I don’t know the place (not bein’ from around there, or nothin’) but I know the Type of Place. And I also know that places like it are Few and Far Between.

It’s possible that the only “Type” of bar that survived from the 50s to the present day is what my Grandmother always refered to as the “Beer Joint.” Pickled eggs, Pabst Blue Ribbon, George Jones on the Jukebox, patrons who are really drunk at 3:30 in the afternoon. How horrible that even the “Beer Joint” is fading away.

I took Susan to a bar in Charleston called “The Keg” on our honeymoon. We got there in the middle of the afternoon and found a group of fellows lined up along the bar who were all drinking from thier own pitchers. Not pouring beer into glasses from pitchers… Just Drinking from Pitchers! The place freaked out when they saw Susan. I guess it was the first time a woman had walked in during daylight in quite some time.

I burned a few years ago. Damn shame, too.

At least I still have The Cotton Bottom and Betty’s Lounge. It’s always kind of nice to be able to wander into an establishment in which you know that anyone you meet probably has a communicable disease and a handgun. And a pickled egg.