Booze Pig roots around The Spurr Lounge

It's 4:20 p.m. on Wednesday and I'm sitting in rush hour traffic, trying to fight my way to happy hour at the Spurr Lounge. I'm doing a sort-of girls' night out with my two lawyer pals, Cath and Shimba. Shimba is funny, cute, young, and idealistic, and she loves animals. She does the whole dog-fostering thing, and she's also adopted an elephant (named Shimba, hence her nickname) by donating $50 a year. WTF? I've heard of fostering African children by donating monthly, but a fucking elephant?! She'd better be buying drinks if I have to listen to this shit all night.

I find myself on the corner of Baseline and 51st Avenue — Shimba's directions, she lives in the neighborhood, this place was her suggestion — and there's no bar here. Everywhere I look are new groves of houses and shiny new shopping centers and shiny new drones driving shiny new cars. Am I in some weird Twilight Zone episode? I go west on 51st Avenue and soon, on my left side, I'm delighted and surprised to see an old stucco structure amidst the new growth: the Old Spurr Lounge. Thank God it's an older place, a place that existed when this area was nothing but fields and blight. I park in the back to hide my car from the traffic/cops.

I notice Cath and Shimba's cars — shit, I'm late. I lock up and walk past truck after truck and I start counting 8, 9 . . . 16, and on and on. Turns out this watering hole has 24 vehicles parked outside and I'll be damned if 21 of them aren't big-ass redneck trucks (each one but ours).

The Spurr is a classic Southwest name for an oasis in the desert, and this being the Southwest, it's all country. I walk in the front and I'm blown away (not blown in the good way) — the place is shiny and gutted and new. I feel like I'm in some warped reality show: How to Flip Your Bar! Keep in mind, I have no history on the place (the owners, the age, etc.), but from what I can see, someone bought up the old place, tore it apart, and threw up the cheapest, cleanest shit possible. More likely, the property value went through the roof, so they took a loan — like everyone else in town — and tried to make it "nice." All I can say is they ruined what probably was a great place. I mean, it's clean and all, but still tacky. It reminds me of drinking in a new doublewide.

As you walk in, you notice a poolroom with two tables to the right and the bar to the left. The bar's walls are covered with shiny new industrial steel sheeting, and the top of the bar is raw wood paneling. The result of the shiny steel and wood is an antiseptic place to sup some brews. The bar area has TVs on all corners, and a cool square bar with a super-tacky faux-granite laminate surface.

I spot Cath and Shimba downing Michelob Ultras at one of the many high-top tables, and I quickly order a short bourbon press to try and make the place feel like home. It doesn't really work; the short drinks are very short. My bourbon press is lousy, with too much soda and no lime.

I follow quickly with a screwdriver (mostly vodka) that kicks ass. We hang and I notice that all around, under the bar, are horseshoes bent into purse hooks. This place must be owned by a woman. I also notice some spurs on the wall, and inquire, "If I wear spurs, do I get a free drink?" The bartender takes offense and immediately informs me the prices here are great at $3.25 for well and $2.75 for beers, 50 cents off during happy hour. Then I ask, "Why didn't we get happy hour?" and she tells me, "Happy hour is from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m."

One question: Who the hell drinks from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.? These people must already be happy, because the happy hour times blow! No specials for the hard-working people that come here after 3 p.m.? Once again: WTF. Disgruntled (which seems to be the theme for me in this joint), I go to the bathroom and find a dirtier place with more steel and vinyl walls and a super-bright and loud, wobbly ceiling fan. Pissing in here, you get the feeling you've had too much fizzy-lifting beverage, and that you are going to get sucked up and shredded by the rotating blades. I smile to myself as I wash up.