Goodnight sweet prince

The Powerhouse is dead. Long live the Powerhouse!

DISCLAIMER: This post is being made after being at a bar for the past two hours, so please take that into account when mocking any typos or grammatical errors.

So Fogarty and I took a late night trip down to our last local dive bar, The Powerhouse, to play a few rounds of darts and knock back a few. I spent three hours at the gym today and what better way to celebrate than to go fill up on cheap beer? So we get there and lo and behold it’s NOT THE POWERHOUSE, ANYMORE! The wall behind the entire behind-the-bar area has been stripped back to its decoration-less gold-laced mirror and the taps only serve pints of Bud and Bud Light. Defiling the good name of the pint with that swill is a travesty against god and man. Bud is the Uggs of the pub world. At least there is a time and place to wear Uggs. There is no good time or place for Bud. So our normal bar wenches are gone and the place is a tomb. This is good and bad. The pitchers of the vile Natural Light (which we have called “wet shit” for more years than I care to remember) are no more. On the upside, bottles of Sam Adams are much cheaper than before! We only found out about this after we ordered a round of Jameson and were overcharged by the new barhand. What surprised us was that, when he realized his error, he actually issued a refund for the difference! Honesty in a barkeep is admirable and the roots of a long and lasting friendship. So we stuck around and played about twelve games of darts and juke-blocked the majority of the night. They still have their awesome jukebox and we owned it. Good stuff. So even though I’m sure they will slowly whittle away at the things that make it our local hangout, for now it’s still tolerable and I’ll go back. The two things that will ruin the place for me are the removal of the jukebox and the dart boards. As long as I can drink, listen to good music, and play darts, I’m good to go. But if it begins to attract patrons like the ones who were playing darts next to us, I’m gone. It started with me playing “No Feelings,” a Sex Pistols Powerhouse staple. Well, they didn’t know who it was and had to “look it up.” Okay, they’re young and dumb. That’s okay, but when they had to look up The Pogues and every other song we played, it was over. And after our last song was finished, their set began. First up? “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen. Now I love Queen and have nothing against the song, but these two ass clowns were acting out the Wayne’s World version while sitting in their booth. Enough said, and we called it a night.

12 Replies to “Goodnight sweet prince”

  1. I wonder how long it took you type this entry? Can’t you do something more productive with your time besides calling people ass clowns?

    Jack

  2. The Frolic Room’s sort of in our ‘hood, 5000, but it’s about seven blocks away as opposed to the more comfortable stumbling distance of one! Sure, there are dive bars aplenty, but only one Powerhouse. And, yes, we’ve been known to say that’s a good thing, but still…

  3. The Frolic is in the hood but the Powerhouse is about 500 feet away. We’d have to walk all the way down past Vine for the Frolic which is quite a hump. When I used to go there it was always packed and if memory serves they didn’t have darts.

  4. “…these two ass clowns were acting out the Wayne’s World version while sitting in their booth.”

    I was wondering why you guys made it home before closing. What schmuckery!

  5. 5000,

    If I was at the Powerhouse on the night in question and karioking Bohemian Rhapsody, I may have been drunk and upset about my new haircut; To wit, I don’t need judgemental bloggers who bitch about it and stroke themselves with a keyboard trumpeting thier musical taste and bar experiences.

  6. If you were indeed at the powerhouse on the night in question then which one were you? The Jake Busey wanna bee looking guy or the yuppie in training ;-)

  7. Oh, Jack, don’t take things so personally. I’m often to be found jumping around and singing along to Pogues and B-52s songs emanating from that very same jukebox. You’d have every right to call me an ass clown (or even a fucktwirl), and I promise I wouldn’t even be that upset.

    Probably because I’d be drunk, friendly, and oblivious, but still.

    Making fun of others is your deity-of-choice-given right. As such, it’s also ours. No need to take much stock in it. Just dance, man, dance!

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