The Crowd Screamed "Sacrifice The Liver"

So this bar that I’ve mentioned before, a bar where things can turn evil in fairly quick clip, a bar that on first glance seems to be an odd mix of David Lynch and Bukowski coughed up to life in a cloud of generic cigarette smoke and bar brand gin fumes is officially one of my favorite places.

The Baranof is not necessarily a dive bar, it’s crusty to be sure, but dive implies to me a dark and dingy, “no way out” feeling that isn’t here. There’s a vitality and passion to the Baranof. It’s easy to dive on into that working class vibe and feel that by proxy you’re living the Bukowski life, but that’s not the right way to go into the Baranof. I think that the right way would be to man up, shut up, drink up – maybe do some karaoke if you’re not too drunk to stand.

As we sat down on Friday night, already obviously out of place with the rest, we witnessed what was about to become a bar fight. The bar stool kicked back, one man grabbed the other and warned him of leaving in a body bag, and the fifty-something barmaid came around the bar to put a cooling hand on the instigator saying in warning tone over and over again, “Joe, Joe, Joe.” These two guys were more than likely in their seventies.

Our waitress looked as though she had recently been on the losing end of a fist fight. She also appeared to be more than a little bit drunk and forgot that I had ordered a Philly Cheese Steak. A damned good Philly Cheese Steak and some pretty tasty fries when it finally did arrive.

There was this ancient Asian woman perched on a seat near the door that leads to the smoking patio, eating something out of a Styrofoam cup and apparently unable to form understandable words. This would be excellently highlighted when she went up to karaoke “Groovin’”, shaking her hips and smiling as if everything good in her life boiled down to this moment.

And I feel like I’m walking this weird line, like I’m presenting the clientele of the Baranof as a show that they most certainly do not want to be. I want to set the scene a bit, let you know what is surrounding me, and also let you know that it is this backdrop that made me feel more comfortable in this bar than I have ever felt in any other “classier” place.

Human drama and human life, unadorned and unafraid; I love it. I didn’t feel superior to it, I felt lucky to be witness to it and all the sadness and humor and love that goes along with the package. Like Cheryl, I know Cheryl, I have been Cheryl. Cheryl was watered up to the eyeballs on house chardonnay and was having no problem expressing her love to people in the group I was with. Cheryl, who nicely grabbed my ass in passing, taught us all the secret Cheryl handshake and told one Sarah she was tabloid beautiful and another Sarah that she was Mademoiselle beautiful – a difference only Cheryl understood. There was a struggle to get Cheryl out of the bar. One man was doing his damnedest to pull her away from a random dance partner while a woman followed in a tight circle relentlessly offering a carnation. Cheryl simply didn’t want the evening to end, and man have I been there, my own prolonged goodbyes a record to reckoned with.

I left after 4 Makers, a pint and a sans pants version of Fred Schneider’s parts of “Love Shack” on the karaoke stage. I finagled about 9 people to come outside and wait with me a long wait for a cab, and as I climbed into the backseat I remember thinking, “I wish I could live there.”