As Cinderella’s Tom Keifer once said, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Looking back over the recent months, I can say that of several different things, but this week I’m quoting that ’80s hair-metal band on behalf of Charley’s Halftime Sports Bar, the latest victim of a lean economy.
I only dropped in there once, but I was impressed not only by its size and stellar service but also because it brought to mind a bygone era that continues to facinate me-no, not the Hyborian Age, but Fort Worth of the mid ’70’s to early ’80’s.
I don’t know what Charley’s was like in the mists of prehistory, but when I bellied up about a month ago, it was in a cavernous sports bar with, by the time I stopped counting, about 784 pool tables and the scuffed parquet of an ancient dance floor that seemed to go on for miles. If I had to guess, I’d say the Halftime was once an epicenter of a thriving, ancient community of boot-scooters, bull-riders, and pool hustlers, over there by Alta Mere, circa 1975 to 1983 in the common era.
At the northmost boundary of the hardwood, I found monitors and speakers slumped like the fallen idols of a forgotten cult. I have no idea when a Telecaster last twanged on Charley’s stage, but under the glare of the ceiling lights, I could easily imagine the place thronged with two-stepping cowboys and cowgirls, twirling to “Fool Hearted Memory” back when the tune was new- maybe because “Fool Hearted Memory” was on the juke at the time of that revelation, but you know what I mean.
No more, though. Whatever Charley’s was way back when or even three weeks ago, it’s presently locked and desolate. Here’s to a place I wish I had more fuzzy memories of. –Steve Steward
The Longest Line
One thing I’ve learned to deal with in a dozen years of living here is that there is no line longer than the one at a Whataburger drive-thru after 2 a.m. It dosen’t even really matter which location you go to- believe me, I’ve tried them all. I don’t even like Whataburger all that much (sober, anyway), but in lieu of sitting down for the early-a.m. madness of Ol’ South, IHOP, or (shudder) Denny’s, it’s pretty much your only option. While several bars serve food, with the Aardvark the most recent addition to that list, they tend to close the kitchen prior to the time we need a booze sponge the most: after last call but before conking out at home. This is why I would really like to see more hot dog carts around town. There are a few pleasures as immediate and visceral as scarfing down a brat after a night of heavy (pint) lifting. Why isn’t there a cart near every drinking neighboorhood? I hear there’s one at Halo by TCU, and I know I’ve seen one downtown. Someone needs to expand to Carroll and West 7th, Exchange and Main, and West Berry and University. Then we can load up after getting loaded without having to listen to the sorority girl ahead of me order for her Tahoe-load of drunken, picky eaters. -S.S.
Clarification
Apologies to gentle reader Myke, who went to Keefer’s in Mineral Wells on the reccomendation of Last Call. Myke was slapped with a “membership charge” due to some funky alcohol regulations in the vicinity. Forewarned would have been forearmed- perhaps because I walked in with a bunch of people, nobody noticed I wasn’t a “member.” – Laurie Barker James
