This is now a doctor's office--a podiatrist's, I think. During my crazy bachelor days and nights I used to hang out here with the guys from the western-wear store where I worked at the time. It had cheap beers, a pool table, and a buzzer on the door--if the owner didn't know you, you didn't get in. We made it into our own little private club, especially during the playoffs. We'd watch the games, drink, play pool, and often the night would degrade into weird male-bonding rituals--a drunken-pirate night, a smack-each-other-in-the-chest night. One evening we decided to head to the old Jimmy's on Maxwell Street (RIP) for a pork chop sammich. As we all were standing around, my boss for some reason gave me a shove in the chest--more male bonding? My sammy flew out of my hand and into a muddy puddle, and I landed flat on my back in the street. At that time I wore cowboy hats and had hair down the middle of my back and a black fringe jacket. I looked a little bit like Joe Buck from Midnight Cowboy--but I definitely lost the bronco-riding contest. Now during the playoffs I hang out at home watching the games with my girlfriend. Sigh.
--Steve Anderson, operations manager