...luring disco dollies to a life of vice since 1999.

2007-08-03

Swizzle fo' rizzle

Today I packed up a lot of the "bar stuff." Yes, I still keep such things in my home. The pilsner glasses and champagne flutes don't bother me and don't make me want to drink. People, places and things don't make me want to drink. It's all about how I react to my surroundings. That said, I know people who, as soon as they quit drinking, tossed any and all "souvenirs." If it should ever come to pass that these items make me uncomfortable, then I will likely box them up and give them away. As it stands, we still have people over, we still entertain, and as long as it remains a NON-issue, I see no reason to get rid of this stuff.

The swizzle stick collection, handed down to me by my maternal grandfather, triggers nothing in me other than nostalgia. Nostalgia for my grandfather (known to just about everyone as "Big Neil"), his bearish bulk, his love of bawdy jokes and of kitsch. The basement of my grandparents' house in Helena, MT had the classic 50's "rec room," complete with bar. This basement remained more or less unchanged in all the years they lived there, save for the introduction of the turd-brown Barcaloungers that surrounded the television set; I seem to recall those appearing sometime around 1979. Big Neil kept a collection of "bar kitsch" the likes of which I have not seen anywhere since. Everywhere he visited, he would obtain a swizzle stick from that city's watering hole (and people wonder why I am the way I am). The swizzle sticks that I retrieved from the rec room bar is less a collection of little plastic wands as it is a travelogue of sorts, a series of memories. I picture Big Neil at each of these places, wiping down the swizzle stick with a cocktail napkin and sticking it in his inside pocket, transferring it to his luggage, and then sticking it with the others in the big glass beer stein he kept behind the bar.

Today, as I prepared to stick them in several plastic shopping bags to ensure they wouldn't break in the move, I went through them, admiring the designs and wondering if any of these lounges still existed. A lot of them were from Reno, Lake Tahoe and Las Vegas, some from Montana, others from around here.

Cactus Pete's still exists, but judging from its website, I tend to doubt that they produce anything near as awesome-looking as this anymore.

Ditto Harrah's I love this li'l showgirl; it saddens me somehow that these places are so corporate-looking now.

Now, Trader Vic's looks every bit the delightful pseudo-Polynesian respite, but I somehow doubt they still stick these in their Mai Tais.

A quick search on Google yielded the revelation that this place no longer exists. Which is a goddamn fucking shame, because it looked like it was quite possibly the most AWESOME PLACE EVER. I could totally see Big Neil in this joint. Fuck, man; I was absolutely born in the wrong decade.

Pretty obvious, this'un.

The Mint not only still exists, it's evidently yours for a mere $795K. Livingston's real nice, actually. Just promise me that if you buy it, you won't turn it into a fuckin' Starbucks.

I'm not exactly sure WHERE in Alaska Big Neil got this. Yes, that is a TURD. The houseboy is horrified by this one. I think it's hilarious, but then I never emotionally matured beyond age 11.

Now, I know for a fact that this place doesn't exist anymore. It's not even that interesting a swizzle stick; I include because I distinctly remember the day we went here and Big Neil got this.