” The “Hair” finally showed up, wearing a sheepish and apologetic grin.
"We've missed the whole damn first period," I complained. "Why so late?! What if we missed Claudie DuFour catching a puck in his mouth?!"
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During my days living in the Seattle, Washington area, my friend and fellow beverage host, Leonard, was frequently assaulted by his estranged wife, Mavis. She'd sit at the bar, become extravagantly inebriated and then pelt him with the lemons he'd just cored. She often grabbed him by his tie and punched his face. Poor beleaguered Leonard. Such elegant times! The boozing life at its zenith, its finest! Leonard disappeared after Mavis drove into the plate glass window at his last-known saloon job. As if it were a regular occurrence -- glass shards cascading onto the hood, twinkling like cheap baubles -- she calmly got out of her car, entered the joint and bombarded Leonard with lemons! (We don't know how she found him! But I believe at that point Leonard had already begun to wear clip-on neckties! Mavis was furious! No one's heard from Leonard since 1973!)
“Where the hell's ‘Lare the Hair' ?” I bellowed within the private confines of my skull, silent rage and impatience growing inside my brain like a bulbous nodule of fatty tissue, my face a plate of purple beets. I was seething. He was seriously late. I hated to be anything but on time for a Seattle Totems hockey match, though they were doing poorly in the 1970 season.
Didn’t matter. I was hooked; we were both hooked on the "Totes." “So where the hell is he?” I asked aloud to Arnold, the bartender on duty at The 400 Club. Arnold shrugged. He murmured, "Huh?"
The tavern’s name was a small mystery that, long before, may have had something to do with its location or address (but of no relevance at the time!), perhaps the number of drunkards thrown out and banned for life?! No one really knew, and there was no one in the place who had the answer, nor was there an obvious clue to provide one on its walls or from those wobbling on its vinyl-padded stools.
I dumped down a couple more bottles of Rainier beer, paced nervously, played the punch boards. At some point in the anxious and impatient waiting game, I walked to the men’s room where a smallish, high window was the only “periscope” through which to view the tavern’s parking lot. I climbed onto the commode, the sole elevation from which to see the lot and its contents, searching for Lare’s “midnight blue” Pontiac. I slipped off the rim of the bowl, my right foot twisting badly as it and I fell into the bowl, plunging into the cold water of the toilet. I hollered in agony.
I hoped no one in the crowded bar had heard my pitiful screech of pain, something like the ear-piecing cry of a particular owl -- so named for its strident sound -- streaking from its perch in pursuit of a hapless rodent. I hobbled to the bar. “Arnold, gimme a bottle of Olympia this time. I feel like I fell off a precipice. I got a ‘soaker’ when I hit bottom.” Arnold was unlike the stereotypical bartender. He lacked the quality of attentive listening!
“Hey,” said Arnold, at some point coming round to the patrons' side of the bar to prop up a drunkard, then turning his quizzical gaze to me, “Why’s there a puddle under your foot?” The “Hair” finally showed up, wearing a sheepish and apologetic grin. "We've missed the whole damn first period," I complained. "Why so late?! What if we missed Claudie DuFour catching a puck in his mouth?!"
*******************************
My own dear father collected them! Saloons, taverns, bars, gin joints, whatever one's preferred nomenclature might be! He had a catalog of them, his favorites and those of secondary appeal, given what they charged for a large beer (the chaser!) and a shot of brandy, and whether or not they had a cribbage board. As I look back in time from the high mountains of wizened geezerhood -- soberly these days -- I freely admit I inherited his fondness for them. I had my own collection! Sometimes when I'm daydreaming in my office -- on extremely rare occasions, of course! -- I recall certain brilliant episodes of tavern life, glorious
memories of the Boozing Culture!
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| "Yeah, that's the ticket! Back me up Five Deep! Hey, where are my shots?" |
There's a village in the "Lakes Country" west of our major metropolis. Okauchee -- with its nearby waters of the same name -- boasted, like so many small towns in Wisconsin, a saloon for every 10 residents, or so it seemed! Westphal's was our favorite. Always the joint resounded with brilliant conversation, and equally brilliant patrons.
"Hey, Stinky, what's it again you do fer work?"
"Hey, Stinky, what's it again you do fer work?"
"I'm a drunkard."
"Is the pay any good?"
"Yo, Durwood, I like that sweater. Argyle comes alive on youse! I could, maybe, sometime borrow it, if I ever, like, have a date??!"
"Anybody got any dope to sell? What?... I'm talking too loud?!"
"Hey Bry! Why must I always pay for my drinks? Am I not your duly-invited guest here? I mean, when you come to my house for cocktails, social and cultural interaction, do I ask you to pay for your drinks?"
University life! Just like scenes from The Student Prince, eh?! The Ardmore, The Gym, The Vogue... Such sophistication! Entire mornings and afternoons spent in glorious intoxication. "Hey, you through with classes for the day already?"
"What?... Oh, uh... I must check my schedule... What time's Epistemology?"
My great friend, Pat, and I used to perform grand "hook-a-thons," meaning road trips on which we'd try to stop at every saloon we almost passed. Wonderful times, I think?? Prior to enlisting in the military he and I secured a case of cheap beer -- in quart bottles, 6 for each of us -- and consumed the entire ocean of suds at a drive-in movie theater. Police arrived at 2:30AM, roused us from our peaceful if unconscious state and hauled us to the town jail, and there we remained incarcerated until a parent came to spring us. Brilliant! Oh yeah, and "flaming shots," particularly memorable at two different joints on Burleigh Street; often I resembled "Beppo the Human Torch" -- a brightly illuminated by-product of those highly intelligent episodes, hair and whiskers gorgeously ablaze!
There's a two-pronged point to all this nonsense! (At least I think there is?!):
1.) In the "drinking culture" -- the local bar as poor persons' club -- we hang with kindred souls, some tortured, some merely perpetually drunk, we regard ourselves and our companions as terribly amusing, wonderfully funny! Aren't we? Are we merely forcing laughter and trying too hard to entertain and be entertained, to forget, to blend in, or to "be somebody"!
2.) When we've either quit entirely or cut way down on our consumption of alcoholic spirits, are we permitted to look back on those earlier times of life and recall them with laughter, with actual joy in our hearts, as cherished events worth remembering?
How the hell would I know? On the other foot, Sure! Why not?! I mean, I think we can't simply ignore or try to forget our days of magnificent inebriation, when we were stein-hoisting, falling-down members of the Drinking Set! That was simply us, or that was me, in a different sphere of consciousness, in younger times, in a previous "compartment" of life's richly eclectic trajectory! Aint it? Sure, they may not have been our finest hours, but they helped to mold us into who and what we are today, to construct and form our characters, to solidify and validate our attitudes and values! (True! Some of us never actually make the transition... !)
Oh yeah, one more bright memory in the great panoply of boozing adventures... Red Top, Muskie Don and I succeeded in being thrown out of Hooligans Super Bar, that was before it became gentrified! It was a beautifully planned affair. We were running drunk until it got yellow out, went to an all-night market and bought a half-gallon of Tutti-Frutti ice cream. We offered the frozen confection to Hooligan's early-morning opening bartender, and ordered him to make us each a cream drink. We decided to call our creation a "Tutti-Frutti Pink Gin Sissy." "Oh yeah," one of us insisted, "Don't forget the paper umbrellas and the fruity-tooty garnish!"
"Get the hell out of here now," the bartender bellowed, as he reached for his Louisville Slugger, his red-blotched eyes blazing with ire!! We stumbled out, but with exemplary dignity!!
A couple of concluding thoughts! I have to state quite honestly, we truly enjoyed the Drinking Life while it lasted. It was our inheritance, in a manner of speaking. SweetHeart has often said, "Alcohol abuse doesn't run in our families, it gallops," borrowing a line from a famous movie comedy. Just as honestly, having now parted company from strong drink, we find our lives happier, more manageable and, in a sense, more secure in many different ways. We have no intention, here, of denigrating the Drinking Set and those who do imbibe alcoholic beverages. It's just not for us at this juncture. Many if not most of our
frequent companions drink. No problem for them, nor for us... it's just a different beverage choice, and almost always in sensible moderation.
So raise your glasses, friends and fellow lovers of fine literature (and the sweet nectar of your own choosing!), and drink a toast to great saloons and the great friends who frequently or occasionally populate them. Or, if the coffee house is your "social club" or gathering place of choice, raise your mugs! Thank You!
Questions:
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| Might be an interior shot of The Ardmore, possibly the Vogue! Doesn't really matter. They were both on or near the old Marquette U. campus, an image of which is pictured below... (Suitably, kind of tipsy in the mid-day sun!!) |
My great friend, Pat, and I used to perform grand "hook-a-thons," meaning road trips on which we'd try to stop at every saloon we almost passed. Wonderful times, I think?? Prior to enlisting in the military he and I secured a case of cheap beer -- in quart bottles, 6 for each of us -- and consumed the entire ocean of suds at a drive-in movie theater. Police arrived at 2:30AM, roused us from our peaceful if unconscious state and hauled us to the town jail, and there we remained incarcerated until a parent came to spring us. Brilliant! Oh yeah, and "flaming shots," particularly memorable at two different joints on Burleigh Street; often I resembled "Beppo the Human Torch" -- a brightly illuminated by-product of those highly intelligent episodes, hair and whiskers gorgeously ablaze!
There's a two-pronged point to all this nonsense! (At least I think there is?!):
1.) In the "drinking culture" -- the local bar as poor persons' club -- we hang with kindred souls, some tortured, some merely perpetually drunk, we regard ourselves and our companions as terribly amusing, wonderfully funny! Aren't we? Are we merely forcing laughter and trying too hard to entertain and be entertained, to forget, to blend in, or to "be somebody"!
 |
| Not the "905" we actually consumed, but, you know, quarts is quarts! (Please see Paragraph 10 above for reference!) |
How the hell would I know? On the other foot, Sure! Why not?! I mean, I think we can't simply ignore or try to forget our days of magnificent inebriation, when we were stein-hoisting, falling-down members of the Drinking Set! That was simply us, or that was me, in a different sphere of consciousness, in younger times, in a previous "compartment" of life's richly eclectic trajectory! Aint it? Sure, they may not have been our finest hours, but they helped to mold us into who and what we are today, to construct and form our characters, to solidify and validate our attitudes and values! (True! Some of us never actually make the transition... !)
Oh yeah, one more bright memory in the great panoply of boozing adventures... Red Top, Muskie Don and I succeeded in being thrown out of Hooligans Super Bar, that was before it became gentrified! It was a beautifully planned affair. We were running drunk until it got yellow out, went to an all-night market and bought a half-gallon of Tutti-Frutti ice cream. We offered the frozen confection to Hooligan's early-morning opening bartender, and ordered him to make us each a cream drink. We decided to call our creation a "Tutti-Frutti Pink Gin Sissy." "Oh yeah," one of us insisted, "Don't forget the paper umbrellas and the fruity-tooty garnish!"
"Get the hell out of here now," the bartender bellowed, as he reached for his Louisville Slugger, his red-blotched eyes blazing with ire!! We stumbled out, but with exemplary dignity!!
So raise your glasses, friends and fellow lovers of fine literature (and the sweet nectar of your own choosing!), and drink a toast to great saloons and the great friends who frequently or occasionally populate them. Or, if the coffee house is your "social club" or gathering place of choice, raise your mugs! Thank You!
Humbly Submitted, 04-19-17 -- Joel K.
Questions:
What's your favorite tavern or bar or saloon?
What's your favorite beer?
Your favorite mixed or blended drink?
What's your favorite or funniest memory of tavern life?
What's your favorite coffee house, and its location?
What's your favorite coffee house, and its location?
