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

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