Big John’s Tavern on E. Bay St. in Charleston looks like the perfect place for old coots to drown their days and nights in beer and cheap booze. They probably sweep the floor to keep the inspectors happy, but the linoleum is probably the original installation and is worn completely away in many areas. It’s a small dark place. They have Pabst Blue Ribbon in cans. But the regulars aren’t old farts, they’re young people from the neighborhood. They drink and laugh and shoot pool and have a grand time. We were the only old farts in the joint!
We are retired full-time cruisers sailing to the Bahamas in winter and as far north as Maine in the summer. Charleston is one of our regular stops both northbound and southbound. In the Fall of 2007 we were following the Boston Patriots through their astounding season. We had the boat at the Charleston Maritime Center for a few weeks and went looking for a place to catch a Sunday afternoon Patriots game. John’s looks like an old time neighborhood beer joint but we decided to give it a try. That’s exactly what it is – an old time neighborhood beer joint. Though it’s a pretty dumpy looking place, they don’t lack for TVs and they put the Pats game on one of them for us. We ordered a couple of beers and grabbed the available booth. It was near the pool table. Before long the pool players began commenting to us about the action on the TV screens. From there the conversations moved from football to boats to computers to ??? and more football. We laughed and kidded one another and just had a good time. And the guys paid our tab!
The following week, the Pats were playing a Sunday night game. We walked a little farther to a fancy sports bar” for dinner and then the game. We had dinner, but the game never happened. A crowd at the bar decided they’d rather listen to music so this “SPORTS bar” muted the TV and pumped up the music. We were out of luck because the girls at the bar were regulars and as unknowns we had no clout. We went back to Big John’s and watched and heard the game in comfortable surroundings.
There’s nothing like a place where the locals hang.
Submitted by Mary F
The Penguin, Charlotte, NC
In Charlotte we just lost “The Coffee Cup”, a black run vestige that lost out to land developers. It even had received historic status but to no avail. Gone! Charlotte used to have a place, and still does, called “The Penguin”. It was a popular hang out that opened in 1954 and had burgers, red hots, a drive in.
By the time Marie and I moved here in 1989, it was reduced to a true greasy spoon known for caffeinated cab drivers and late night hookers. Amazingly, it was run by the original owner, a retired vice cop who had a pistol on his waist as he slopped chili into your plain white china bowl.
I ate there once. It was after a late night music show and I wanted to see it for myself. It didn’t let me down. A long bar separated the willing from the wanted. The pistol-packing sad sack behind the bar handed me a two-sided menu barely readable through the plastic carapice sheaving it from certain stain. I dared only a hot dog and fries.
I probably had a coke instead of coffee and there you have it, it was just me, a silent couple sitting in one of the booths drink beer from the can, and “Cookie” from the funny pages. I wolfed down the dog and was finished with the experience. The food didn’t kill me.
I had learned of The Penguin from the owner’s daughter who, every Tuesday morning, brought me the recycled aluminum cans her Pop had salvaged from a long week of the same thing every day. The cans were saturated with spit and stale beer. Really nasty loads that were transported by a beautiful youngish woman who I remember as Nancy because of the Beatles song, Rocky Raccoon.
She filled me in on the source of her bags of literal Goo! She came in every Tuesday like clock work and with a regular customer, you develop a casual relationship with the familiar. She, like her father, was a cop for the Charlotte Police Department and kept me informed of the ins and outs of the local crime scene.
One morning while reading the local rag, The Charlotte Observer, I caught sight in the local section of how the night before, the owner of the Penguin had caught a crook throwing his safe out the joint’s back window. As the startled thief followed the purloined safe out the window, “Cookie” shot him in the ass with his sidearm. The bullet went straight up the guy’s spine and out the top of his head. He landed on top of the safe, ‘doornail dead’. No charges of course. “Cookie” died several years later. The place was shuttered, Nancy didn’t have the Tuesday beer can trove anymore and, alas, Charlotte moved a little closer to the World Class Status it dreamed of where restaurants all were homogenized tract palaces owned by corporations and managed by junior college graduates.
In the very late 1990s, gentrified revitalization struck and stuck. The Penguin, now a Phoenix , was transformed from boarded up savage chic to the hippest hash house in the Queen city. Nothing too special on the menu, burgers and beer, winky-tinky dogs, and Tanqueray with a twist. But, the place is very alive with crowded booths filled with too loud millinialists reminding us that all we really need to get through until Nancy shows back up with a wet bag of cans next Tuesday in the memory of taxi driving hacks and pre-crack whore hookers not really enjoying their too strong coffee but celebrating their community and commonality.
Don’t go get shot in the ass now!
Submitted By Forrest Lee
Repost courtesy of GO…
Wikipedia defines “dive bar” as “A downmarket drinking establishment serving a working class clientele.”
Wikipedia is full of crap.
We prefer urbandictionary.com’s first definition: “A well-worn, unglamorous bar, often serving a cheap, simple selection of drinks to a regular clientele.”
That’s more like it.
But no matter which definition you subscribe to, “dive bars” (so called here for lack of a more unifying name) are certainly more lowbrow than lounges or frat guy-infested pubs. They might also be smokier, more concentrated in urban or industrial areas, and have drink options that start with “b-” and end in “-eer”. But we’re good with all that. We come together today to praise dive bars, not to bury them.
In search of Springfield’s best dive bar experiences, we dispatched a pair of GO Magazine staffers, ex-staffers or regular contributors to a score of Springfield’s hidden gems with the singular mission of bringing the real Springfield to you, our readers, and hopefully vice-versa as you take your own dive bar adventures.
Check out our new “anatomy of a divebar” interactive feature!
Keep reading to begin the tour
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Dylan Whitaker and Logan Aguirre take in a brew at Ball Park Tavern. |
Thinking ourselves very clever, we sent GO associate publisher Logan Aguirre and her brother, circulation manager Dylan Whitaker, out bar-hopping together. Turns out they get along a lot better at a bar than most siblings. Their thoughts?
Hours: 7 a.m.–close, Mon-Sat.; 9 a.m.–12 a.m., Sun.
During our Odyssey in search of dive bars, we got a tip about Ball Park Tavern… and what a find it is. Located on the far west side of town in an old brick building is a bar that’s been in operation for 63 years. It’s named “Ball Park” because back in the day it sat next to Springfield Memorial Stadium: Rumor has it Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth stopped in for some cold beers after games [Editor: Babe Ruth retired in 1935, so the math doesn’t exactly line up… but Mantle totally could have happened]. Employees say the place is so old that three or four people have died on their barstools. “Not because of fights or anything, just because of old age,” the bartender says. Regular patron Darren Fansler, 40, tells us his dad died at Ball Park 38 years ago. He and Christine Bingham, 30, love the place because, “it’s cheap and the economy sucks.” You can play shuffleboard or pool, or try out karaoke on Sunday nights. If you get too rowdy, you may get thrown in the “Dry Tank” a.k.a. “walk-in cooler”. There’s also an awesome TouchTunes juke box which Fansler says sucks because they have blocked all the songs with explicit lyrics. We were asked for ID’s because if you look under 35 the bartender says she is going to card you. Ball Park serves beer only and is open 365 days a year. 811 S. West Ave., 417-866-9577
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Hours: 3 p.m.-1:30 a.m., Mon.–Fri.; 5-1:30, Sat.
This college hangout is known for Wednesday night $1 beer specials, free pool nights and the occasional Jell-O wrestling contest. If you’re feeling ballsy, try Ray’s Pecker Head shot, or Ray’s Rattler. Trust us, you don’t want to know what’s in them. While you’re there, you can keep an eye on the parking lot with Ray’s security cam, grill your own meat on the back-patio grill, and check out the Wall of Fame to see some of your favorite TV personalities letting loose. Tending bar every night is Ray, who we see as a mix between Bob Barker and Blue from Old School. When we asked how old he is, all he would tell us is he’s not old enough for Viagra. While Ray’s Lounge could use a good, deep cleaning, it does have an awesome juke box. Warning, don’t try your fake ID here—repercussions are stiff. The sign on the door explains it all. 1221 E. Saint Louis St., 417-862-9770
Reposted courtesy of a MySpace Contributor…
After The Vogue, it was on to the final bar — or dive — of the night. Inside the Alley Cat Lounge, a packed bar of drinkers is celebrating the establishment’s recognition as one of the “Top 20 Dives in the Country” by Stuff Magazine.
The Cat, as some call it, isn’t full of fancy bar signs or nice tables, which is how the regulars like it. “I like this place because it’s a trashy little hole where I can put my cigarette out on the floor,” said 28-year-old Tyson J.
Of all the bars on the visit, the heaviest drinking appears to be taking place in the Alley Cat. One woman, her head resting on her hand, was watching a bar television with a glassy gaze.
“You know what’s wrong with this country?” she slurred to a friend. “It runs on commercials.”
From outside comes the sound of crashing bottles. As the shadows of two men turn the corner in the alley outside the bar, one of the men shouts to the other: “You throw like a girl!”
Sage advise when ordering drinks…
DON’T…
*FAIL TO HAVE YOUR MONEY READY
We’re waiting on you. Everyone else is waiting on us. Therefore, by the Transitive Property of Equality, everyone is waiting on you. Rule 1: Have your shit together. Not only will following Rule 1 get you served quicker in a bar, it’s a good general rule to adopt in life and is especially helpful in Central American border crossing scenarios.
*WHISTLE
This is an absolute No-No. You whistle at dogs, not people.
*WAIVE MONEY
Oh, you’ve got a dollar!! I’ll be right over!! Hopefully I won’t break an ankle in my fevered rush to get you your “curz lite.” Well, at least you’re not breaking the next rule.
*YELL OUT THE BARTENDER’S FIRST NAME
There’s something deeply psychologically disturbing about hearing your name called out, turning around and seeing a complete stranger. That’s one of the reasons strippers use stage names.
*SAY “MAKE IT STRONG!” OR “PUT A LOT OF LIQUOR IN IT”
Oh, you’re one of the rare drinkers that like their drink strong! When you say this, you’re assuming I make weak drinks (which is insulting) and you’re assuming that I’ll stiffen this one up for my new best buddy: you. This is the best way to get a weak drink.
Oh, and yes we did put liquor in it, even if it’s sweet that is our job to make it taste good!
You’re not going to get more liquor by saying no ice or straight up, then saying can you put some ice in it. Read More…
From their Web:
Nothing satisfies man’s tortured soul and restless craving for misadventure quite like the dive bar. Defiantly distinct from the cozy vibes implied by the word “pub,” or the sophisticated pleasures of an upscale nightclub, the dive is not the place where everyone knows your name. If the bartender is doing his job, everyone there has already forgotten their own. Yet the best dive bars—such as those celebrated here—offer a lot more than beer-and-a-shot obliteration in the film-noir glow of a neon sign. They’re dusty, unread archives of a city’s history, full of teetering tables with professional drinkers muttering bad jokes to themselves and, on a good night, a gallery of mugs that would do any police station line-up proud.
submitted by “Freddy”
In the summer of 1973, I worked in Rolla, Missouri. A friend of mine told me one of his friends from out of state was coming in for a visit. He asked me and a couple of others if we would hang with this guy until he got off work. “No prob,” so we rendezvoused at “The Mine Shaft” - a dim and dank dive located in the cellar of an electronics store on Pine Street in downtown Rolla.
I loved this place. On Friday and Saturday nights all my friends were there, and I new just about everyone. We had some great times. The place was only licensed to serve beer. They sold draft beer and red beer, pretzels, pickled eggs, pickled hooves and pickled pickles. The entrance was a doorway off to the side of the store that opened up into a long and narrow staircase leading to the basement. The place would only hold about fifty people, but I think on Fri and Sat nights they would jam the place with about a hundred. I remember two large Bose speakers that absolutely rocked the joint! They had a cheap dart board with cheap plastic darts and I never remember a real game being played. However, the foosball table ‘most always had an intense game going.
Anyway, the “friend” shows up and four of us sat on bar stools that surrounded a small round elevated table. It was a hot summer day and we downed the first pitcher fairly quickly. It was a mid-afternoon Saturday and man, I’m tellin’ ya, after that second pitcher we all melted in our seats a little. The “friend” seemed like a cool guy and he fit right in. The a/c was perfect, the “draws” were perfect and the tunes were perfect. Wow, I added a little salt to the foam of my beer and life was good.
The “friend” (I don’t remember his name) was the first to get up and use the facilities. “The first seal to be broken,” someone said. He proceeded up a rickety staircase along the back wall that went to the restroom, and only the restroom. No, let’s call it the pisshole. That’s way more accurate and descriptive, especially for this place and this story! Anyway, it was a very strange set-up. Read More…
She had one of those ebony/ivory smiles — the kind with black gaps where a white tooth once peeked out from behind her happy lips. Her Lynyrd Skynyrd tee-shirt may have been a part of her wardrobe since the boys nosed into the hard Mississippi ground that fateful night in 1977. I ordered my usual — Jack on the Rocks with a twist of lemon — and she poured three mighty shots into a hefty glass. Nice.
Several of us stopped at The Hub in downtown Tampa after a day of civic volunteerism and leadership training. There we were, starched white shirts and silk ties, among the working class boys in laborer’s Levi’s. The locals sucked down PBRs in the can, cold and tasty. Those at the bar had “hangdog” expressions, most with their heads tucked down and somber. Most were solitary men, quiet in their moment at The Hub, contemplating, perhaps, their next job as a short-order cook at Waffle House or someone who unloads cold fish at midnight off a rickedy trawler down at the dock on the bay.
You can still smoke a Lucky or a Chesterfield or whatever you like while drinking at The Hub. It reminds me of my twenties on the Pacific Coast, when bars were dimly lit joints bathed in a stale haze of burnt tobacco. Most of the boys were puffing away as they drank.
The Hub has a jukebox pumping out bluesy rock and roll. Next to the tune machine find a classic standup video game, Gallaxa. What a wild time-trip seeing that box was to several of us. You could catch a hint of disinfectant coming up from the linoleum below. It mingled with the cigarette smoke and the beer drips that always seem to find the floor. We pulled a number of cheap tables together and sat of some hard-ass chairs. The conversation was lively and we had a few laughs.
Super Bowl posters were everywhere. It wasn’t a sports bar, but everybody is worshiping the NFL this week. The Big Bash is bringing in some serious coin and some of the boys in the room were probably getting some extra fares for their hacks. CNN was on the tube, “blah-blah unemployment-foreclosure-investor scam victims” coming out of the mouth of the beautiful people allowed to read the news to us via satellite. The boys at the bar paid little attention to the doom-gloom; hell, they lived at The Hub, it was their world. And their world has been down and out for a lot longer than the last four years.
The Hub gives us all a little comfort, a little solace from the “blah-blah” in a world where a bar stool is sanctuary.
submitted by “Frank”
After working for four years as an auto mechanic I decided it was time for a vacation. I quit my job and headed west during the summer of 1976. I was a single man and twenty-four years old. One of my stops was Las Vegas. A new found friend Jim worked for Otis Elevator, a skilled laborer’s dream job in Vegas! He took me to the 4 Mile Bar for a couple of beers after work one day and it turned into a ritual Thursday and Friday thing. I remember one day we were cooling off from the desert hundred degree plus heat by drinking our “ice cold frosty Budweiser’s” (Mike would be proud of me – MM… MMM) and Jim proceeds to tell me the Anheuser-Busch headquarters is located in Los Angeles?!?!?! “You dumb ass… you don’t tell someone from St. Louis ignorant stuff like that!”
Vegas was a mystical and foreign place to me, being from the Midwest. Jim explained to me that there was the “glitzy” Vegas and the “down home” Vegas. The natives stayed away from the “strip” except to take advantage of certain deals like cheap breakfasts. The 4 Mile Bar was solely frequented by the natives and I was amazed at how relaxed the place was in the midst of such a notoriously busy town. Of course, I asked the question that only a newcomer would ask, “so, why’s this place called the four mile bar?” The bar tender studies me and says, “cause it’s four miles down the road from the downtown casino center.” We were there really late one weekend night and I thought we’d close the place down. I saw the clock was straight-up two o’clock…I asked the bartender “so what time does this place close?” He looks as if he’d never heard that one before and says, “when everybody leaves.” I had to ask Jim what he meant by that because I didn’t realize that most bars in Vegas were open 24 hours a day and would only close if there was no one to serve. This bar was a very friendly place and also very comfortable. I remember knotty pine paneling and a lot of things to look at. There were several slot machines and some wagering going on at the pool tables.
I remembered the jukebox played “Fooled Around And Fell In Love,” by Elvin Bishop, more than any other tune. One day a couple of girls walked by and Jim asked them if they would go home with him… they quickly turned him down. Jim pleaded, “come on I’ll have you screamin!” They both laughed and loved it! That scared the crap out of me! “That line would get you hurt where I’m from man!” Everyone laughed…it was great. This was truly a different world.
I ran a Google search and low and behold the dive is still alive and well. The reviews are right on, although in 1976 – “cowboy chic” and “karaoke” would not have applied!
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As saloons on the Boulder Strip go the Four Mile Bar wont win any design awards, but its a fun place to lift a few after a days labor, or to test your pipes on karaoke nights. The dcor is cowboy chic that has seen better days, but with places of this kind dilapidation is just part of the ambiance. Theres usually room to pull up a stool and enjoy reasonably priced well drinks and domestic pitchers, or to dine on steaks, sandwiches and other bar & grill favorites. But the place gets busy on Friday and Saturday nights during karaoke, where country-western is the most frequent music of choice. On Sundays during football season, the Four Mile Bar is a haven for Denver Broncos fans, and offers free drinks and other special promotions for anyone wearing Bronco-friendly attire.
sent in by Frank “The Wildman” W.
