On Sept. 13, 2014, I turned 21. As a well-respected journalist, a gatekeepr of information, it’s my civic duty to relate to the drinking public what I learned on that fateful day about the bar scene on campus.
At 3 p.m. there came a knock on my door. It was my nameless, faceless wing-man. It was time to baby-powder up; according to Google Maps, it was a long walk to a little place called Nitty Gritty. With a name like that, the place was sure to be filled with tough customers looking to scrap and hundreds of grizzled booze-hags to fall in love with.
It was going to be a long night, so I also filled a Ziploc bag with emergency baby-powder and stuffed it in my back pocket, immediately accepting the risks associated with transporting fine white substances through UWPD infested streets. At this point, chafing was obviously a non-factor, but if worst came to worst I could sell the baggy to some freshmen in a back alley or even use the powder itself to blind any would-be bar fighters at the Gritty.
Bar fights! I’d seen my fair share on television, and I was excited to finally witness someone being dragged across the bar face-first, shattering beer mugs along the way. No doubt Nitty Gritty was the best place in all of Madison for that sort of violent spectacle.
My nameless, faceless wing-man and I stepped into Nitty Gritty on high alert. With my right hand, I flashed the bouncer my birthday-boy I.D., with my left, I grasped the Ziploc bag in my back pocket, ready to spray its contents into the eyes of some poor son of a bitch eager to prey on fresh meat.
The place was filled with balloons. But no tough guys. (For the record, there were plenty of booze-hags). My fingers loosened around the Ziploc bag.
What had we walked into? Gritty? No, this was G-rated. This was the tilt-a-whirl at Six Flags Great America. My nameless, faceless wing-man and I quickly finished seven free Birthday Beers apiece, made passionate love to a half-dozen booze-hags and popped balloons on our way to the back door.
Nitty Gritty: Shit hole.
Next stop was Whiskey Jack’s. Before we could step inside, a group of burly men threw a drunken cowboy through the swinging saloon doors and into the street. For a rambunctious country boy like me, this was sure to be a good fit. I padded down my flowing mullet, threw in an impressive wad of chewing tobacco and made my entrance.
What a disappointment. This was no honky-tonk. There was no spittoon. No bottles marked “XXX.” No burlesque dancers and no lively piano playing. And, aside from a few cowpokes wetting their whistles at the bar, it was a total ghost town.
Whiskey Jack’s: Shit hole.
We left the country behind and moseyed on into the big city— The City Bar, that is. Big mistake. My nameless, faceless wing-man and I nervously settled into a booth near the bar. It occurred to us that The City Bar, a dimly-lit, underground burrow, was the perfect setting for a vampire feeding frenzy. It wasn’t long before two impossibly pale women at the bar ordered us “red wine.” A test, no doubt—The cups were filled with human blood. What could we do? Courtesy dictated that we drink them down to the last drop. And we couldn’t let them know we still had a pulse. Wiping the blood from our mouths, we tipped our caps to the undead women across the bar and casually made our way up the stairs to the surface world.
The City Bar: Vampire-infested shit hole.
Likes moths to a flame, we were drawn to the next bar, a well-lit establishment called Chipotle. Finally a good bar. The staff was friendly, the women were beautiful and the theme was enchanting. We ordered a few cervezas and enjoyed ourselves in the quaint little cantina.
Chipotle: Good bar.
It was outside Chipotle that I found a severed finger on the ground. There it was, resting in a fresh pool of blood on the sidewalk. I picked up the leaky digit. Turning it over in my hand, I concluded that it was an index finger (my nameless, faceless wing-man will tell you that the finger gets bigger every time I tell this story!). How had this detached apendage gone unnoticed? It was obviously a UWPD sting operation, and I’d already implicated myself. Thinking quickly, I wrapped my grisly discovery in a Chipotle napkin and deposited it in the sewage reservoir. I knew that UWPD wouldn’t patrol the sewer system until Monday morning. The alligators would make short work of the finger by then.
Missing digits: UWPD trickery.
My nameless, faceless wing-man and I fell into bad spirits thinking about the unlucky homeless man the UWPD had undoubtedly utilized for their gory scheme. For the rest of the night, we kept our eyes peeled for a four-fingered man.
We needed cheering up!
And nothing cheers people up like magic. So we headed off to Wando’s.
I was thrilled at the prospect of a performing magician. The Amazing Wando! I wondered what sort of tricks he’d pull. Floating beer bottles? Maybe he’d saw the bartender in half while we made a few drinks disappear.
There was no magic at Wando’s. Only loud music, an endless staircase and a lot of sweat.
Wando’s: Shit hole.
The night was winding down, and it was time to make peace with UWPD and secure safe passage home.
We struck up a conversation with a horse-cop. Things were cordial until he told us he’d castrated his clydesdale. No doubt, this was the same guy who’d lopped off that hobo’s finger. I felt bad for the gelding, and in that moment wished Grizzly made chewing tobacco for horses.
Luckily, the conversation came to an end when the horse-cop spotted a bag of fine white powder laying in the street near Wando’s.
He galloped away, and we slipped into the sewer system, completely disillusioned with the bar scene on campus.
