SWIMMING
IN THE BARMUDA TRIANGLE
A
week (and change) in the downtown bar scene
BY
MOLLY TEMPLETON
Downtown Eugene, contrary to many reports, isn’t actually dead. It just might be, to borrow a timeless phrase, mostly dead — and that’s if you use a generous definition of “mostly.” To too many people, downtown is defined not by what is there, but by what isn’t: by the gaping pits and dark storefronts where more shops, more housing, more offices and more restaurants ought to be. But the people who see only those things are missing out. Just a block away from those pits, more cafés and restaurants are cropping up; there are plenty of places to buy a book, among other things. But what the center of downtown really has in abundance are bars. People underestimate bars, especially those that are hard to see into. Lord only knows what goes on in them, right? Well, after a week (give or take a few days) spent hopping from one bar to the next, I’m here to tell you: Downtown Eugene’s nightlife is vibrant, varied, essential, welcoming and, in the just the right amounts, strange, charming and a far cry from dead. Downtown’s bars are full of students, artists, musicians, writers, service industry folk, ordinary guys who just want a beer, barely-legal drinkers celebrating birthdays and, as Chuck Adams’ sidebar explains, a generous handful of booty-shakers. Don’t be afraid. Just stroll past the kids on the sidewalk — the ones playing beaten-up guitars and putting cigarettes in the mouth of that cute little bear sculpture — and head on in.*
FRIDAY
This particular evening, the magic hour seems to hit Davis'
just as 11 pm rolls in. Before then, the place is more full than not,
but slightly mellow; the music is fit for a quiet scene in a James
Bond flick: a little sultry, a little mellow, priming for a seduction.
We sit at the bar talking about food and watching the bartenders,
licking our fingers to remove the dripping remnants of sugared rims.
But as the hour changes over, the music shifts; aggressive beats and
vocals drag the melodies into hip hop territory as the clientele thickens
and the number of girls in black strappy tops is equaled by the number
of young men in hoodies. Davis' does one of the best jobs of segueing
into nighttime; at lunch, you'll see city employees, tattooed rollergirls
and, er, a pair of EW writers postponing deadlines with a bottle
of wine, all sharing a space that feels, with the sun pouring in,
like one spacious room. At night, the pockets of space — the
corner with two cozy booths; the long, welcoming bar; the simple tables
beneath hanging metal light fixtures — divide themselves more
definitely, and a few people slip off to the relative quiet of the
side room. You make a space for yourself here, and how you fill it
is up to you.
SATURDAY
 |
| Playing
Big Buck Hunter Pro at Horsehead |
At the Horsehead, everything makes us laugh. In a good way.
We order fried pickles, of course, and find they've changed the way
they're made: slices instead of wedges. "Less pickle, more fry," my
companion observes. Three girls with fashion-victim purses (gold straps,
quilted sides) walk in and out of the pool room. Eventually, they
stop nearby, and whenever I look at them, I see one laughing in mock
shock, her hand over her mouth. I point this out to my fellow drinker,
who tells me, "They're talking about discharge. That could account
for that face." Later, a wall of middle-aged men stands between us
and the pool table. We dub the group "Jonathan Wall-Ass" and wish
fervently that they'd move.
The Horsehead boasts what might be Eugene's best indoor
people watching. Girls in various gauges of fishnet tights teeter
between the bar and the back smoking patio, which is newly enclosed
by green shrubs rather than the old, weather-beaten fence. Men in
tie-dye shoot pool with a girl a foot taller than any of them; she's
got the kind of warm friendliness that makes her easy to joke around
with even though we've never seen her before and probably never will
again. A thirtysomething guy with long brown hair meanders slowly
from one room to the next, and we rack our brains trying to figure
out why he looks familiar. "He looks like Dan from Deadwood!"
I finally say. My companion shakes his head. He does look like Deadwood
Dan, but he also works at a local guitar shop.
When Deadwood Dan adds his name to the pool
list, we watch silently, then stare at each other as he chalks each
letter. D — A — N.
SUNDAY
Sunday is a day of rest. Also basketball. It's like
religion. But different.
MONDAY
 |
| Sophie
Navarro drawing at the bar at John Henry's |
We are terrible concertgoers. We make careful plans to arrive just
on time to see whoever we want to see, and we always mess up. We walk
into John Henry's to find Ingrid Michaelson already on stage
— and the place packed. Last May, there were just enough people
here for Michaelson's show to line the bar and the tables set up on
the dance floor. We estimate there are at least four times as many
people in the dark bar tonight. Up front, there are fans who know
every word. At the bar, we discuss the importance of catchiness and
watch artist Sophie Navarro draw in her sketchbook. In the back, there
are people playing pool. There are always people playing pool in the
back of John Henry's, enjoying the way the music mutes itself as it
hits the fans by the bar and the tiered rows of booths. Once upon
a time, John Henry's was open even when they didn't have events, the
pinball table and frequently free pool creating a siren song in combination
with the strong drinks and the perfect dive-bar atmosphere. Now, I'm
only at John Henry's for a show now and then. I look at the angled
ceiling, plastered with posters above the bar, and imagine I'm in
the top of a giant warehouse in a city somewhere. I like this idea.
Michaelson finishes, and the headliner hasn't half
her personality. We make an early exit and find, at home, that our
clothes smell of smoke. It's that kind of bar. I like that kind of
bar.
TUESDAY
 |
| Jameson's |
At 8-ish on a Tuesday, Jameson's is more empty than not, but
they're playing the stereo to a fuller bar. It seems to be metal night:
Metallica, songs I faintly remember from years past ... and Ugly Kid
Joe? I'm pretty sure I've never heard this song in public before.
My colleague Chuck has never heard it before, period. We're here after
a Tuesday evening fencing class, desperate for sustenance. Around
the perfectly-lit space, small groups stand and chatter in between
turns at darts, hover outside on the patio for a smoke or lounge on
the small group of couches by the door. Jameson's is dominated by
its bar and, like most of the bars downtown, decorated heavily with
red. It's hard to pay attention, though I know I ought to. I'm starving,
and then, when a third colleague arrives, I'm distracted by talking
about work. I'm at a bar for work, and I'm talking about work. I need
to get out more.
WEDNESDAY
 |
| Bingo
at Eugene City Brewery |
G48 is my nemesis. I've made a total amateur bingo
player's move: I've cleared my card before the potential winner has
had her card checked. When she's off by a square, the first number
the bingo calls is G48, which, naturally, is the number I needed to
win. I curse mightily and rue the bingo gods.
Bingo Night at Eugene City Brewery — which I invariably
refer to just as Rogue — is very different from Bingo Night
at Sam Bond's. For one thing, I've never heard someone at Sam Bond's
yell, "Holla!" every time she gets a square. For another, they don't
give away vintage stand mixers and mounted antlers at Rogue, just
gift certificates you may use for beer. (Not that there's anything
wrong with that.) The crowd in Rogue's cafeteria-like space is highly,
highly collegiate. A row of tables pushed together is home to a 21st
birthday party. Oregon sweatshirts, knee-high boots pulled on over
jeans and flowy shirts dominate. When it comes time for two tied players
to face off for a prize, twentysomething guys tell jokes that are
not only horribly unfunny but astonishingly sexist. I want to tell
a bad Michael Jackson joke just to break up the cracks about stupid
blondes and noisy wives. Note to bingo players: Write down your jokes
ahead of time. And make them good ones. Please.
THURSDAY
Before the UO men beat Arizona State:
"If you promise we can go to two bars tomorrow, we
don't have to go out after the game tonight."
" ... "
"Well?"
"OK, OK. I promise."
FRIDAY
Just two bars? Let's try three. But we go to the wrong bars, to places
we've already been this week. We start out in the right place, though:
at Starlight Lounge, just after work. Starlight is not always
this quiet. We've been here later on a Friday when it was busy enough
that we counted ourselves lucky to find a chair or two against a wall
somewhere. Tonight, we have our run of the place and plop ourselves
into two heavy chairs in the bar. My companion says that the Starlight's
wood-paneled bar, classy and classic, is ideal, and I agree. Our accommodating
bartender mixes our off-the-list (the list is nice, but I want tart
and he wants to feel like Ernest Hemingway) cocktails and insists
that we taste them to make sure they're good. They are.
The days of $1 Ninkasi at all times are long gone,
but there are still deals at the Starlight, which is a funny mix of
old-fashioned bar and the couch-strewn lounge area near the front.
Sometimes, the clientele feels like it's partially made up of people
scared off by the number of tattoos across the street at Horsehead.
Tonight, pairs of friends and couples trickle in, ordering Tic-Tacs
and pints. We don't know what the music is, but we like it. We like
everything. And then we get hungry. Nachos at the Horsehead are followed
by a couple of games of pool, which I lose horribly, and then a jaunt
across the street to trivia at Rogue. It's less packed than I'd expect
for a First Friday, but it is raining. We sit at the bar and can barely
hear Mr. Bill. It doesn't matter. We never win anyway.
SATURDAY
More basketball. The Oregon men hold fast against
Arizona, and my NCAA tournament hopes are raised ever so slightly.
 |
| Couple
at SNAFU |
We venture downtown as 10 pm approaches. I'm feeling bad that I forgot
to tell Chuck to go to SNAFU and then, when we figured out
that it's only open certain nights, he couldn't go those nights. So
we walk past. But I'm tired and it's loud and I guess I'm really old.
I also don't really dance. At least not in public. Sorry, SNAFU. We
owe you a beer.
At Luckey's, the doorman says "There's a $5 cover." This always
confuses us. The bar's calendars say $3-$5. My companion points this
out, and the doorman semi-grudgingly allows that we might pay $3.
Then he tells us about the drink specials.
Luckey's, we decide later, is a great place frequented
by people who seem unaware of what kind of place it is. It's a live
music venue and a bar, but more often than not, at least half the
patrons seem unconcerned about the band onstage. The pool players
are not here for the music. The nervous looking girls working the
dresses-over-jeans look don't appear to be here for the music. It's
cool, I guess. The band will play anyway. We stand by the unused snooker
table and wonder aloud why the fantastic old booths — which
made the place feel delightfully pubby — were replaced with
black couches. The black couches are breeding. Their offspring lurk
at Starlight, ready to swallow denim-clad asses whole. We keep standing
and feel thankful for the coathooks on the wall. Luckey's is a first
cousin to my favorite city dive bars, just twice as big and half as
expensive. Which, come to think of it, is true of most of the bars
I've been to in the last week. One more reason to love them.
*This paragraph has been changed to more accurately reflect the writer's intent
