After three and a half years in Lawrence, I’ve grown weary of my usual nightly haunts. So I decided to check out some of the other enchanting saloons, pubs, clubs and taverns that this town has to offer. And, what the hell, why not all in one night?

The following are my observations and meditations throughout this journey.

Friday Jan 25, 2007

10:12 p.m. Shenago Lounge

I begin my night at the Shenago Lounge, 2907 W. 6th St. This place is intimate: two pool tables, a popcorn machine and a few tables that belong in an office break room. The bar glows red from the billiard lighting and neon beer signs. There is a thick stench of cigarette smoke, but not the usual outside-the-bar scent I’m used to. It’s strangely welcoming, though. It is more like old people smoke. It reminds me of my grandmother’s living room. I approach the bar and the bartender tries to guess my age. A lady sitting next to me joins the game. She decides that I am around her son’s age—she’ll go with 24. The bartender bets that I’m 26. I order a beer and sit down to write.

Everyone sits at the bar except for a lone pool player. I count 14 people, one dog, six moustaches, two mullets. The dog stares at me from two feet away, holding a stuffed animal in its mouth.

I feel a lot of love in the room. Everyone here is a close friend of everyone else. I expect the Cheers theme song to play—right after the jukebox finishes with this strand of Motown hits.

10:43 p.m. Duffy’s at the EconoLodge

I’ve heard many people talk about going to Duffy’s, 2222 W. 6th St., for the karaoke and cheap Long Island ice teas. I walk in and I am knocked back by the lurid smell. It is like a cat lady’s house. I sit down and the bartender calls me “boss.” I think I’ve secretly always wanted that to happen. I order a Long Island ice tea because, apparently, that’s what this place is known for. I take a sip and gag a little.

The smell grows worse every minute. This, mixed with the overwhelming amount of tequila in my drink, nauseates me. The walls have large chunks of wallpaper ripped off, there are holes in the ceiling and there is a ladder leaning against a wall. I don’t understand how a bar can operate under these conditions, so I go searching for answers. I talk with the general manager of the EconoLodge, Randy Disoso, because he seems like a guy who would know things. He tells me that the bar is undergoing a complete renovation. He talks of hardwood floors, an Internet jukebox, and a projection screen. It all sounds very pretty. I must come back, but if I smell cats, never again.

11:14 p.m. Coyote’s Night Club

I came to Coyote’s, 1003 E. 23rd St., because I had heard rumors of a mechanical bull. I walk in and see no such machine; only a large barren dance floor. I decide that it is not worth the $2 cover.

11:31 p.m. Cross Town Tavern

The Cross Town Tavern, 1910 Haskell Ave., has a $5 cover. I am unsure if I should pay, but then a man runs by with a microphone yelling “No. Smoking. In. Side” to a beat while dancing. I decide it is well worth the money. This is by far the happiest bar I’ve been to all night. There is a lot of dancing, singing, hugging, and laughing. A man sits down next to me and tells me he’s never seen me before. Then he asks me what kind of candy I like my bitches with.

I talk to the owner, Anthony Gauna. He says this place is definitely a towney bar, but they’ve been seeing more students recently. It makes me wonder if other students have been straying from the regular college bars. I remember when Jet Lag was deemed a local bar. Now on a Thursday night you’ll find nothing but students occupying the bar stools, throwing darts and clustering outside under clouds of smoke.

11:58 p.m. Charlie’s East Side Grill & Bar

Charlie’s, 900 Pennsylvania St., isn’t what I’m looking for. I see a group of college students. Screw this place.

12:22 a.m. Latino Si

I walk in to Latino Si, 518 E. Locust, and experience one of the most surreal moments of my life. Every head in the bar turns towards me. The bartender whispers to a few people at the bar before approaching me. She looks at me curiously—not in a “are you 21?” kind of way, but in a “are you with the ABCs ?” kind of way. I sit down and the bartender keeps stepping out of the bar and peering over at me. Techno mariachi music is blaring at around 120 decibels. The lighting makes me feel like I’m on an acid trip. The glares are too much to bare. I need to leave.

As I’m driving away the bartender opens the door and looks both ways. She breathes a sigh of relief.

12:34 a.m. Shenago Lounge

I head back to Shenago Lounge for an evening snack of freshly popped popcorn. Even though I don’t fit in, I think I’ve found my niche. But none of you bastards can go there. You’ll ruin it. Find your own damn bar.