I had forgotten how bad the Bad Bar used to be. Sure, it was still bad, even after the new owners took over, even after Hot Jason and Hot Nancy evacuated the premises, maybe even after they took down all the boobie stickers. Perhaps the Badness had soaked into the bricks of the Magical Wall of Support, so there was always little residual badness floating around. Or maybe it was just the nostalgia of the place, the fact that we WANTED it to be bad, even after things had clearly changed. Even after all the regulars went away, spurred by rumors of a new bar created by the creators of the Bad Bar.
E-mail correspondence with Hot Jason gave more information, but when Mo and I checked out the new venture a few weeks after they opened, we weren’t impressed. It seemed as though it hadn’t quite figured itself out yet. The crowd had an off-vibe, as though they were maybe patrons left over from the establishment that had previously occupied that space, a notoriously sketchy Broadway hangout. Mo and I noted that it was almost all 50-somethings wearing black leather jackets, as though they were legit now, but wanted to pretend that they weren’t, lots of wrinkled bar flies waiting out the witching hour when they would magically be fuckable. The bartenders were the old hotness, but the people on the other side of the bar? Seemed confused. Seemed as though they were all trying to organize and bring the old sketchy vibe back, but couldn’t quite figure out how to explain it to the pirate girl standing on the bar pouring Pucker into the gaping mouths of horny middle managers. Also, the music was strange. We were stymied, Mo and I, so instead we went to karaoke up the street and got really really drunk and then made Esteban come and fetch us and then seranaded him with songs from Wicked on the drive home. Because we are that way.
And so, when a week later, everyone descended upon Green Bay for our silly Minicon, we went back to the original Bad Bar, on the thought that it was a known quantity and anyway, with our group of crazy party critters, we would have fun no matter where we went. And so it was. For one night, the Bad Bar was exactly as bad as it ever had been. And it was good.
But then in May when we took Foo to the Bad Bar, we were disturbed to see the place was mostly empty at 10 pm on a Wednesday night. That’s insanity! The Bad Bar used to be standing room only at that time of the night, even during the week! And here we walked in and immediately scored the prized spots along the Wall of Support, right beneath the Groovy Disco Baby neon sign. Clearly, the winds of change had blown. Pour some Malibu on the ground in honor of our homies.
Then Pie left and Penny settled into married life and Carissa moved in with her beau and my life got sort of crazy and suddenly, we weren’t really going out to bars anymore. Suddenly, it has been months and months since I’ve been out drinking with my collection of boys. Months and months and months.
As with all things Minicon, there is a lot of weird prepwork that must be done. It was pretty clear that there was no going back to the Bad Bar, but the new Bad Bar, now that was a possibility. It was way bigger and it had an actual dance floor in the window, not a scary drunk-killer window ledge. It was even closer to the host hotel than Harry’s had been. Eric reported that it was definitely reminiscient of the old place, and according to the weekly updates from the owner in my e-mail box, the Bad had Risen Again. Also, there were photos and as you know, they do not lie.
This weekend, Esteban and I stopped down to talk to the owner about bringing in our group of farflung revelers and to have a few drinks, just to make sure this new bar would rise to the challenge. After all, I have high standards for my shindigs and if it wasn’t going to be good enough, then I needed to have time to get another game plan. The boy collective (Eric, Jason and Scotty) was called to join us out for a few drinks, too. I was happy to see that when we arrived at 8 pm, the place was already hopping. In fact, we only scored a table because a group of six got up just as we walked in. By the time Eric arrived, it was standing room only. Jason followed and by the time Scotty got there, he had to weave through folks to get to us. By that time, it was only 9 p.m.
The music is a little different than the old Bad Bar, a little more laid back and tinged with sea shanties (fitting their weird fish theme), but there are also still some quintessential original Bad Bar favorites. Which is a good thing, because if I don’t hear “Sunshine Day” again for the rest of my life, I will have no regret. The new bar is really unique, in that the walls move to make more room when it gets crowded, and it’s much more architecturally interesting than the old place (a fact they tried to hide with purple paint). The predicted vibrator races were held (Miss Wisconsin won) and the bartenders seem to have crafted a large poking device so that they can deliver a shot of booze to someone far into the crowd. Whether they want it or not. And there is also a creative group shot delivery system crafted out of a water ski. The magic is definitely back.
The best part is that I talked to the owner and while the Hots normally work on Saturday nights, they agreed to change their schedule to be behind the bar for our group. And that right there is why Hot Nancy and Hot Jason are hot beyond understanding. Not only are they both completely gorgeous but they are just awesome people even without the sexiness factor. Also, they will have vibrator races and some other fun things in store for our group.
The bar was celebrating its one year anniversary, so cans of Schlitz were a buck. Esteban just happened to be wearing his Schlitz t-shirt, which was a funny coincidence. The boys made regular runs for rounds of Schlitz plus one Malibu and Diet for me (the bottom of the glass absolutely clear with rum) and then it starts to get a little foggy. I know that rousing games of Drink, Bitch was played and Scotty scorched me by pegging “Dancing Queen” by ABBA before I could even realize what was happening, so not only did that sting but also the realization that Penny and Carissa were not there, so we could not do our improved choreography like the ABBA dorks that we are. We repeated the “It’s Elvis you fucker!” moment and I defied logic by zapping out Steeler’s Wheels in the first two notes, but I doubt anything could make up for the Dancing Queen debacle. Burn. Serious burn, man.
I got a little plowed and Esteban also got a little plowed, then announced that he was ready to go home. I had lost a bet while we were eating sushi on Friday night (I bet him that he couldn’t pound his leftover bowl of hard core wasabi like a shot) so I had no choice but to follow by the terms mandated by the wasabi bet. It was probably a good thing because I really didn’t need yet another glass of Dub-T Princess cocktail.
Regardless, the heir apparent has definitely earned its title. Long live the King.
(All photos courtesy of Eric’s camera phone)
If you’re planning to attend the Minicon, don’t forget that registrations must be in by tonight in order to guarantee a spot on the bus. I need to send in the contract tomorrow and we want to make sure that you can drink Doctor with us at the sleigh ride!
PS. We’re Weetapidoling again.
