By looking at her face you can tell that is was delicious. I was thinking it was going to be crazy packed full of crazy stuff; pull pork, bbq, slaw, you know Memphis stuff, but it was just packed full of awesome flavors, as for me I enjoyed my burger, I actually kind of mad I didn’t have one before. It was a great burger from a great place.

Throwback Tuesday (or is it supposed to be Thursday) Whatever it is I hate for things to go to waste. So, here it is, from my J-School Feature Writing class – Circa November 2009 – a story about a watering hole dear to my heart, the dive-iest of all dive bars, The Buffet. Where I have shared many a beer with many a good friends. I think I’ll walk down Memory Lane and enjoy a Minute of Happy at The Buff.

———

It sits, waiting in the corner. Waiting for the challenge. Can you handle it? Do you have what it takes? Don’t be fooled, there is only one opponent. The one you least expected.

It may look peaceful, a harmless table sitting, waiting for someone to play. But this shuffleboard table has a mind of its own and does not play nicely with others.

No frills, no fancy scoreboard. Grab the chalk and tally.

Smashed into the back corner of the bar, the journey alone to the shuffleboard table is no easy task. Residing against the men’s restroom entrance, the table runs parallel to the bar, creating a claustrophobic passage resembling westbound Speedway Boulevard at 5 p.m.

Players on either side of the board are at a disadvantage. On one side there is a high top table of drinkers swaying from side to side in their bar stools, while the other is backed into a corner fully equipped with a low hanging shelf convenient for a pitcher or glass or the hitting of one’s head.

Exchange an ID for the pucks, these don’t come cheap, sprinkle on some powdered shuffleboard wax, not from the container – that would be absurd, players scoop fallen bits of the wax from the felt lined edges of the board. Let the games begin.

Looming in the shadows of Fourth Avenue, The Buffet Bar’s florescent sign promoting cocktails and packaged liquors lights up the darkness of Ninth Street.

Scribbled names and quotes, paintings and tags layer every inch of space on the Buff’s walls. The only artistic attempts are covered over by the harsh, drunken doodles of others, in an effort to leave behind their mark on this legend of a bar. Old western photos and scenes of the Buffet in years past grace the spaces where patron’s markings cannot reach, offering a peek into the long history of the bar.

Wearing the heavy weight champion’s belt, the Buffet Bar is Tucson’s oldest bar operating out of the same location. Opened after national prohibition was repealed, the Buff opened its doors in 1934 and has been operating out of the same building since, 75 years to be exact. The bar is located at 538 E. Ninth St.

In the seven years Mike Vinson has worked at the Buff, the bar has remained relatively unchanged. Customers can no longer sip their drinks and smoke their cigarettes at the bar, and the new owners moved a picture of the bar from one wall to another. All in all the bar is the same watering hole Vinson remembers from almost a decade ago.

Scenery changes in the restrooms as phone numbers urging, “call for a good time” and dates of “we were here” get painted over quite frequently. Still, the walls of the bar have remained untouched by a paintbrush in quite a few years, Vinson said.

This ain’t your light beer kind of bar. The only brew flowing out of the tap here is Coors Original – a pitcher of it will set you back $6.

“Besides ballparks, stadiums and concerts we sell more draft Coors Original than any other bar in America, well maybe next to another in Colorado,” said William Davidson co-owner of the bar.

No martini glasses, no brandy snifters, no wine glasses. There is nothing stuffy about this down n’ dirty bar. If you are looking for a drink, take a walk on the wild side. Bartenders here will make you anything in the book, any remedy to fix a broken heart and make you forget the night.

Buffalo sweat, or the shot guaranteed to get you kicked out of the bar will make those even with a stomach of steel, puke on or around the bar while getting escorted out by one of the many large bouncers. Compromised of the drippings from drinks leaked into the bar mat and spilled cocktails and beers mopped up by the bar rag comes this shot. Garnished with red pickled eggs and the onions that come with them, this concoction is not for feeble drinkers.

The shot comes with a hefty price tag of $10 to discourage the brave from ordering it. The bartenders not only have to be willing to serve it, but also to clean it up. Drinkers must know what they are getting themselves into. Sorry for ruining the fun but there is no surprising friends with this one.

From pitchers of Coors Original to buffalo sweats, rum and cokes to John Daly’s – a hard version of an Arnold Palmer – shuffle boarders beware of drink spillage likely to damper the flow of the game.

Puck in hand. The perfect lined shot. Only three points stand between you and victory. Pull back and release. It feels good out of the hand, flawlessly it slides. Inch by inch times stands still. It crosses the line, one, then two. Coming to a near stop lines shift, the puck goes flying off the board.

The table wins again. Order up another round.

Okay –coming soon — I will be back on the trail.  I have missed a couple of beer fests –and we all know –SO many beers, so little time!! ’til next time –chug-a-lug!!

Then what...?!

Parked right in front of this work of art...

This was so that the person tending the structure knew someone was going down. If you didn't warn him, he may let someone go up, and you'd smash right into them.

Found the jankiest, shadiest parking structure right in cozy little Downtown LA, near one of my favorite dives.

Club Raven -Sacramento

Hidden in the strip of businesses and next to hair and nail salon –next door to Lincoln Law School is the Club Raven at 3246 J Street just east of Alhambra.  Long  narrow tunnel of a place –elongated C style bar against the wall with few  bar stools wrapping around each end to give full bar people-watching quite the treat. The regulars know there is parking in the back and those coming in the front are either lucky enough to find parking or just a newbie wandering in.

Loud CD jukebox with great classic rock, several sports screens for easy viewing and friendly ‘tenders along with good groups of folks that know each other and interested in what bring you in here!!!  Good assortment of bottled brew including Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, Newcastle, and Guinness along a sponsored tap being pumped through a jockey box, whenever the notion strike them.  I think Sierra Nevada’s Summer Fest was featured the evening I visited.  Check it out–let me know what you think.

That was 100% the right answer after a long, hard week.

Full photo set from The Static Minds & The Campaign 1984 show here

So we’re sitting there at a booth which is 4-5 feet from the bar, being attended to by a seriously raspy-voiced waitress who kept dropping lines like “That’s what she said” as she took our order. We’re carrying on with our inane conversation when all the sudden this burly older man sitting at the bar who, mind you, had been yelling for someone else to do the moonwalk as we walked in turns around and starts talking to the couple sitting with us.

Burly McBurlson: “Hey, I recognize you guys from the dog park!”

Friend:“Oh?”

B urly McBurlson:“Yeah! I’m Boris’ dad!”

“Friend: Oh yeah!”

There was a bit of “Oh hey, your dog is __” blah blah blah. Then burly man turns toward me.

Burly McBurlson: “Yeah, Boris (his dog) just loves to hump their dog!”

Friend: “Yeah, they have an interesting relationship.”

Burly McBurlson: “*Burly laugh* That’s right-Boris really likes to hump their dogs head, and he just sits there and let’s him.”

Burly McBurlson was a random, yet seriously funny individual who talked about everything from hating minor league baseball teams to when he walked his dog. It was quite entertaining. Definitely an uncanny moment in my book.

As if this bar couldn’t get any more exciting, at one point this random guy (the one who was being yelled at to moonwalk, in fact) comes up to our table and announces that there were 3 song credits on the juke box! You guys need to go over there and use them up!

This would seem like a nice gesture, except for the fact that as the two guys we were with were selecting jams the moonwalker comes up to them and demands that they not play any stupid shit.

And as a final, cherry-on-top moment, as the bar staff was closing down the restaurant and dragging in a sign from outside a random grey cat trotted in and made itself at home in the restaurant. The bar staff were clearly used to it – and the cat continued to waltz around the restaurant for the remainder of the evening.

With dogs, moonwalkers, jukeboxes, and cats I’m not sure if I’m totally smitten or repulsed by the place, but I can say it has definitely made the list in my top dive bar experiences.

I think this is a fairly accurate representation of the complex relationship between the night’s events, my awkwardness, and my level of satisfaction.

Dive Bar Awkwardness & Satisfaction Scale

…

Pool with Shandi at Divebar.

Divebar on Wednesday– uh, yay for a jam band. I bartended their CD release party over a year ago, though, just before I moved.

We stayed at Hooters, where everything is orange/boobie-referencing,

and where the tortoise took a bath.

For some reason, we both took a million pictures of the carwash. WHY?

I’m driving. You love the stylish pink duct tape on the roofliner.

Small Jen, Big Mojave Desert.

ZZYZX ROAD. HELLS YES.

Disclaimer: my cousin's boyfriend is the bassist for the group. I've seen Divebar a couple times, and it's a really good time. No, I'm not just saying that because I know the bassist and his gf. Divebar is a cool band, and if you're lucky enough to see one of their shows in Chicago, you'll have a great time.

Here are a few pics that I took the last time I saw them (sorry, couldn't get a good picture of the drummer!):