Danzig = Kitty Cat Enthusiast

So recent photographs have been circulating on the internets of horror punk pioneer Glenn Danzig exiting a grocery store while carrying a bounty of household necessities, including a box of "Fresh Step" cat litter and a bag of canned cat food. Although legions of his loyal fiends may be embarrassed by this uncharacteristic crusade, this should come as no surprise to his true fans (like myself.)  Please allow me to take you on a jaunt into the lyrical legacy of Glenn Danzig, showcasing that his spooky sounds bluntly reference his penchant for pussies.

Let us begin with a selection of songs from his debut solo album, released in 1988.  The track "She Rides" a bluesy, sexy-stagger of a song, is about taking his little kitty on long car rides. His favorite feline at the time liked to perch itself on Glenn's left armrest as he drove.

indicative lyrics:
She's Black
And Sin Runs Down Her Back

An obvious reference to the time that Glenn visited the Arby's drive thru and spilled Broncoberry sauce all over the kitty. Poor little guy.

"The Hunter" was written about the one time his cat, Elliott, killed a mouse in the basement. Elliott was so proud to present the vermin corpse to his owner, upon the altar in front of their bay window.

indicative lyrics:
Gonna Do A Million Things To You Honey
Your Life Belongs To Me
So Don't Use No Love Gun

In the longform video for the song "Mother" a live chicken is sacrificed, torn apart at the seams by the hands of the sideburned beast. Once the cameras stopped rolling, Glenn immediately gathered up all those tender vittles and presented them to his pack of kitties, all of whom had traveled with him to multiple video shoots.

From the "How The God's Kill" album, "Left Hand Black" was initially christened "Left Paw Black" due to the coloration of a Siamese who had a playful penchant for swatting shoelaces.  Danzig ran into some legal trouble when his cat scratched the cornea of a neighbor's rabid canine, but luckily, a settlement was reached out of court.  This track was to feature multiple meows during the downstrokes of the chorus but unfortunately, greedy slob producer Rick Rubin 86'ed this idea during the final mixdown of the album and thus, record sales slumped. 

indicative lyrics:
Kinda Like A Dog
With Seven Pupils In It's Eye

The 1999 album "666" Satan's Child" was titled as such in reference to his cute Calico "PawLee" who made a habit of chewing on Glenn's car keys. Originally titled "Mr. Mischief," the record company requested the title be changed in accordance to Danzig's legacy of darkness and evil.

From his 2002 flop, "I Lucifer I," the boring ballad "Wicked Pussycat" chillfully tells the tale of his four-legged feline who continually urinated on a rug that Glenn purchased in Romania in 1990.  This was a pivotal point in Glenn's career, and is seen by rock historians as when he went public with his affection for felines, so to speak.

indicative lyrics:
Six-Foot Pussycat, I Like The Way You Swing Your Tail

Big Black Witch Cat, Yes, You Cast A Real Strong Spell

Even dating back to his tenure in Samhain, when Glenn penned the tune "He Who Cannot Be Named" which is a blatant reference to a malnourished stray who showed up on his doorstep one brisk autumn evening. Although the cat was not wearing an identification tag, multiple flyers were posted around his neighborhood and thus, the animal was returned to it's rightful owner. Sources close to the man have revealed that Glenn still reminisces about this cherished cat on a regular basis.

Rumors have long been circulating to the origin of the famous Misfits "DeviLock." Truth be told, this signature hairstyle came about when Glenn, who loves administering Eskimo Kisses to kitties, began to playfully dangle a lock of hair in front of a frolicking feline.

The underlining kitty current in Danzig's lyrics is undeniable.  Pay attention to them the next time you're listen to the man and his monsterous music.  

A Dog's Life...

from December of 2006

About 8 years ago I met a dashingly handsome pit bull/boxer mix named Bubba. He hailed from North Carolina but his bark lacked any accent. He was born into poor dixie trash with his puppyhood spoiled by untold tales of abuse & neglect. Bubba found a new owner when he was about 21, someone he could trust and who would never let him go. He was a wonderfully behaved pooch, loyal, gentle and occasionally a little gassy.

Bubba had a roommate, a scottish terrier named Maxine. She was roughly a quarter of his size, but she ran shit like a General at Gettysburg. If she wanted to lay on the couch, he would have to get up and move. Maxine would always eat first. Any toy that Bubba was playing with at the time would instantly become hers if she desired it to be so. Being the elder, this bossy bitch took him under her wing...err...paw and taught him about true doggystyle.

Still, they were best friends, like Ponyboy & Johnny, R2D2 & C3PO, Kevin & Paul, Over time their living arrangement eventually blossomed into love. In their own little world of tugtoys, bellyrubs and outdoor defecation, they were everything to each other. They went on daily walks together, numerous car rides and many backyard excursions.

About a year ago, Maxine succumbed to old age. She lived a vibrant life but time caught up with her. Bubba was rendered desolate. He walked around his owners house for weeks trying to find her. Beneath the fur, he knew she was gone, but didn't want to admit it. At feeding time, he still gave leeway for Maxine to dine first, sitting back until his owner gave the OK. Bubba lost his appetite for everything he once enjoyed and the will to carry on alone.

Bubba passed away last week at the age of 84. He never fully recovered from the loss of his soulmate - fuck...does anybody? If there is a canine afterlife, may he be reunited with that one individual who completes him. May his eternal days be abundant with dead carcasses to roll in, leggy bitches to mount and all the shit he can eat.

National Epidemic or Erotic Excrement?

from May of 2007

So I was walking around my neighborhood this morning. A peaceful Mother's Day stroll while residents were waking up, calling their loved ones or doing yardwork. Keeping to myself, humming Elmore James tunes, I noticed a handbill laying on the sidewalk. Hmmm...this wasn't really the type of area where trash is strewn about much, so I was interested in it's content.

Is this really such an extensive epidemic that it needs to be addresses via streetwise propaganda? I mean, shit, everyone pisses. My one buddies' girlfriend leaks in her pants all the time, that doesn't mean she should send away for some informative pamphlet and sleep on the bathroom floor.

Apparently our good friends at Pacific International LTD, which is located nowhere near the Pacific Ocean, have taken it upon themselves to dry up America with their tried-and-true treatments of tyranny. Why must everyone follow their pissing protocol? We live in the greatest country in the world. Sure we're marred with racial inequality, political corruption on every level and freekin' Nascar, but we also have freedom of facial hair, Night Court in syndication and drive thru porno shops. I say if chicks wanna keep pissing themselves, that's cool with me. According to this flyer, bed wetting is caused by "incorrect sleep," which makes about as much sense as tit-flashing Stevie Wonder, but with over half a century of experience, I assume these pee pee professionals would hold some merit.

There's nothing sexier than when a hot chick lets loose a lemonade load on her deserving dude. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. These dry-jockied jerkbags are trying to desensitize the youth of today and steer children onto a path of the prosaic. I still remember as if it was yesterday, the first time I crossed the streams with a chick before. It was beyond cool. And ya know why, because my parents raised me right and showed lil' Smith the benefits of using toilets and urinals but also gave me the freedom of enuresis expression. As I celebrate Mother's Day by drinking an army of Pabst pounders, every time I urinate, it'll be like I'm hugging my mom and saying "Thanks."

Piss on your Cross & Shit on your Altar

from July 0f 2006

So I received this letter in the mail the other day. Signed, stamped and addressed personally to me...in ink. A two page message, front and back. Nice pretty handwriting on eye-pleasing yellow paper...from some chick, says her name is Shaunna. The return address was from 3 blocks away. Perhaps one my neighbors was informing me of a summer yard sale, or writing me a little thank you note for letting their dog take a shit in my yard, or maybe... wait...stand down Mr. Smith....it seems like one of my god-fearing neighbors wants me to join their religion. Awww...this is too good to pass up.

So I read thru the letter and its more vague a blonde guy's mustache. No real definition of spiritual immortality, just a lot of hand-fed humility to which your average cross-crusader would feel enlightened to. The sector of belief is not important, because every Christian religion is fucked. Holding solid tenet and devotion to the most contradictory and censored book to ever exist, the binded souls who find solace in these readings are destined for ruin.

Dont get me wrong, (to quote Dude Shimek) "it's a good book", but I'm too informed to revolve my entire existence around it. When I was a lil' shaver, I used to love Beverly Cleary books, but those were also mis-interpreted fiction but nonetheless, an entertaining read. I felt almost offended that a neighbor would take it upon themself to assume that my beliefs and convictions are weak and I should jump the bandwagon to their asinine cult.

The letter and accompanying pamphlet repeatedly stress that reading the word of the lord needs assistance and that therein lies their motive. Captain Beefheart wrote some weird-as-shit music which could be translated as brilliant narration, but to some people, hes perceived as nothing more than a slurring sebaceous slob.

Why should I join a creed that allows only 144,000 people to enter the feigned pearly gates of heaven? Is it safe to assume that there is still room for me? Probably not, since this has been a practicing sanction since 1870. Should I renounce friends and country to believe in something that is as dogmatic as the easter bunny? I think I'm cool where I'm at right now.

I figured that responding to the author and informing them that I would have to decline their intriguing offer to enlist in their crooked crusade would be superfluous, so I will take the road less traveled. If anyone in the Erie area has a large canine that takes big shits, let me know. My neighbors are in dire need of some new lawn ornaments . . .

Sarah Palin Parking Lot

I have very few words to describe this video.  Shot in Columbus, Ohio this clip features the dudes from New Left Media proposing political questions to people in attendance of a Sarah Palin book signing.  Holy crap... check 'dis shit...

A few personal highlights from this clip ::

• The one lady who states that the U.S. had an "Administration of Czars?"

• The bizzo who says that PETA needs to get the polars bears off the land so we can drill for oil.

• The little troll lady who's preferred Palin policies include "Fairness" and "Realness"

Hooray for ignorance.  Praise the uninformed.  These are the people that you share the roadways with.  These individuals may very well be in charge of overseeing your bank transactions.  And yes, these are the people that I compete with for jobs in the workplace.

Ehh... but the one chick is super hot. 

Pungent Co-worker

I work in an professional office. I make a decent living and generally enjoy and excel at my profession. I share a 16" x 20" room with one other person. The problem is, this individual is undoubtedly the most disgusting troll I have ever come across in my life.

During my initial interview, I sat across the table from my future co-worker and noticed a super sickening smell. This lady was dressed like a cracked out gypsy hobo. Ragged, tattered, unclean attire. Tacky homemade jewelry that looked too cheap for a scarecrow to wear. Brittle hair that resembled a rat's nest. Again, we work in a professional office setting where we meet with customers on a regular basis and occasionally venture outside the workplace on business. Man, I should have known better.

Dude, my co-worker hasn't washed her clothes in over nine years. This is fact. She told me so. Her family doesn't even own a washing machine. (I'm not even going to get into what her dirtbag husband looks like!) They believe that the body's natural oils are exuded for a reason and should not be washed away. That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Humans need to cleanse themselves to get rid of dead skin. Dead skin is just that, human tissue that is extinct. And when human tissue dies, it begins to rot. She seriously emits an odor not unlike that of an unfortunate highway roadkill. Like a dead animal. A rotting corpse.

She has cats. Lots of them. I would tell you how many, but even she doesn't know. "More than 13" she says. And I know she isn't lyng, because her little feline friends often used her clothes as a litterbox. I shit you not. The lady smells like cat piss. Enough so to make your eyes burn when within close proximity. And the only thing worse than cat piss is old cat piss. It's nauseous fumes are almost dizzying. On the plus side, in my tenure at this company, I have learned to exclusively mouth breathe and when she is in my general vicinity, I can easily hold my breath for more than 60 seconds witout even flinching. Maybe this is how Houdini got his start?

My situation is embarrassing. When my parents ask me "How is work going?" I would rather not delve into my rotten reality. I have confronted our boss about this nauseating nuisance on several occasions and I get the speech of how she's been with the company for XX amount of years and how he promises to mention something. The entire office steers clear of our work area, for they all are aware of the offensive odor. of the I would say something myself to the lady, but I also failed to mention that she is the meanest witch I have ever met. An evil, hateful, self-centered, paranoid gutter-bitch.

The lady is not poor. I know how much money she makes. She is just a mean, filthy wench who thinks she is better than everyone else.  Her kids sleep on a freekin' pool raft.  This is fact.  I am trapped in a revolting room with this despicable dirtbag.

Dive Bar Review: Erie, PA - part IV - East Side

Mays Tavern
1118 East Lake Road

review one:  If JFK would have lost the 1960 presidential election, then THIS BAR would be just like the movie The Deer Hunter. We, as a country, could have very well avoided our involvement in Vietnam. Over 58,000 American lives could have been spared and conjointly, maybe the Deer Hunter could have spend more time being about Buck Season! Deer Hunters are cool. I hope my next wife has her deer license so she can go kill dinner for me. That would be so romantic. And she’d give me the pelt so I could curl up in front of the fireplace as a read Napoleon Hill. And Mays Tavern is where I will hang out. I don’t wanna give away TOO MUCH about this gem, (i.e. GO THERE!) but lets just say the sign outside is irrefutable.

review two:  Growing up, there was a kid who, according to his family tradition, was to have sex with the first doe he killed. Yup…dude rod into deer box. And he did. For real. He lives in western New York now, but I think he would like Mays Tavern. He just bought some land up there.

Rating: 4/5

820 East Avenue
We sat at the bar. There was a dead fly on the mustard bottle in front of us. We joked about it. Sometimes it’s not what you’re laughing about, it’s who you’re laughing with. This place was weak. I find no reason to revisit. As we got off our stools to leave, the fly moved over to a pepper shaker.  True story.

Rating: 1/5

Not sure if you noticed, but I’ve been navigating off-topic lately. Most of these bars are what you’d expect. Shitty, boring and uneventful. Crappy budweiser on draft and a bawdy bitch sitting on her plump asspillow playing Megatouch. But still powerfully better than any bar in downtown Erie (sans Club Power Moves!) The night we visited Swann’s, it was my associates turn to drive. So I got drunk. Real drunk. I don’t remember much. I should probably go there again, if I knew where it was. I slept good that night. As if I was watching my kid in a grade school play.

Rating: ?

Lakeview Tavern
1400 East Lake Road

 Yeah, same night. I remember there was a giant stuffed gorilla sitting at a table. And some beastly lady with a bag of her soiled jeans. Probably shit stained. Pig… And I tried to get Whiteman to get us some swiss cheese and some pickled sausage. I don’t remember her name? At least I’m a fun drunk…

Rating: 2/5

Ash Street Pub
562 East 12th Street
 Yeah, dawg! Le’ bartender was some classic rock renegade who’ll talk your freekin’ ear off, man. His drunken drivel made about as much sense as licking a raccoon’s paw. I liked this place. More bartenders should drink. Ron Popeil always tries the shit he’s selling!

Rating: 4/5

901 East Avenue
This East Ave. stop was nice. Not like “dude, you should buy this place” but a pleasing predilection of sorts. They had live music (some hoary hero with an acousitc geetar playing Paul Simon ‘n shit) and the joint did NOT smell like the inside of a retards thigh. This is the kind of place where you could make out with a chick and NOT worry about her moustache giving you face abrasion. And chances are she probably has enough money left over to take the bus downtown on Monday morning to get that abortion! Next time you go on a date with some broad, maybe stop here on your way to Rapeland Farms!

Rating: 4/5

2902 Reed Street
Collin Marple was my favorite roommate ever. Nothing against any of the other dudes and chicks who had the severe torture to share quarters with me, but Collin woke up early. We’d have coffee every morning outside on the couch of 319. His girlfriend at the time, who had gravity-defying boobs, would crawl to her car and we’d heckle her as she drove away. He would say the funniest shit and refer to every dirtbag, idiot and fool as “your boy.” He had this omnipotence over all things hip hop but was well versed in punk and metal, moreso than 99% of the people I know. Dude had Grim Reapers’ “See You In Hell” on vinyl! Wanting to hear the title track, and more notably, Steve Grimmett’s 18 second falsetto flair at the end of the track, Collin wisened me to a wider world. He dragged the needle to song 3 on side 1, “Liar.”

Southpaw axeman Nick Bowcott crunches thru a killer riff showcase as Grimmett’s vocals soar overhead like a flesh-obsessed vulture. You’re lucky I don’t remember the names of the rhythm section, or I’d talk about them too! This is one of my favorite songs ever, probably because I was introduced to it in such a chivalrous and fun fashion.

Anyway, Gatherings is NOT a dive bar. My associate lied to me…LIAR!

Rating: 1/5 This place is way too nice

2330 East 38th Street
Isn’t a Nunzi one of those things that chicks wear? I dunno. I found $10 on the floor. This place would be a good place for a mother rat to lay her eggs.

Rating: 1/5

Jimmy’s Tavern
726 East 26th Street
I think this is the first bar we simply walked out on. As we approached the sidewalk a sign proudly proclaimed MC DJ was spinning all your favorite crappy modern hits. Now I have seen AC/DC live. Critty was there with me. My neck hasn’t been the same since. (Hence the earlier reference to the Red chiropractor) Have you ever seen a show that was SOOOO loud that you could actually see the soundwaves? For real. It looks kinda blurry. Like visual vibration. You feel really exposed, like a wolf could come up behind you and take the sharpie right out of your back pocket. Well, Jimmy’s was loud as piss, blasting some horrible rap sewage. The place was crowded, but there was no bartender. We waited for about 4 minutes, assaulted by the abhorrent sounds of Kid Rock, before we left. Up yours Jimmy…and the bat that you ate off that tree!

Rating: blah!

723 French Street

If Lloyd Dobler was 21, he should have went here after her broke up with Diane Court. Absolutely NO chicks go here. Looking into the future, the following conversation will take place between me and my supermodel viking wife.

Wife: where are you going? You can’t just bang it out and then leave!
Me: Why not, I finished!
Wife: Not so fast mister, I don’t want you staying out all night, coming home, smelling like perfume!
Me: (with arms outstretched) But babes, I’m going to Skeeters!
Wife: (smiling) Ok, have fun. Don’t forget, tomorrow me and a buttload of my hot friends are gonna be re-enacting the battle scene from Braveheart in the backyard…topless.
Me: Ehh…I might be busy (closes door)

Yeah, no chicks go to Skeeters. It’s cool.

Rating: 3/5

Scooters Lounge
602 East 24th Street
Remember in Back to the Future II when Marty is in the alternate 1985 and the entire town of Hill Valley is a biker haven rats nest? Yeah! We pulled up to Scooters (in a four wheeled vehicle…our first mistake) and were blinded by about 30 bikes and their respective riders. With more leather than Rob Halford’s closet, these dudes looked quite formidable. The inside of the bar was an entirely different story, maybe 10 people total, most of them saggy-tittied biker bitches. This place was rough, but I kinda looked the part, so we were in. When they make a movie of the life and career of Sam Elliott, THIS is the location in the film where he loses his virginity. They sell do-rags too. I almost bought one. I opted for a another beer instead.  Ehhh..it’s like a homo going to a titty bar.

Rating: 2/5

461 East 25th Street
Individuals fail all the time. The teenage girl that dresses like a hussie for 3 days straight, hoping that one boy will take notice and ask her to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance on Friday. The youngling who wants to build a treehouse super bad in his back yard, but lacks lumber…or any sense of architecture…or friends for that matter. The avid record collector who drives 126 miles to a swap meet, following a lead of first pressing John Coltrane vinyl, only to find a bin full of Steve Lawrence records. Sometimes effort goes unnoticed, sometimes direction just isn’t enough. Chuckles Tavern sits in a shitty location and therein lies the problem. Comparative to size as a hollowed out banana, Chuckle’s is no laughing matter. This place is sad, but has tinges of a family bar. Deadbeat dads come here to rekindle friendships with their fucked up families. Drug addict mothers show up to sing Bette Midler Karaoke. Styleless wiggers bring their underage girlfriends here to drink. Chuckles does have a mobile meal cart that my associate and I spotted at Liberty Park during the Edgar Winter show. Offering corn dogs, potato ribbons and many other fried feasts, this encased snack unit, which I dubbed the “Chuck Wagon” will hopefully be making many more appearances at local Erie events. I was pretty gooned up when we stopped here, so I don’t remember too much else. They had a pinball machine that was older and more beat up than Cher’s labia.

Rating: 4/5

Dive Bar Review: Erie, PA - part III - East Side


I find it fascinating when inanimate objects display human attributes. Not like a freekin’ potato chip with the visage of Abe Lincoln, I mean like a classic car that has more humility than the seafood bitch at Giant Eagle in Yorktown Centre. (you know who I’m talking about, she wears that shitty captains hat…she’s far from nautical but is very familiar with seamen…heh) I don’t know where I’m going with this, which is probably why we went to Michalski’s.

This bar has hit rock bottom. It smells like gerbil piss, the walls are thinner than a fruit roll up and the joint is completely filthy. The other patrons, a grizzled jerk named Irish and his filthy friend Fredo, look like they haven’t seen sunlight since Robert Guillaume took Benson to the top of the prime time TV ratings. The bartender accused Irish of heisting a bar rag, which was clearly sticking out of this coat pocket, but the Dublin drunk retaliated with (in a voice that could only be replicated by Popeye’s grandfather) “If I was gonna take something…it would be the whole fuckin’ bar!” Lucky for us, Irish wasn’t feeling greedy that day and left the joint the way he found it, grimy, shit stained and just plain wonderful!

On his way to the bathroom, Fredo started puking in his mouth and dribbled a bit onto the wooden plank floor. The barkeep had a fresh shot waiting on the bar as Fredo returned from the lavatory. The ceiling tiles were painted my Mrs. Eels’ third period Retard Ed. class. Go there and check it out for yourself. No windows, no women, no shit. If I ever get married, this is where my wife will have her bachelorette party.  I dream about bars like this in my sleep

Rating: 5/5

302 Parade Street
This place was a nittle too nice, and it was still crappy as hell. People were holding conversations with each other at a decent level. The jukebox actually worked. One chuggernaut down the bar even had a coaster. I noticed they offered swiss cheese for a dollar. This place was fairly busy despite it being nowhere close to happy hour. Some dirt dick named Lenny came up to me and said he had my back then offered us drugs. I don’t like drugs. I don’t like people who do drugs. If you’re that weak of a person that you resort to poisoning yourself for mental self improvement, than I personally think that you should cease to breathe. No one will miss you. There were two bartenders working, (which I think breaks a dive bar rule) neither of them busy. The men’s room featured a quarter inch slick of urine covering the entire floor.  The bar stools were the most uncomfortable damn things ever and ricketier than an Imperial Walker. I’m pretty sure several bastard children were birthed in this very seat. Ahh bastards (sigh)…a slut’s diarrhea…

Rating: 2/5

East 12th Street
Dear Iran,
If you’re going to bomb U.S. soil, I’d like to recommend the following establishment. Located on the corner of 12th Street and some shit road is the worst bar ever. The sign outside clearly states no sports jerseys, baseball hats must be worn forward and pants must be around your waist. Well much like your wife’s face, rules are meant to be broken. The teenage wigger kid bartender chose to defy his employers etiquitte and I must say, looked freekin’ ridiculous while doing so. His gear was about as fresh as the block of swiss cheese sitting out at room temperature on the counter. Bottles of Molsen Canadian were $1.75 but Mr. Gay-Z behind the bar couldn’t find them in the cooler.
The place reeked of Nascar. I HATE Nascar. Posters, schedules, shitty blowup cars hanging from the ceiling and I shit you not, a song on the jukebox called “I Love Nascar.” Unfortunately, this is an accurate slice of Americana and I’d be more than willing to sacrifice these slack-jawed shitheads for ‘the cause.’ The place was very roomy but much like a chick with a big pussy, it doesn’t mean that you like being inside of it.

Rating: 0/5

613 Parade Street

I never knew how delicious pumpkin pie was until Mama Carson served it up on Thanksgiving 1997. For the longest time, I refused to see the Lord of the Rings movies because I didn’t want to put someone else’s visual representation to my favorite books. I didn’t know what the Descendents looked like until the re-release of the Enjoy album on SST Records. On the same token is Parade Street’s best kept secret, Pete’s Pub. Located catty corner from the Gear Cave, Pete’s is a quaint little stop with a handicapped accessible entrance (or as Whiteman observed, so the paramedics can wheel the stretchers down the ramp.) The lady bartender had real crusty eyes but was cordial and efficient. They offer Sloppy Joes anytime (swiss cheese is a dollar extra) and delicious Pabst Blue Ribbon on draft! Splendid!  It’s like the Rocky Balboa of bars.

Like cannonballing into a pool of breastmilk on a hot summer day, Pete’s Pub just makes you feel comfortable. The clientele was sparse and kinda rough looking, but we were on their turf and respect was given. Everyone who comes here cuts their own grass. I like that in a bar. This is the perfect place to take a date, if you date girls who like to get shitfaced at 2 pm on a Saturday afternoon.

Rating: 4/5

Two cops were waiting outside as we approached…this place was gonna be rough. I hate cops. Two words to describe this place…Party Central. Man, everyone there was having a blast. Great, fun music like Kool & the Gang, Billy Ocean and Earth Wind and Fire. At any given moment, erupting sounds of laughter could be heard from all corners of the bar. Some gimp guy got kicked out, but in the nicest way imaginable. Behind the bar was a rotisserie of plump smoked sausage and swiss cheese for a buck. They also offer off-street parking for bicycles, inside the bar. I don’t like the things you like and you don’t like the things I like.

Rating: 3/5

1003 Parade Street
Marty likes tigers. Tigers are everywhere in this joint. Tigers…and a confederate flag. PBR was again on tap and chilled to perfection. And I hope you brought your appetite (we unfortunately lost ours as soon as we walked in the door) because Marty’s offers a delicious selection of bar nibblin’s including pig hocks, pickled eggs, pickled beets and non-refrigerated swiss cheese. I think Whiteman tried to take his prom date here. Still, it was a shady saloon with reasonable prices and uhh…oh yeah, the bartender. Remember the main bad guy from the movie “Dune?” The one with all the warts on his face? Yeah, his twin sister slings suds at Martys… and she drinks on the job.  The bathroom featured a condom machine from a time long ago. I’m talking pre-cold war. Reputably, Marty’s caters to an “over 30″ clientele, because only people under age 30 use condoms.

Rating: 3/5

1101 Parade Street
Man, this shit was closed due to a king drug bust three days prior. FAACK!

8107 Perry Highway
Wow…this place was essentially someone’s garage. One light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling as faded pictures of ducks adorned the water damaged walls. A rotten 6 point buck hung in the corner. I like shitty bars, but this hole had less character than Nicholas Cage. The place was pretty busy on a Friday evening and drink prices weren’t cheap so they really should DO something to improve this dismal dead end. Maybe an electronic love tester would do the trick…or a moat of gravy around the perimeter of the bar…with pieces of white bread as coasters?

Rating: 0/5

923 Hess Avenue
A rumored Star Wars themed bar located on Hess Avenue, this bar was more disappointing than Episode One. The Cantina seemed to host many rogues, bounty hunters and scoundrels from all over Eries Outer Rim territory. The female bartender looked like a freshly shaved Ewok and the jukebox shared functionality with the Hyperdrive Motivator of the Millennium Falcon. The decor included a lighted sign of Darth Vader reaching for an OE 40oz. and a framed picture of that dude from Pimp My Ride (who could possibly be the grandson of Lando) on the wall. There was some crazy dart-throwing denimed dude with a midget arm too. We did find a seedy round table which we all sat around and discussed our plans to blast our way out of there. Much like Jabbas Palace, this bar could be filed under At least now we can say that weve been there.

Beer selection: Hmmm…(as I despairingly scoped out the beer cooler) gimmie a bottle of Busch! I would have given my right arm for a glass of blue milk but… ohh wait…

Jukebox: There was a markered sign on the wall telling patrons to bring in their own Cds. While there, we were treated to the wretched rhythms of Bone, Nelly (the band-aid cheek guy, not that sexy slut who cant sing either) and Will Smith.

Observation: You will never find a more wretched hive of scum & villany.

Overall ranking: 1/5

2802 Old French Road
A surprisingly spacious saloon, Hermans advertises Pabst Blue Ribbon drafts for 75 cents. This proof threw me for a loop since they did NOT have PBR on tap. The bartender was the older brother of that super annoying waiter from Office Space (the faggy little prick who worked at Chachkis) When he wasnt closing one eye, pointing at you and making little clicking noises, the barhand had severe trouble with simple math. (i.e. $2.25 plus 0.85 is not $1.80.) The clientell were dirtbags & rednecks for the most part, but Hermans did have the hottest chicks (3 of them!) that we have seen so far on the bar tour. Some dude shooting pool had a TAZ tattoo (the lovable cartoon madman, NOT the shitty 80s cover band) on his leg and like any true dive bar, there was the blonde bimbo strutting her stuff with a faded tattoo on her boob (not that I checked her out, but I think it was a baby seal sitting on a piece of ice.) Some local greaseball got dragged outside and bitched up by a couple junkied jocks which amplified the already tumultuous feeling of the joint. This place could be cool, but living in a town with more bars per square mile that anywhere else in America, I can be choosy where I chug.  The beer selection was average, except for the misleading Bait & Switch tactic involving Pabst while the jukebox blated a three-pronged attack of Dio...

Observation: Hey Earnhart, if you need to bring one of those shittyass beer-bottle coozies with you to a bar and use it, then you dont know how to drink…and you look like a total idiot. Go back to your couch and watch Nascar…I reckon der racin n Talladega this weeken

Overall ranking: 2/5

4608 Wattsburg Road

You’ve seen the Deer Hunter, right? Yeah, everyone has seen it… and a favorable percentage (myself included) believe it is a good movie. But realistically, it is a very boring, fairly colorless, drawn-out story. There is no dialogue in the first 23 minutes of said film. Parts are very unrealistic. I HATE that one guy’s hair! Well, remember the bar that “the boys” go to after a tough day at the foundry? Well, the original Welch’s Bar was torn down in the 80′s but an eidetic exists in my hometown. Chippers is as blue collar as the asshole of a dog who ate a whole bunch of blueberries. We went here during the height of cold season, as the subsisting servant behind the bar didn’t mind sharing his phlem with every drink he poured. The place offers 62 flavors of wings, which makes about as much sense as a guy who never gets laid to purchase silk sheets. I didn’t like the sports stuff on the wall. But after a tough day of working with molten metal, sometimes a man needs to unwind…

Rating: 2/5

264 East 30th Street
So the other day I was drinking. It was cool. Some chick was telling me about her experience at Uptown Browns. I really didn’t pay attention to what she was saying, but I noticed that if I cracked my neck and peered straight down while my head was at a 19 degree angle, I could totally see down her shirt. Nice! This is a pretty nice place, featuring real wood decor, although I am partial to fauz wood paneling.  Gives my alcohol a basmental quality...

Rating: 3/5

Dive Bar Reviews: Erie, PA - part II

2606 West 26th Street

A scummy dart bar on West 26th Street, the Saucery has long been using the subtitle GOIN’ FAST. The young bartender had bigass titties and a shirt that looked like a rock climbing harness. I wouldn’t mind scaling her bountiful boulders.  This bar would be perfect for an exclusive Tom Waits jukebox.  The drink specials are conveniently posted in a glass cabinet above urinal in the men’s bathroom. People come here to get “sauced,” not to make friends or get in fights.  One of the best dives in town. 

Overall Rating: 4/5

1158 West 26th Street

Fat Chicks and darts. If you like either of the two, then Bacardie Joe’s should be your new hangout. Billing itself as a “Pub & Grill” I wouldn’t wish their dinner menu upon my worst enemy, and besides,  vegan will find their own demise due to lack of nourishment. The place had a pretty cool layout but attracted scumbag customers from all reaches of midtown Erie. Cherubic chubby chicks infested the joint on this Friday night.  Some weasely lilttle DJ was playing tons of loud country and shitty dance music. Although commanding a “good DJ voice” it was apparent by his threads that he lacked game.  A 22 oz. draft of Molsen Canadian was only $2.25 but my beer kept some weird foam head for the duration of it’s short mug life.  If you ever feel like “Hoggin’ it” swing by Bacardie Joe’s. Look for the incorrectly spelled sign outside!

Overall Rating: 2/5

1002 West 26th Street

Legendary in Erie for having superb chicken wings, Eli’s is a quaint little joint with a Ma & Pa ambiance. Our waitress/bartender “Kel” dressed more like a sorority girl attending a co-ed volleyball match, but was quick on the refill and even quicker on the annoyance scale.  The barstools were exceptionally high which I found offensive due to the fact that RAINBOW was heavily featured on the jukebox.   This place had great ‘staying power.’ We got there around 10pm with full intention to leave after an hour or so but favorable food and reasonable beer prices kept us there past 2am.

Overall Rating: 3/5

Hi & Dry Pub
3077 West Lake Road

If I was a sewer rat, I would live here. The filthy wooden floors would be grea to chew on and sharpen my teeth. The kitchen is in open air so I can fling my turds into the soup of the day. I could make a cozy nest from all the errand hairs of the balding patrons. I’d have pool parties in the toilets as well. Probably eat my own babies too!  Is it good when your beer bottle is dusty?
A quick glance at the jukebox revealed a Dio album. This place is cool.  They had their x-mas tree up the first weekend of September? Probably so the rats can climb to tree then jump on the back of people’s necks when they walk by.

Overall Ranking: 2/5

Rocco’s Tavern
4040 West 12th Street
Erie’s most miserable bar. Every occupant wishes death upon themself. After 20 minutes of being confined in those wooden walls, you would do the same. The tables are now dressed in white sheets, assumably to soak up the bitterness of the clientell.  I knew the bartender.  She is known around town as "The Chicken Crack Whore"

Overall Rating: 1/5

West 8th Street
Good luck finding this shithole, since there is no sign outside, just the framework of a rickety old awning. This is the most ghetto bar on Erie's West Side, a hideous hive of gangstas and racists.

Beer selection: Yuengling bottles for $2.00. Drafts of Molsen were $1.75. Crack is a bit more pricy.

Jukebox: Some thugged out white dude leaned over to our table and muttered, “You all best play YOUR songs now, ’cause this place is about to get ghetto real quick”
Ranking: 0/5

Hunters Inn
1204 West 26th Street
I relate Hunters to the writings of H.P. Lovecraft. You may be turned off at first attempt, but a second effort (or visit) may prove illuminating. And where else can you get “Hot Lunch Anytime?”  I’ve always enjoyed drinking at Hunters. It’s a predator bar, a chameleon bar, a hidden nook and party central, all in one. The patrons change like the hours on the clock. I’ve been there at 10 am and during this ‘friendship hour’ you’ll find an array of crusty old men and straw-chewing G-monies. Early in the evening Hunter’s seems to be the meeting place for infidels and hound dogs. Later on it’s a college hotspot.  If you’ve never seen a male lion viciously attacking a gazelle, then swing by Hunters.

Overall Ranking: 3/5

The Cab
5442 West Ridge Road
This place has too much shit hanging on the walls. I’ll tell ya man, Nascar is gay and I’m not a big fan of Coyote Creek chew either. A cherry Pucker sign…what does Dave Turko hang out here….oh, there he is, rubbing that dude’s inner thigh. Duck crossing…ohh that’s choice!! Some seriously nasty girls hang out at this place. Even Dropcho showed dismay toward them!
Some high-energy DJ (imagine Steven Wright as a paraplegic) played a plethora of 80′s rock songs, most were hits you never wanted to hear again.  Our waitress had a bum leg. Free pizza Friday’s from 6-8pm but you only get one slice.

Overall Ranking: 3/5

McKean Tavern
8968 Main St - McKean
A nice, quiet little joint located in a two-bit, piece-of-shit, saggy-tit, pungent-slit, meth-pipe-hit, let’s-get-lit part of town. There’s not a whole lot of action in McKean. I use to go to a chiropractor just down the road. Dude had a red face. Probably wasn’t a drunk, but he had red hair. He was his own secretary. Red heads generally have gross skin. Tight, like a mask, but somewhat stretchy..not a lot of give. Ed Gein comes to mind. Definitely shouldn’t have kids. Ever see a “Red” eat ice cream? It’s sick… utterly lizard like. 

Our Sunday saunter yielded a leisurely drive thru the countryside. One time me and Kelly Surovick were walking behind the apple orchards on McCray Road and she convinced me to pee on an electric fence. I knew it would hurt. It did. She laughed. The next week her boyfriend beat her with a bag of flour.
Overall Rating: 3/5

Valley Inn
10107 Old Route 99 - Mc Kean

If you ain’t never been here, then you ain’t invited. That is the vibe from this craphole. Remember that girl in high school with the caved in skull? Meh… Skeletor! Yeah…she works here. Patrons of the Valley Inn think she is hot. So does Whiteman. The bar smelled like pine needles. My larval observation was YES, I like this bar, but I also really enjoyed the 1974 King Fu blockbuster “Street Fighter”, starring Sonny Chiba. The part where he’s fighting those dudes and it switches to an x-ray of a skull that’s dented in by a boxing glove, THAT is awesome. More movies need cutaways. And for those wondering, my movie has been put on hold indefinitely. I AM 30 now, and have a lot of trees to lumber, but the concept will still subsist until fruition.

If the dudes from Creedence Clearwater Revival ever needed to hide, they should go here. They’d blend in nicely…only if John Fogerty would keep his cocky mouth shut.

Overall Rating: 2/5

Elk Creek Inn
corner of Bear Creek Rd. & Sterrettania
Yeah, this is the place where I ate 77 jumbo shrimp in one sitting back in 1994. I’m over that shit. Now I drink. Although ownership has gone thru many permutations over the years, the place still remains idle. The wheels lack grease, but the ceiling looks like the back of Bootsy Collin’s cape.  The place stinks like cow shit, due to some bovine farm in close proximity. This incorragable keghouse still offers the all-you-can-eat shrimp special on Friday nights. Say I won’t break 80????

Overall Rating: 2/5

Sport Page
1527 West 26th Street
I hate sports. A maritial axiom, 44% of divorces are because husbands watch too much damn sports on TV. Fucking idiots. Just leave your wife at my place and go gay. Wait..is she young…and soft? Nothing good has ever come out of professional sports…except maybe a nice Nerf ball for a good dog to play with.

The Greeks were the pioneers of athletic competition. And they spearheaded homosexuality too. Yup…the first locker room was a liar of love for sweaty dudes.
“Ohhh Adrastus…you throw that discus super far, may I rub thy wang on your cheekith?”

But the Sports page is cool. Old dudes in tweed. Cougars who will bone for a Coors Light. Read the sign. You’ll know why.

Overall Rating: 4/5

Chuck & Ginny’s
429 Raspberry Street

You may ask yourself, isn’t Chuck & Ginny’s a restaurant? Indeed, my rosie-palmed retard, but it also has a separate bar room with a dirty door, so that makes it fair game. And it sucks. Some beastly bertha was blabbing about the tooth fairy and trying to include us in the conversation. We were having none of it. If I wanted to hang out with greasy, overweight, annoying, disease-ridden skanks, I would call Michelle Yuhas. But I am not a fan of callow cuntnuggets with crusty clits, so we exited the premises hastily. We went here one day after that dude knifed that baby sitting in a child seat, but unfortunately, we couldn’t find the blood trail. I would have bought him a drink.  If you want to rob this place, let me know. I know where the safe is.

Overall Rating: 1/5

1062 West 12th Street
Located in the old Goofies building, this place was supposed to be a titty bar. It was completely remodeled but a 60 year old city ordinance put a stop to the stripping the day it was to open. So a new owner and a name change later, here we are at Spencers. Very dim inside with whorish lighting. Patrons were scant, yet we were greeted by four bartenders, each of a varying ethnic background. Hmmm… something for everyone I guess. There were private booths where lap dances could occur…if this place was a strip joint. A mirrored room with a lion’s head waterfall? And a curtained backroom? C’mon dude, I wasn’t born yesterday. If I was, I’d probably be sucking on a boob right now…Phhttt….lucky babies. There’s some mad shady shit going on up in this piece. Someone is probably gonna get shot here by the end of summer. If Ice-T ever visited Erie, he would probably stop in this place to wash his junk after nutting in some chick. Damn!

Overall Rating: 2/5

Last Stop Café
1063 West 18th Street
This was the final frontier of west side bars. Every person I ever talked to vehemetly exclaimed NEVER to go here, so obviously,  my associate and I jumped at the chance to check it out. How bad could it be? Ehhh.. .we both have health insurance.

Luckily, my boy Ian from Backwards Cap Productions was in the house shooting pool and after a well-executing street smart handshake, I earned instant street cred with the crew he was with. We were finally here, we made it and we lived to tell the tale. I felt like we climbed to the peak of Mount Kulhanek. We had ventured were few men have gone before, many have lost their lives, a proverbial trail of blood and booze seemed to seep thru the walls. My associate and I are the Lewis & Clark of drinking. We explore unknown territory in an effort to expand our alcoholic arsenal. We make friends along the way and return home with tales of the town.  Somewhere there’s a girl who got fucked on a pool table in this bar 

Overall Rating: 3/5

R Bar
26th & Peach Street
This dive is like walking the tightrope, corded three feet above a tank filled with pissed off crocodiles, starved sewer rats and broken glass from the trailer park. One false move and your multi-fanged fodder. This place puts the A-N-G-E-R in D-A-N-G-E-R!

This place simply rocks. Regular patrons can often be seen sleeping in the doorway waiting for the gates to open in the morning. There’s a tube of caulk behind the bar (in case something needs fixing) and I’m pretty sure the walls are made of old cardboard boxes. While we were there, some less-than-chilled chick was willingly railed in the restroom by four dudes. The place looked like a murder scene afterwards. There was almost a race war due to a misunderstanding and the back room is enter at your own risk. The monthly meetings of the B.P.S. (Breast Preservation Society) will be held at the R Bar from now on. I would totally date a girl who works here. My Associate tried for a while to get some dude laid, who’s one personality wanted to fight him. If you like to do things for the story, as I do, then this place is the mecca.

Overall Rating: 5/5