Across the street from the saloon is a large, dusty parking lot, and as I pull to a stop, I grab my radio faceplate and even my garage door opener for good measure. I'd worry about the car being taken in general, but odds are a thief wouldn't be able to start it. The vehicle's only held together by 16 years of cemented dirt, and I'm running late because I had to tinker with the battery just to get it running.
As I make my way to the door, I prepare myself to enter the diviest of dives. Then, lo and behold, such preparations prove utterly unnecessary. My eyes swiftly adjust to the dim lighting, revealing a rather cozy little joint. Eight very comfy-looking padded chairs surround the small stage, where comedy is already in progress. The house is packed.
The swanky lighting and giant wide-screen TV initially mask the whole Western motif. By daylight, the place would look like an Old West museum, but at night, the old John Wayne portraits, saddles and other Western paraphernalia fade into the shadows. The deer head above the stage is the butt of the occasional joke.
It's a shame the bar's stuck in such an undesirable location. To compensate, the owners appear to have put considerable effort into making every night an event. The activity schedule resembles that of a busy community center more than a lazy bar. Whether it's blues band jam sessions on Tuesdays, open-mic comedy on Wednesdays or even showcases from independent filmmakers on Sundays, there's always something going on. Tonight's comedy show even functions as an audition for a First Friday showcase—although my friends and I can't help but notice that there are a good couple of miles between this place and the Arts District, making the Bunkhouse more of an alternative to, rather than a part of, First Friday events. You can't blame them for trying, though.
As the show comes to an end, one of the bar's nightly bands takes to the stage, and my friends and I step outside into the flickering red and blue strobe lights of police cars on a nearby corner.
"Well, it looks like our cars are still here," two young ladies say with relief as they pass by.
As is frequently the case, my friends and I have exited the drinking establishment before we're truly ready to leave, so our dialogue continues in the parking lot. The music in the bar is too deafening to permit conversation anyway. A raggedy figure hovers nervously nearby and gradually makes his way over to ask for a cigarette. He gets one and then inexplicably returns to hovering only a short distance away. Time to leave.
As my friends drive away, I take one last look at the pleasant little bar. It's not the best of neighborhoods, but I suppose you really only have to endure that for the time it takes to stroll from your car to the Bunkhouse door and back again (so long as you don't fall prey to habitual parking lot conversations).
I turn my key in the ignition and watch my dashboard lights flicker and die.
"Aw, crap."
The Bunkhouse Saloon Bar & Grill
Where: 124 S. 11th Street.
Info: 384-4536.