One thing I hate about ’80s rehashing is that a lot of the people doing it were in diapers back then, when ironic poses weren’t ironic at all but sincere. But then there’s my iPod’s Recently Played list: Sabbath, The Nuge, Rush. The fucking Carpenters, man! It turns out I love the ’70s, even though I also was in diapers when that stuff was current. So I can’t hate on ’80s-lovin’ kids too much, because then I’d have to let go of my attempt at living the Rocky Mountain Way.
I had this on the brain when I decided to search for a mythical bar on the West Side, armed with the vaguest of directions and not even with the joint’s name. This is planning on par with The Children’s Crusade, but whatever. Before I got started, I headed over to a friend’s house near TCU to pre-game. After one hour of The Comedians of Comedy and two or three Caucasians, my friend and I headed into the West in search of a fabled fountain of booze whose name continued eluding me.
All I could remember was that the joint was by Ridgmar Mall. So I drove around the shopping center, thinking I’d see the magical gleam of a neon COCKTAILS sign jutting out of a row of Space-For-Leases. I’m not really good at finding things, so I gave up after about a block and phoned a friend. “I went there at Christmas,” she said. “It has that 1970s wood paneling thing you like so much.” She also said that I needed to exit I-30 at Ridgmar Boulevard, not Green Oaks, which is where the mall actually is.
I figured she meant north and considered the local geography. It dawned on me that this legendary lounge was more than a run-of-the-mill 1970s dive. It was a 1970s neighborhood dive. Ridgmar used to be one of Fort Worth’s toniest addresses.
And ’70s neighborhood dives are my favorite kinds of bars.
The thing about ancient neighborhood dives is that they aren’t so much a destination or a stop as they are a place to disappear to for a while. They are almost universally dark gray inside, dimly lit, and open super early — or at least long before amateur drinkers have gotten up to nurse their hangovers and watch Judge Joe Brown. (Pros are on their stools by 10.) By definition, these bars are also within walking distance of a bona fide neighborhood and don’t require the crossing of a lot of difficult terrain. They’re also from the era of the eight-track – the design and décor remain unchanged since the second Battle of the Network Stars. It’s as if they all appeared one night in 1973, cropping up like mushrooms covered in wood veneer. The rules go on and on: Places lose points for having an internet jukebox (Oui Lounge) but score for year-round Christmas tinsel (Final Approach). Cheap drinks consistently account for bonus points.
As I cruised over the Hills of Ridgmar, I spotted a strip mall on the west side of the road. At its end was a storefront, stained-glass windows twinkling in the sunset, bearing a sign that read simply A Great Notion. I looked at the faded Christmas wreath in the window and smiled, and just then an old drunk spilled out of the front door. I felt like I was home — or at least where I would have wanted to live 35 years ago. And true to form, A Great Notion scored well on the Neighborhood Dive Aptitude Test: The place is dark and wooden, and the bar is ringed with a million caricatures of patrons — judging by the yellowed paper, the cartoons were probably made when their subjects were younger and much swingin’-er. Moreover, the $1.50 domestic drafts (including ZiegenBock) and a non-internet jukebox (with two homemade comps culled from ’70s hits) overcame the points subtracted for the video poker machine sequestered in a side area. The only bummer: They were out of High Life. Eh, nobody’s perfect, but A Great Notion comes pretty close. — Steve Steward
Contact Last Call at lastcall@fwweekly.com.
