Swedish Steel

My only relief after a very challenging and frustrating week at work is a Friday Happy Hour stop at the infamous Moonlite Lanes cocktail lounge. There's a million other, much nicer places I could have selected to imbibe with my friends. But why would I want to do that?

I have true appreciation for bona fide dive bars. This was likely culivated during my college years in Missouri. Friday nights could mean a short drive to Fulton (population 11,423) and hang out with Bobby, the local alcoholic. Bobby whiled away his days in the Main St. Bar or "The Post Office". I particularly enjoyed his ability to fade out sitting at the bar. He'd come to about ten minutes later, greeting everyone with "What the hell's going on 'round here!?", and continue eating his cheeseburger, still in his hands. Later my friend Mike's high school buddies would show up and regale us with stories I'm sure they've told million times. Be sure to ask me about the "chili-masturbation" tale.

Other nights I found myself at the "Black and Gold" (college colors), where a Jack and Coke only set you back $2.50, and would lead me to wake up in the back seat of my own car. The bathroom was always flooded, and required tricky manuevering to aim and not get your shoes soaked with the mystery filth.