Regrets that still sting and dreams that always stay one step ahead of you. Two reasons as good as any for sitting at the bar at four in the afternoon. A third good reason is no good reason at all, and that's what I'm happily doing—until Dave strolls in and reminds me of the first two.
The bar is his choice: Sonny's Saloon, 3449 Industrial Road. It's the first bar I had ever been to in Vegas, some 13 years ago. I remember a dark tavern and a low-rent blues band spotlighting some old, bald black guy who did "The Laughing Song." I didn't get it. There also was a Chinese restaurant that was not only next door, it was right through the wall—you could walk seamlessly between the two. I didn't get that either, and I never made it back.
Of course, that was the old Sonny's. The new Sonny's is 400 feet to the west, relocated about seven years ago because of some county construction spasm, in a strip mall adjacent to the Elvis-O-Rama museum. The blues are long gone but the Chinese joint is still here, attached at Sonny's hip like a Siamese twin. (Come to find out that there's a good reason for this: Sonny Morris owns both.)
I order two bottles of Coors because I know the first one will go fast and I've got a feeling I won't be able to say the same about the bartender. It took me three swigs to case the place.
As much of a disappointment as a tapless bar is (does the mob own a bottling company in Vegas?), I was admiring Sonny's "Package Liquor" corner. A good, practical Midwestern ethic. The aesthetic is, too. Sonny's vibe is Early-80s Basement Rec Room. Colonial bar stools, brown-brick wainscoting and a conservative bent: an illustration of former Gov. Paul Laxalt over the fireplace, a rustically framed blowup of what looks like Kenny Guinn's driver's license mug and a photo of the two governors together, enjoying nature.
The jukebox has a respectable repertoire, from Waylon 'n' Willie to the Rat Pack. Although, as Dave walks in, the box is on its fourth Eagles song in a row and I'm quickly losing that peaceful, easy feeling.
"Nice to see you, Dave," I say as he sits down next to me. "If they play one more Eagles song, though, I'm going to harm innocent people."
A fifth starts but I swallow my pride, and the rest of the second Coors, and thank Dave for inviting me here. "The Housewife Rock aside, I like the place."
Dave laughs, because he told me, when we worked together at the Las Vegas Sun long ago, that that's how Joe Walsh once referred to the Eagles. Speaking of housewives, Dave confesses he has a steady girl. Hopefully this time it goes somewhere. Dave hasn't had the best luck with women. A straight-up guy with a full head of Italian-French hair, he deserves better. If it's the kind of fate he's looking for. It's certainly been mine, having been married for 20 out of the last 19 years, but that's another story.
In one very gluing respect, we aren't that different: two 40-year-old writers chasing their ultimate calling. Which is noble, except we have no idea what that is. He quit a job in journalism several years ago to become an actor, which is why he's an ad copywriter now.
"F. Scott Fitzgerald was once an ad copywriter," I mention.
"It ain't the same," he says. "It's not about the writing anymore."
Dave would scoff at this, but he's still a writer at heart. He's also a son of a Vegas musician and he could have had chops of his own. But he gave that up, too. Two talents, two loves and he dumped 'em both like a ... hey, maybe this is a karma clue.
Me? I dumped pitching too early, something my dad periodically lays on my conscience like a high hard one. That left me with writing, and as a fellow scribe commented the other night, "Why did you do that to yourself?"
Too often with writers or musicians, that kind of marathon soul-searching lands you right here at Sonny's as a professional. For now, though, this saloon is a place where guys like me and Dave can have a few, talk it out and not sleep in the parking lot. It's a 24-hour confluence of people from all works of Vegas life in the back lot of the Strip, behind TI. Black, white and (big surprise) Asian. Blue collar, white collar and no collar—strippers congregate here before and after work. In fact, one once confided in Dave, after a lengthy conversation, that she hates men. Now there's a kick to a bachelor's mojo.
Changing the subject, Dave orders another martini and points out the twinkling fiber optics on two areas of low-hung drop ceiling. I hadn't counted them while taking my motif inventory, but my astute Vegan friend knows they are riffs on old-school bar ceilings, which often had sparkles.
It's good to call back the past, as long as it manifests into something fresh. Dave and I drink to that, laughing at the characters we've met, wincing at the mistakes we've made, analyzing the places we've lived, and agonizing over what it all adds up to. Then ...
"Oh, man, look at that," Dave blurts, pointing to a television behind me. "Randy Johnson just threw a perfect game."
At age 40. The bastard.
Phil Hagen studies bars the way other men study the law, but with tastier results. E-mail him at
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