Visit Better Than the Machine Comedy Web Site

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

This one is for Frankie:

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

Dylan Whitaker and Logan Aguirre take in a brew at Ball Park Tavern.

The Siblings

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?

Ball Park Tavern

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

Ray’s Lounge

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

Archie’s Lounge

Hours: 10:30 a.m.–1:30 a.m., Mon.-Sat.
This neighborhood bar is super clean and spacious with a big stage, pool tables and the most comfortable club chairs and barstools ever. Regulars begin their day at Archie’s at 10 a.m. with coffee or tea, head out to their jobs, and end their day with their favorite drink, which the bartender starts preparing when he or she sees a customer’s car pull into the lot. The regulars have big hearts and show it by putting on their own chili cook-off and auction each year to raise money for local charities. All beer is $1.75, only served in bottles chilled on ice. Dive bar touches include an American flag made of beer bottle caps, a NASCAR Crown Royal team mural watching over you from the wall and a “No Dumping” sign in the bathroom. Our favorite part? Written in Sharpie on the men’s bathroom condom machine, “Return baby here.” Archie’s also has cover-free live music every Friday and Saturday night.
Food options: Bags of chips, gourmet Funyuns, and nuts. 1817 E. Grand St., 417-864-4109

Jeff Houghton and Jeff Jenkins being appropriately random at Last Call.

The Subjects

So what if we write a lot about Jeff Houghton and Jeff Jenkins? They’re freaking hilarious, and have been taking their own personal “dive bar tours” for the better part of two years. Who better to assign to visit four of Springfield’s most distinguished dives?

Longbranch Lounge

Hours: 8 a.m.-1:30 a.m., Mon,–Sat.
Longbranch is located in an old firehouse, but don’t enter in the front where the fire trucks presumably exited. The entrance is in the darker, shadier backside of the building. Inside, the atmosphere is the opposite of dark and shady. Rick was our favorite—while trying to convince us to sing karaoke he said, “Karaoke means ‘to make fun of’ in Japanese. Seriously, man, it does.” He then informed us that the loser of our shuffleboard game would have to sing karaoke to a song of his choosing. (Jeff H. wound up singing the Sheryl Crow-Kid Rock duet, “Picture” with a friend.) Long Branch has all the dive bar amenities you would hope for, with two pool tables, a 50-cent shuffleboard table, Keno and karaoke. Plus, drafts are insanely cheap at only $1.50, and pitchers are only $6. However, we would not recommend the Misdemeanor, a Crown/butterscotch Schnapps shot that tastes like French-kissing an octogenarian with a Werther’s Original in their mouth. 2000 N. National Ave., 417-866-9212

Virgil’s Bar and Self Storage

Hours: 2 p.m.–1:30 a.m., Tue.–Fri.; 2 p.m.–12 a.m., Sat.
“Bar and Grill” or “Restaurant and Bar” are combinations often seen, but are not nearly as pragmatic as a bar that also has self-storage. Virgil is perhaps the only proprietor forward-thinking enough to actually incorporate this degree of multi-tasking into a business plan. Two drawbacks: Virgil’s is located securely out of town, north on Highway 13; and you have to remember to bring your I.D., even if you are a 36-year-old man, as one member of our party discovered the hard way. The other half, however, was able to enjoy Virgil’s spacious bar, which has two pool tables, a large drum kit, Keno, a big safe, and four couches (presumably taken from a storage unit) set up like a living room. The most unique feature is the bell located behind the bar; a patron only gets to ring it if they buy a round for the whole bar. A bottle of PBR is only $2, but the conversation with the friendly folks about the recent show cattle is free. 7579 N. Farm Rd. 137, 417-833-4081

Rum Runners

Hours: 8 a.m.–1:30 a.m., Mon.–Sat.
This place has a sign hanging over one table in the corner that says, “Popular Table,” but for our money the whole place is the popular table. Rum Runners comes complete with at least four entrances (or exits depending on the situation). They put a lot of focus on karaoke, with a great stage with lights and a big board listing the winners of a recent competition. The lovely Marcie’s rendition of “Whiter Shade of Pale” brought the place down. Well, she got applause. There was one pool table, Keno, a big American flag, and CMT on all the televisions. Two-dollar drafts went down nicely while we pondered the poster reading, “It is better to have loved and lost than to live with a psycho the rest of your life.” 2826 E. Division St., 417-863-6488

Last Call

Hours: 3 p.m.–1:15 a.m., Mon.–Tue.; 1 p.m.–1:15 a.m., Wed.–Sat.
This is definitely the liveliest place we visited. The snugness of the place is evidenced by the sign above the door that says, “Max. Cap 50.” Thankfully, walking isn’t so much an experience of “why are you trespassing?” as it is “join the party.” Within the small confines are two dart boards, a pool table, signs for pool tournaments, keno, posters of women in bikinis from the late ’80s, karaoke, and Last Call shirts for sale. Best of all, you can get a 16 oz. can of Coors for a measly $1.25. Well, we thought that was the best deal of all, then a gentlemen named Vance and a friend enthusiastically sang “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister. The performance ignited a singalong and dance party that made our Coors cans bounce along on the bar. The karaoke at Last Call was excellent, even the lone bartender belted out a song when she had a chance. 1310 E. Kearney St. 417-866-1872

Dena Dill and Gina DeGenova took over the bar at MyPlace Lounge.

The Sales Team

Gina DeGenova and Dena Dill are GO Magazine’s ladies on the street (not like that), and are responsible for the marketing and sales aspect of the magazine. They also know a good bar and a good time when they see one. Here’s what they found.

My Place Lounge

Hours: 10:30 a.m.–1:30 a.m., Mon.–Fri.; Noon–1:30 a.m., Sat.
Upon entering My Place Lounge, you will immediately be greeted by the bartender (Cindy is her name) and checked out by the regulars (only the good-looking regulars of course). At least that was our experience. Two young girls walk into a dive bar and don’t get checked out. Yeah right!
After ordering two cold Bud Lights, we investigated the joint and came up with three questions: 1. Why is there a stack of oven toasters behind the bar? 2. What’s with the second bar, dance floor and stage on the other side of the bar? 3. Why don’t we come here more often? Answers: 1. My Place serves jumbo pretzels stuffed with jalapeno cheese (yum) and chips at all times. 2. They have karaoke on Tuesday-Saturday from 9 p.m.– close, and sometimes live music. 3. We will from now on.

Drinking cheap here is easy. Make your way to My Place and sip on $1 draws (Bud and Bud Light only) every day from 10:30 a.m. until 1:00 p.m., or enjoy happy hour 4-6 p.m. with $2 domestic bottles and $2 wells. Also, compete against the many regulars (about 50 per day) in NTN trivia, join in for free pool on Monday (7 p.m.-close) or pool tournaments Wednesday and Saturday starting at 8:30 p.m. 1211 W. Battlefield Rd., 417-889-8708

Da Cubby Hole

Hours: 2 p.m.–close every day
Located across from Ziggie’s on South Campbell, Da Cubby Hole (formerly Jose’s Place), only recently opened its doors in early December. The neighborhood bar/restaurant is little (hence the name) and is not your typical dive bar—we had trouble even considering it a dive bar at all. When you walk in, the first thing you notice is the stained glass window boarding the brick wall. The glass is the only piece which survived a fire back when the joint was Black Forest Inn.

Da Cubby Hole offers Chicago-style food from 2 p.m.-close every day, including hot dogs, Italian beef sandwiches, and pizza puffs (something akin to deep-fried pizza). On tap: Miller Lite, Boulevard, Coors, Blue Moon, Dos Equis, and Old Style Chicago Beer.

If you are wondering where the Da Cubby Hole originated, here’s the story: Owner Daisy Duarte is from Chicago, is a hard core Cubs fan, and enjoys getting grief from Cardinal fans. When the building went up for sale, she said it reminded her of a cubby hole. The rest is history. Let’s just hope Da Cubby Hole doesn’t have a 100-year dry spell, eh? 2185 S. Campbell, 417-890-9932

Jo’s Gather’n Place

Hours: 11 a.m.–close (could be 9, could be midnight)
According to Fig, a Jo’s regular, “This is the greatest bar in the world. That’s why I am here every day that ends in Y!” We’re with Fig. Jo’s Gather’n Place is a typical dive bar with mirrors above and around the bar. Don’t let the baseball bat behind the bar scare you—or the message from K.F.G on the wall in the women’s bathroom.

Enjoy happy hour from 4 p.m.-close (“close” being whenever the crowd dies down) with $2 drafts, $3.50 wells, $4.50 calls and $6.50 pitchers. There’s also a fully loaded menu (to-go orders available) and lunch specials on Wednesday and Friday from 11 to 3 p.m., regular menu from 3-9 p.m. And, apparently, don’t miss Walleye Wednesdays; the regulars couldn’t’ stop talking about it. 2931 E. Chestnut Expwy., 417-864-7723

Kari Engel and Meagan Johnson (and their koozies) at Gunny’s Mill.

The Artsy Types

You wouldn’t know from looking at them, but Kari Engel (GO art director 2005 till mid-2008) and Megan Johnson (GO art director mid-2008 to present) love them some dive bars. Their destination: West Springfield. Here’s what they found.

Gunny’s Mill

Hours: Monday-Saturday, 11 a.m.-1:30 a.m.; Sunday 12-8 p.m.
Officially it’s Gunny’s, as we discovered from the blue Koozies that accompanied our beers, but we like to call it Old Mill. It’s like you’re sitting in a log cabin in the woods, with its lodge decor and plethora of wood furnishings. Ona (not “owner” as we initially thought) is Gunny’s Mill’s bartender, server and bouncer, all wrapped into one young-at-heart package. Ona is spunky and friendly, stopping by every table to check in. One bonus point for Old Mill: No bar time (the habit bars have of setting clocks 15 minutes ahead) so they were in no hurry to get you out the door. Be prepared to pay with cash unless you run up more than $10 on your tab, which will be possible if you hit them up on Monday night for $12 Steak Night. We were digging the shuffleboard table and TouchTunes, but you can also play some pool if that’s your thing. 1414 W. Farm Road 102, 417-833-4135

Knightyme Bar and Billards

Hours: Monday-Friday 11 a.m.-1:30 a.m.; Saturday Noon-1:30 a.m.; Sunday noon-midnight
“Knight” like the man, “thyme” like the herb (minus the h)—that’s what we called it all night. We’ll admit we were a little intimidated by the regulars, but once we got over their stares we were able to enjoy the large room filled with seven pool tables, six dart boards, a stage with a disco ball, Keno, karaoke and bras (!) hanging from the ceiling… hey if this was our awesome hangout, we’d be protective, too! We shimmied our way up to the bar, promptly greeted by a sign: “Cash Only. Or Personal Check.” Personal check? They are trusting! Once we sat down at a table we really started to see the personality of this bar. A common sight—patrons with their own pool cues. Guess we didn’t come prepared. The waitresses were amazing; always checking if we needed something, answering our erratic questions (“Do you sell Wine by the Box?”) and pulling up chairs for the stragglers that kept joining our table. Along with the great service there were amazing drink specials; week days 11 a.m.-7 p.m. $2 draft beers and $1.50 bottles, Saturday 9 p.m.-10 p.m. $1 well drinks and $1 drafts. Knightyme has a huge food menu for dirt-cheap: A sampling: $6 9-inch pizzas (our favorite option was “Lotsa Meat”), $3.50 cheeseburgers and fries, $2 fried pickles, plus about 16 additional food options all under $4. 3440 W. Division St., 417-862-4248

Sunshine Saloon

Hours: Monday-Saturday 9 a.m.-1:30 a.m.
Want the feel of a house party, but with a little more grit and action? Sunshine Saloon is your bar. It has a genuine “everyone’s welcome” feel, which of course means a “bar fight”. Yup, we said it, there was a bar fight (luckily not involving us). The bar was pretty small; there are only four tables lining the right inside wall, with the bar taking up the left side. The bar itself was pretty short, with only 10 chairs. The twentysomething bartender is the owner’s son; his family has owned Sunshine Saloon for 20 year. He did a heck of a job handling drink orders while simultaneously breaking up the fight. When we ordered our draft beers, he pulled out frozen mugs from the 1960s-era freezer and filled us up, all this in between runs to the ATM at nearby Kum & Go because the Saloon doesn’t do tabs and takes no credit cards or checks. The drafts were only $1.50, well drinks were only $2.50 and bottles were $2. And these weren’t specials, these were all-day-every-day prices. The back of the bar had a pool table and karaoke.

We were lucky enough to be there on karaoke night. On the mic was a Danny Devito lookalike who knew how to break it down. He added commentary to the bar fight. And his song-choice when the cops arrived? “Bad Boys” from television’s Cops. That made us want to stay for another round and get to know these people a little better. 1326 W. Sunshine St., Springfield, 417-866-9394

SilverLeaf Tap Room

Hours: Call the pay phone for hours.
With a slogan like “Oldest bar in town, coldest beer in town”, who wouldn’t want to hang out at the SilverLeaf Tap Room? The first thing you notice when you walk in are the old-school T-shirts stapled to the ceiling. The story behind the T’s: When the bar opened in 1978, the bartender was dealing with some erratic customers and sent a shotgun shell through the ceiling. Instead of patching the hole, they used a T-shirt to cover it, and so a tradition was born. The SilverLeaf recently expanded, adding a shuffleboard table and TouchTunes. They also have a pool table, and a toaster oven for a yummy snack. When we asked the bartender about the cheapest beer, she told us the biggest bang for our buck was a 24 oz. PBR for $2.75. Make sure you check out the sign on the men’s bathroom door. 3151 and 3153 W. Republic Rd., The only phone number we could find was for a pay phone.

Matt Lemmon and Katie Pollock take a breather at Ruthie’s Bar.

The Editors

You know that old stereotype about journalists and drinking? It’s not entirely untrue. Matt Lemmon and Katie Pollock are the wordsmiths who crank out GO Magazine and 417 Magazine, respectively, day-in and day-out.

Ruthie’s Bar

Hours: 6 a.m.–1:30 a.m., Mon.–Sat.
First off, Ruthie’s architecture is remarkable, with high ceilings and fab crown molding. Sort of “classy-meets-dive”. During a round of $1.75 PBR bottles ordered from a gruff-but-pleasant bartender, we took stock of our surroundings. Ruthie’s has dive-bar staples like NASCAR hoods on the walls, a pool table, Keno and karaoke, plus a few bonuses like a foosball table that only one person can play (it’s up against a wall, and unmovable); and a beer sign featuring a photo of a pissed-off bear (we just think he wants a beer). Ruthie’s clientele was chill—all but the excitable chap who adamantly told us to quit taking his picture. “I got three ex-wives!” he explained. One of the best things about Ruthie’s: The bar stools are cushioned and have cushioned backs, which make toppling over harder, and passing out easier. 400 E. Commercial St., 417-864-8144

The Stepchild Lounge

Hours: 10 a.m.–1:30 a.m., Mon.–Sat.
A regular hangout for Matt in the early ’00s, the Stepchild is a bit less scuzzy than it was circa 2001; the bathroom has been renovated, at least. That said, it’s still a delightful dive. Let’s start with the prices: $1.50 drafts (excluding Boulevard) served in mugs that are not glass, but instead feather-light plastic—an accident waiting to happen. Bud pitchers are $5.50 every Saturday, which is hard to beat. This is a regulars bar, but the regulars are a relative mixed bag: The bar was populated mostly by sorta-clean-cut types; yet at another table an affectionate flannel-clad couple made out the entire time we were there (and by “affectionate” we mean “hands in Wranglers”). Other classical dive bar touches included Keno, a shuffleboard table (non-functioning, as far as we could tell), collages featuring cut-out photos of regular patrons, a cigarette machine, and margaritas “on tap” (we editors were amused by the quotation marks). There are a couple of TVs and a juke box. The selections of the night: Law & Order and Elton John’s “Rocket Man”. 1861 S. Stewart Ave., 417-881-9703

Alley Katz

Hours: Noon–1:30 a.m., Mon.–Sat.
When we walked into Alley Katz (which we thought was still Barbara’s Beer Garden), we first noticed the hip-hop music and purple neon. Not dive bar staples. Then we saw the stripper pole on a small, empty stage. Confused, we sat down at a table. Here’s how the conversation went.
Matt: I think this is a strip club.
Katie: Yeah, I think so, too.
Matt: But Paradise used to have a non-used stripper pole.
GIRL IN BLACK LEATHER BIKINI WALKS OUT.
Matt: It’s a strip club. Do you want to leave?
Katie: I had to go to strip clubs when I worked for Maxim. I’ll say if we need to.
Matt: I don’t want to write about it.
Katie: Then let’s go.
2109 N. Glenstone Ave., 417-866-7569

The Outland

Hours: 4 p.m.–1:30 a.m., Mon.–Sat.
The Outland is not your prototypical dive bar—its status as a top local music venue sees to that. Nevertheless, the Outland’s sizeable group of regulars like to think of the bar as Springfield, or at least downtown’s, last bastion of lowbrow. All the elements are here, from the duct-taped vinyl booth seats, the minimal liquor selection (though there are some hipster bottled brews available) to the kitschy Outland neons and murals that hang throughout the bar. There are also plenty of random decorations in the music side, as well as dark corners. If you’re looking for classical Outland, check out the insiderish theme nights. 326 South Ave., 417-863-9779

The Tipsy Turtle

Hours: 8 p.m.–1 a.m., Wed.–Sat.
The Turtle does owe some of its status to former tenant Bugsy Malone’s (not a lot has changed, including Bugsy’s signature signed bricks) but the Turtle has certainly taken the ball and run. Features include a tin ceiling peppered with dollar bills signed by regulars, conga lines, drinking games to The Police’s “Roxanne”, and its novelty as Springfield’s only bar where the front door (facing Glenstone) is unusable—you have to park in back and enter through the basement. (You have to go upstairs to use the bathroom.) The best night for drinkin’ is Friday—$3 for anything after a $5 cover. One regular says “I’ve ordered tray after tray of Irish Car Bomb shots for my friends and I, and none of us left paying more than $35. Try that anywhere else. Seriously.” 843 S. Glenstone Ave., 417-869-8333

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.

*GIVE THE EVER-EXPANDING DRINK ORDER

You want a Bud. I go get it. I come back and now you want a Margarita. Okay, no prob. I come back, and (oh yeah!) now you want a shot of Tequila, too. You really could have told us this all at once. See Rule 1.

*PULL THE REDIRECT (OR BAIT ‘N’ SWITCH)

Usually used after the money wave or the whistle, this is when the gentlemen passes his turn to the lady behind him. Yeah, um, don’t do that, okay? Chances are she’s not ready, and your weak attempt at chivalry just cost you your turn. See you in 30 minutes.

*TRY THE CONFUSED, LOST LOOK

This is usually accompanied by the question “What kind of beer y’all got?” while looking at all the beers we have. You did know you were in a bar, right? You didn’t just appear here, did you? Refer to Rule 1.

*ORDER HIGH MAINTENANCE SHOOTERS

Example: “Lemme get an Alabama Slammer, a Red Snapper, two Kamikazes, a Buttery Nipple and a Lemon Drop.” Usually followed by a small tip. People, these shooters are fine by themselves, but there are multiple steps involved with each one. Translation: Time Sink. You may get them this time, but you’ll probably be waited on last the next time we see your face. Here’s a clue as to whether or not you’re high maintenance; if two bartenders are working and they see you, and they flip a coin and the loser comes over to take your order, pretty good chance you’re high maintenance.

*ASSUME WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THE BAND

We know, we know, you’re gonna be really famous, but you’re not there yet, tiger. Tell us you’re in the band and which band you’re in. By the way, if you are in a band and get free/reduced drink prices, feel free to tip, as most bartenders are also in bands! It’s not like we don’t know how it is. Oh, and our bands will smoke your band.

*ASSUME WE KNOW YOU PERIOD!

Unless you’ve followed the first “Do” rule below, we don’t remember you. You are one of a thousand faces for us, and when you point at an empty glass or a beer bottle that’s invariably facing away from us, your attempt at a shortcut backfires. Tell us what you want.

*APOLOGIZE FOR SUCKING

Don’t apologize for not tipping. Acknowledging that you suck is not the same as not sucking. Oh, and don’t say “I’ll get ya next time.” We know all about you.

*ASSUME THE SOFT DRINKS ARE FREE
Are they free at McDonald’s? Are they free at Wal-Mart? Are they free anywhere? I blame M.A.D.D. for this myth.

*PUT PENNIES AND NICKELS IN THE TIP JAR

We don’t want that crap in our pockets any more than you do. We don’t have anything smaller than quarters. Have you ever ordered a drink that cost $3.17?

*BE THE “MICRO BREW AFICIONADO”

Usually a pseudo-hippy who can’t tip a quarter but can’t bring himself to drink “schwag,” and who has to sample some new berry-wheat-harvest-ale that he heard about at Burning Man. “Do you have the new Vernal-Equinox Special Welcome-Fest?” “Does Anyone?” Here’s your Newcastle. Go.

*BE THE “DADDY WARBUCKS”

Dressed in classic day-trader wear, this loud, boisterous guy smokes cigars and orders Martinis and generally exudes an air of money. Until the tip. We hate you.

*BE THE “WHINY BABY”

Under no circumstances should you ever whine to a bartender when asked to see your ID. Our jobs depend on them, and when we spot a fake/expired ID, don’t argue; we’ve seen and heard it all a million times before, and it will get you absolutely nowhere. If you “don’t have one” or “forgot it,” forget it; you don’t belong out on the town in the first place. That’s the law, plain and simple. If we don’t have the law, the terrorists win. You don’t want the terrorists to win, do you? Bring your ID. Remember Rule 1, from a minute ago?

Don’t tell me the bartender at the front bar hooks it up cheaper
bullshit because if he did you wouldn’t be at my bar getting it from me! if you can’t afford the drinks you are ordering then don’t drink!

DO

Tip-

Tip heavy right off the bat, and you’re the first person we aim for every time you come up to the bar. Did you get that? Go back and read it again. The word will spread to the other bartenders and you’ll be treated like a prince. It will pay off in better drinks and the occasional free one.

Be patient-

All you really need to do to get waited on is make eye contact. We see you, and we’ll get to you before the guy right next to you waving money and whistling. Remember, this isn’t insulin we’re passing out here. If you really need the drink that bad, you’ve got a problem to address, Jack. The meek shall inherit the bar.

Understand-

We are human not machines we know you’re there however you are not the only or most important one in the bar…

See Their Top Ten Dives

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.

not to be confused with The Mine Shaft of Winnemucca, Nevada

GROSS WARNING!

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.

Our new-found buddy was gone a few minutes and when he returned he had a story to tell, but he was hesitant. He had to tell it, though. He was aware that this was a risky subject to bring up with guys you just met a couple beers ago, BUT he couldn’t hold it back! He just didn’t care! So, here it comes…he says, “guys I know this is kinda gross, but I’m tellin’ ya right now, I ain’t never in my life seen such a huge turd. It’s the biggest turd I’ve ever seen and it’s right in that toilet up there! It was so big I didn’t even want to pee on it, so I tried to flush it several times! Finally, I peed on it and then flushed several more times and it still didn’t phase it. You guys just gotta see this thing!”

The three of us looked at each other and smiled and nodded. “yea, yea…okay’” The subject was abruptly changed and he just sat there and shut up knowing full well that it was just a matter of time before the next “seal would be broken.” We were all thinking this guy is one sick puppy. Damn! Anyway, enough minutes went by that I forgot about this guy’s sick discovery, and I clomped up the rickety staircase to relieve myself. I walked into the pisser and there it was!!! MOTHER HAVE MERCY! That was truly the biggest log I had ever seen… even to this day!!! It was Gi-normous…I peed on it…I flushed several times…I measured…This was an old toilet, 30 years old with a huge bowl…the “duty” was so big it disappeared out of sight into the gooseneck of the porcelain monster.

This commode was not a “1 GPF…GREEN MACHINE” of the new millennium. This throne was made in the forties…the reservoir probably held ten gallons of water…when you flushed it you had better be wearing your slicker and ear protection! I’m tellin’ ya right now! This turd extended out of the water at least six inches! I bet he had to lift off a few inches for a clean disconnect. From the rim of the toilet down to the lowest point was easily sixteen inches and who knows what extended into the abyss?” I know what you’re thinking… the guy obviously had a tight sphincter and he pooted a pencil diametered doobie. Wrong again! This mother was not even your inch-and-a-half O.D. normal healthy lifestyle movement. It was a THREE INCH O.D. GODZILLA BLOW-OUT! That thing would have put the average man in the hospital.

I went back down stairs and jumped up and down while spouting out gruesome descriptions. The “friend” shot about five “I told-ya-so’s” at me and the other two were about to look for another table when… there he was…this four hundred pound, monster bouncer dude! He walks by…and I look at the “friend” and he looks at me, and we both knew who hath given birth to that serpent in the pot. Enough said, we grabbed our beers and tried to put it out of our minds. And then, of coarse, number three had to go number one, and it started all over again…

Submitted by Freddy

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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Below is a review from David Hofstede Four Mile Bar in Las Vegas, NV – AOL City Guide

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.