Tuesday, February 28, 2017


The War on Booze is nothing new.

We’re all familiar with the reign of terror called Prohibition. Going further back, temperance leagues have scolded and hounded the American drinker since the first still was erected in the New World. We could, of course, trace it back even further; one can imagine that the first time some hirsute, broken-toothed caveman slurped up the rank remains of rotting, fermented fruit in a commendable effort to forget the workaday worries of Paleolithic life, some other caveman stood nearby, curling his lip with disapproval.
Recently, however, the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission added a new twist to the old crusade. Beginning in August of last year, under the cheekily named auspices of Operation Last Call, undercover TABC agents infiltrated bars primarily in North Texas to scout out drunken patrons. When a particular tippler looked as if he was having too much fun, they alerted uniformed authorities, who then demanded sobriety tests and, if they determined the poor fellow was drunk, issued citations for public intoxication. They even went so far as to bust tourists in hotel bars, despite the fact they were registered at the hotel and their vehicles were parked several states away. Their justification? With a straight face they claimed those drunk tourists might just jump off their hotel room balconies.

Monday, February 27, 2017


“I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I've lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.”

-- John Steinbeck

Wednesday, February 22, 2017


POINT: A beer and a barstool do not equate the right to spew every goddamn silly thing that pops up in that evil little mind of yours.

I’m the bartender and can’t leave the bar. You’re not, and you can and should, but won’t. Since most of the other customers split as soon as they get a whiff of your sparkling personality, you go to the one person who has to stay put. I’m in hell. It’s a slow night and all the interesting people are either at home or put their wagons in a circle way over by the pool table. What makes you think I want to hear about your broken-down car, your lame job or your crazy roommate who scribbles with crayons all over the walls? You mumble on continuously, meandering around the point into cul-de-sacs of boring detail. When I try to escape to the other end of the bar to wash the one dirty glass, you follow me and blabber on with the story that, in my mind, should be titled, “Why I Need to Be Shot in the Face Right Now.” If the bar is empty and all you have to spew is inane rambling, just order a drink, go into the corner and talk to the wall. Bang your head against it once or twice while you’re there. It can only help.

COUNTERPOINT: You do know you work in a bar, right?

If you worked in an office or factory you wouldn’t have to worry about people coming in off the street to hassle you. But guess what? You chose to work in a bona fide social center, a bar, and do you know what happens in bars? People drink, and when they drink they get talkative. It’s one of the great things about alcohol. Okay, so I might get a little loaded and spout off some random bullshit sometimes—who doesn’t? You’ve never mouthed off about things that don’t make a goddamn bit of sense? If you haven’t, congratulations, you’re a freaking robot. Look, we have jobs too. And we hate them, and bars are where we go to forget about them. And it’s your job to help us because you’re a bartender. You knew exactly what you were getting into, so it’s too late to pull your apron over you head and wail that you want to be left alone. Go work in a lighthouse if that’s your gig. All that said, I’ll try in the future to talk only about things that interest you—because it’s all about you—like kicking puppies and shoving old ladies under trains. Boom!

Thursday, February 16, 2017


A bottle of Galliano is traditionally the bartender's last line of defense.

...despite parades and riots in SB celebrating the notion of "protect illegal immigrants."

(We believe in lawful immigration; it is the American way.)

Tuesday, February 14, 2017


Following a brief hiatus for extensive spring cleaning, we are open again this evening in time for Valentine's Day.

It's hard to be a dive bar when we are so squeaky clean!

(It is also a pity that the iconic neighborhood saloon is now thought of as a "dive bar.")

Karaoke tonight!!

Wednesday, February 1, 2017


Spring is Coming!

Imbolc is a holiday with a variety of names, depending on which culture and location you’re looking at. In the Irish Gaelic, it’s called Oimelc, which translates to “ewe’s milk.” It’s a precursor to the end of winter when the ewes are nursing their newly born lambs. Spring and the planting season are right around the corner.