My grandpa took me to a bar once when I was around 15. Times were different then, not because it was eons ago, but because I’m from southeastern Ohio, and that happens. He told me stories about the bar he owned downtown. My favorite was how he oversalted the free popcorn to sell more beer. Genius.
I did my interview for the upcoming article in Columbus Alive! at a bar I hadn’t been to in a while. It’s changed a little now, but it used to be a total old timer hangout. Opened at 7 am, closed at 7pm on a late night, but usually more like 3 pm. Of course, they didn’t take credit cards, but they would run a tab for you with no questions. Sounds like you could rip them off, right? No, there was a bookie that hung out there and unless you wanted to rumble with knife-carrying Italians, you paid your tab. The menu had two choices – a burger with yellow cheese…or pepperjack cheese. The best aspect was if someone was playing music, it wasn’t newer than 1975, which means there’s a better chance of avoiding pop and dance music, but usually it was silent, other than the tales of bullshit being spun. Oh, and the same twelve jokes over and over between the gambling, drinking, and the bitching about women. For a generation that supposedly was sexist, I noticed everyone pretty much was terrified of their wives. Probably because they were too old to smack ’em around, am I right? (Bad joke high five, anyone?)
If you think this sounds like a lame place to hang out, do me a favor (if you’re over 25). Go downtown to a nightclub. Walk in and realize your clothes are way outdated. Order a seven dollar beer…if you can ever get served…try competing for a drink when a 22 year old with breast implants and a skirt so tight it looks like body paint walks up next to you. Oh and try hitting on her, watch your old ass get shut down because she knows you don’t make six figures. Realize you can’t hear anyone talk over the horrible techno beats and it smells like an old wrestling mat, thanks to the sweaty pill poppers twirling with glow sticks. Get bumped into 90 times and sadly make eye contact with the balding 38 year old douchebag wearing a shiny button up. It’s like staring into the future, and the future is sad. See you at the old man bar.